From Baghdad with Love Jay Kopelman (top 10 inspirational books txt) 📖

happening in them. It’s like reading a book and all I can do to find out what happens in the end is turn the page.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

March 2005

California

John Van Zante has to make the final flight arrangements for Chicago, but he needs to finish up the e-mail to members of the San Diego media about the dangers of Easter first.

“While this release is mainly about Easter plants that are toxic to pets . . . please see the note about why it’s a TERRIBLE idea to buy bunnies and chicks for Easter.”

Things finally seem to be going Lava’s way. It is the closest they’ve come to getting him home.

“Remember that bunnies grow up to be rabbits that chew on everything, are subject to eye ailments, need their fur and nails clipped, and pee on everything!”

John has been on the phone for three days with Kris Parlett from Iams and Ken Licklider from Vohne Liche Kennels to map out the strategy: If Lava makes it from the Red Zone to the Green Zone and if he makes it from the Green Zone to the Baghdad airport and if he makes it from the Baghdad airport to the States, then the three of them will be waiting at O’Hare in Chicago when he arrives. The important part will be getting media at the airport in Chicago.

“Those cute, fuzzy baby chicks lose the fluff and it’s replaced with feathers. Then they become chickens that cluck, crow, and poop.

“And when the bunnies and chicks become adults, their owners give them away, abandon them, or ignore them until they’re too sick to survive.”

What began four months ago as a mission to bring media attention to the center’s Home 4 the Holidays event and homeless animals is now a personal mission to get Lava out of Iraq. But it’s more than that.

When John heard that ABC was interested in doing a story about Lava’s escape, he e-mailed everyone a list of names—Anne Garrels, Anthony Kuhn, Lourdes Garcia-Navarro, Ben Gilbert, Triple Canopy Security’s dog handler Brad Ridenour—and asked who else should be publicly thanked.

Ben Gilbert wrote him back almost immediately.

Hi Everyone, I understand that a lot of people have gotten on board with this, but I would really appreciate it, that if there is a press conference of some sort, that someone mentions [Sam] who took care of Lava from the time he arrived in Baghdad. [Sam] got the shots for Lava. He got the doggie passport, the letter from the Ministry of Agriculture and went to the translator who certified the letter. He bought Lava biscuits, a toy, and most importantly . . . played with him, giving him much needed love and attention. [Sam] also tried to arrange previous trips for Lava’s route through Jordan by car, kept ‘doggedly’ pursuing a way for Lava to find his way to the States . . .

So hats off to everyone for making this happen, but [Sam] has cared for Lava over the past month, and he is asking for nothing in return.

It would be a great honor to him to be mentioned on American TV as a contributor to this successful operation. I feel strongly about this.

I think it’s more important for his name to be mentioned than NPR’s.

John stares at his computer screen. One year ago, the dangers of Easter seemed important enough.

“We’ll be happy to work with you on a story about this. Not all doom and gloom, but some positive reasons why bunnies and chicks are not good Easter gifts.”

Now they seem absurd.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

April 2005

California

I heard someone say once that passionate people live violent lives. At the time, I didn’t really get it, but if what they meant was the way love waits in ambush, traps your well-trained sense of control, and then tortures you into a confession you’d just as soon not make, I now understand.

The first part of the confession is that I let Lava get to me. I unlocked my cool, let the little shit right in, and after that, all sorts of things seeped through, including fear. I mean, I guess it’s fear that’s doing this to me. Maybe it’s just what the therapist calls post-traumatic stress, even though I’ve only been home for a week; or maybe it’s just residue from the sleeping pills still floating through my bloodstream, or maybe some chemical imbalance brought on recently by any number of issues, but hell, what else besides fear could cause this much panic?

Anxiety, maybe. Anxiety assumes less culpability, implies less of an offense, offers more of an excuse. Or obsession, perhaps, but that implies a lifetime of prescription slips from the therapist, and besides, not everyone involved in the rescue—the Marines, the journalists, the Iraqis, the private security guys—could be crazy. Maybe they could. Nothing seems right-side up anymore and hasn’t for some time now.

Maybe it’s just compulsiveness. Along with nightmares, flashbacks, moodiness, alcoholism, and depression, they said something about a compulsive disorder that could send your brain cells scurrying into all sorts of witless directions, and between checking incoming e-mail, praying for the phone to ring, and counting the paces between one wall and the next, it seems entirely plausible.

But then, so did getting Lava out of Iraq in the first place, and how impeachable was that offense after Allah, Jehovah, Jesus, Lady Luck, and Santa Claus made it pretty clear it wasn’t on their list of things to do this year?

I check the e-mail again. Nothing. It’s the middle of the day there in Baghdad, the middle of the night here in California, and no time in particular to me everywhere else in between. Something must have gone wrong.

The second part of the confession is that once you let fear in, it’s hard to get rid of, and the more you try, the deeper it digs its heels. Four months ago, I wasn’t afraid of anything, at least that’s how I remember it in