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 Vallarta Living | February 2007 
Tale Of The Dead Cat
 Patrick Butler - tylerpaper.com
I was covering a religious, nonprofit organization, doing work for flood victims just south of Tijuana, Mexico, about 15 years ago. You often hear of Hollywood stars and their Malibu mansions sliding into the sea and smack into massive insurance settlements. Rarely do you hear what poor people with no insurance endure when their little homes slip down steep hillsides after relentless rains, leaving them with no recourse.
Some California church groups decided to help these folks living just over the border from San Diego by building nice, two-car garage-size “homes” for them. I took my 8-year-old son Tim to observe the youthful mission teams happily hammering new houses together in the hot summer sun. The ocean breeze was blowing, the sky was blue, spirits were high. It was just a good all-around day.
Then disaster struck — or bit, I should say.
A nearby stray dog found a stray cat and clamped its jaws on it, shaking the cat like a rag doll. Tim saw this and having a pet cat at home, chased off the dog, which dropped the mortally wounded cat. Tim went to comfort it. I didn’t see this because I was interviewing someone, but I turned just in time to see the comatose kitty sink his fangs into my son’s hand and then die.
I freaked out. Rabies was on my mind and now I had a dead cat and a bitten son. Packing the cat in a plastic bag, a driver with the nonprofit group raced us to a nearby clinic. The doctor candidly said, “take your son to the U.S.A. They’ll do a better job there. You should go now and not wait.”
I interpreted this to mean “time is of the essence.” I also knew I would have to get the dead cat across the border or Tim would have to get a series of very painful rabies shots. The dead animal’s head is cut off and tests made. With no dead cat, precautions would have to be taken be-cause there is no cure for rabies after it develops and it’s a painful death. This was all on my mind as we raced for the border.
Another test was coming. If I mentioned the dead cat, the guards might not let me take it into the U.S.A. and Tim would suffer. If I concealed it, I’d be lying, and worse, the guards might sniff it out, so to speak. Never mind what God would think: what about the Border Patrol, God’s agents to punish evildoers like dead-cat smugglers?
You just can’t “explain” to U.S. border guards at Tijuana who can smell a rat — or a cat — a mile away. When they ask, “Are you bringing anything into the United States” you’d better ’fess up, or soon regret not mentioning the apple in your back seat you’d forgotten.
But how do you explain a bloody cat in a plastic bag? I could hear it now.
“Yes officer, I’m bringing this carcass into the country, because I can’t save my son without it.”
Pause.
“It’s very important, officer. This cat bit him.”
“And you killed the cat?” he would say.
“No, the dog bit him, and he died on his own.”
Pause.
“Just pull over to that area there, sir, and walk away from the car,” he’d say.
“Officer, please, this is an emergency. WE HAVE NO TIME! The cat needs to be tested for rabies or my son may die!”
I’d look over to see a squad of jump suits that read US CUSTOMS or BORDER PATROL on them sizing up their next victim. Or worse, the officer could simply confiscate the cat and tell me to “move along.”
Our driver silently got in the long line at the border, slowly inching forward. I was in anguish. What to do? My son. The tension was building like a shootout at high noon, like a cold-blooded killer coming in Hitchcock’s “Rear Window.” The clock was ticking. I looked out the window, biting my nails. I wondered if I were sweating? They would surly see. The line moved so slowly.
I prayed, but had no peace. When our driver pulled up to the officer’s post, I’d come to the conclusion I’d better be honest. I leaned toward the open window.
“Bringing anything into the United States?” the guard asked.
With my best “nice guy” look, I opened my mouth as the driver cheerfully chirped “Nope.”
I was stunned and before I could say a word, the officer smiled and said, “Move along” and it was suddenly over.
Exhausted, I collapsed back into my seat and watched American soil fly past my window.
“What about the cat?” I finally asked my driver and trying to see behind his sunglasses. He grinned.
“I’ve gone through this border up to four times a day for five years,” he said. “They know me.”
Thus, the lesson: Get someone on your side who knows the authority when you have to sit under their scrutiny. It may just get you across the border.
And by the way, the cat didn’t have rabies. |
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