White Dog Out

Last weekend Will and I snuck into the quarantine facility in a covert operation I like to call "White Dog Out." Objective: Search and Rescue prisoner of Pen #16, an American citizen held against her will under wrongful accusation of rabies.

The mission wasn't easy. Guards surrounded the facilities, and search lights combed the yards in search of prisoners with excellent digging skills, or perhaps sharper-than-normal-teeth who managed to chew their way out of bars. But they were no match for Kim and Will, rescue team extraordinaire.

After hurling ourselves over the electric fences, taking down a couple of security guards, and hiding face-first in mud to escape detection, we finally found the target: Barrack A, Pens 1 - 30. As we entered the barrack, the cries of "I do not have rabies! I do not have rabies!", "Tell my mother I love her," "Rescue me, too! You have room for one more!" threatened my resolve for the mission. Couldn't we let all the inmates free? Was it fair to discriminate based on nationality? And if the media got wind of this, would they say we chose her because she's white?

Just when my resolve was about to break, I heard a soulful version of "Swing Low, Swing Chariot" coming from the corner of the barrack (and the outraged cries of a black poodle telling her that song ain't for white dogs). It was the target! From that moment on, I knew my mission: get in, get out with the goods.

The hardest part was controlling the target's obvious enthusiasm at seeing her rescuers. She could barely contain herself, and the secretive nature of the mission was entirely lost on her. But after finally settling her down, she agreed to be quiet and we got her out the same way we came in.

Too easy.

Unfortunately, as in many cases with victims, the hardest part has been the reacclamation into society post-rescue. On Monday we took the target on a play date with a fellow escaped prisoner from the facility, another Westie from Hong Kong, and they talked over their shared experiences. It seemed to do her some good. But that night she got sick (post-traumatic stress disorder), and threw up for a good three days straight. Messy. Thankfully she's fine now and seems very well adjusted.

Of course, the hiding game isn't over. No one must ever find the escaped white American puppy dog... no one. In fact, we're taking this so seriously that we have actually adopted camouflage into the decor of our home. Thanks to our white couches and white sheets, she just blends right in. Which is good considering animals are technically not allowed in our apartment. But we've come too far in this game to let that stop us.

I won't tell if you won't.