So long, Max.

(This is a joint post, though G wrote most of it.)

Yesterday was a memorable day for myriad reasons, though mainly because we took Max down to London in preparation for his big flight home on Tuesday. It was a reasonably early start and we were both a bit on edge as we had to drive Max to the vet for his final checkup at 9:30, wait for the Gerry the vet to give Max a final check and to fill in the paperwork, drive back to somewhere near home (hoping we could find a street park) and then get a bus in to the station for an 11:30 train. This was actually plenty of time if everything went smoothly and mostly, it did. However, as mentioned, we were a bit on edge, and this was not helped by the snail’s pace at which Gerry read every single word of the import /export forms and painstakingly filled them in. Initially, he said, ‘Let’s do the final check now and you can come later for the forms.’ That idea got kyboshed pretty quickly. There was not going to be a later.

The two forms were about 15 pages each, and had about 20 different places to write the current date in. Every time he went to write the date, he paused because he kept forgetting what it was, and meanwhile the time seemed to be flying by incredibly fast. We both were slightly terrified that we had missed some test or other requirement and that he would say, ‘Oh, Max can’t go back to Australia because of xyz….’, so when halfway through filling out the forms he suddenly put down his pen and looked at us without saying a word, our stomachs lurched. ‘Listen to that woman,’ he said, referring to a lady talking in reception that we had only vaguely been aware of. ‘Some people just don’t listen!’ After telling us the backstory, which we weren't the slightest bit interested in, he picked up his pen and started writing again. Meanwhile, we each gave ourselves CPR to restart our hearts.

A bit later he said, ‘Right. I’ve got to go and photocopy these forms for my records. I’ll have to use the copier in the shop next door although the owner opens up when he feels like it so it may still be shut.’ If the shop was closed, he’d nip into the MP’s office next door and blag the use of their machine.  Evidently, though, the shop was open, as he came back soon after with his copies and dished out our documents. We paid the bill and scrammed. The consult fee was only about £28 which was great considering it took about 1 hour and Max also was given worming tablets.

We ended up getting to the station in plenty of time, just before 11, but only because we were early to the vet and had kicked things off at 9:15. Otherwise things may have been a bit more tense.

We managed to get two seats together all the way to London which was a bonus. We had booked separately as work paid for G’s ticket (he worked in London on Tuesday. A good scam) and our reserved seats weren’t near each other. Max was very well behaved, apart from his usual insistence of lying down with a body part sticking out into the corridor. I think he was hoping someone would stand on him so he could pull out the old ‘How could you tread on a poor little puppy?’ routine and facial expression again.

The train was on time and we transited from Kings Cross out to Terminal 5 at Heathrow on the Tube. All good so far. We made our way to the taxi rank and were pleasantly surprised that there was no queue, fools that we were. There were 3 ‘taxi ushers’ hanging around gasbagging, a clear case of overpaid and overstaffed. One of them asked where we were going in his best broken English, and after C had repeated, ‘Horton’ three times, he gestured to the first cab and said, ‘You sort out with driver.’ Well, what’s the point of you then, mate?

C explained to the driver that we wanted to go to Horton, only a couple of miles away, drop Max off, and then return to Heathrow. ‘£55. Each way.’

We then explained to the driver what he could do with £55 each way, anatomically speaking, and we walked off while discussing other options.

After asking at information, we were given some numbers for minicabs and arranged for one to pick us up and return us to Heathrow. (As we walked off, we overheard one of the information booth staffers say to the other ‘I'm sure they mean the quarantine station, not the kennels...’ with a clear ‘they are so stupid’ inflection in her voice.)  

Over the phone we told the minicab people that we had to go to Horton to drop our dog off at kennels. Quote: £25.

Slightly better than £110.

While we waited for the minicab, we called the kennels to let them know that we were nearly there. At the same time, we asked for their postcode, just in case. (Explanation for people unfamiliar with the British postcode system: essentially, postcodes in the UK are specific to a single street, or even a single building in the case of some cities. If you know the postcode, you know exactly where you're going. Much more precise than in Australia, where postcodes encompass four or five suburbs!)

The minicab turned up in due course, we hopped in and drove off. Oddly enough, the driver didn’t ask where we wanted to go although the address we had given over the phone had been very non-specific. ‘Okay, so we’re going to Horton,’ we said, slightly bemused.

‘Yes. I think I’ve been there once before.’ We weren’t convinced, so, after a short pause, asked ‘Did you want to know the postcode?’ No response.

We seemed to be generally heading in the right direction and after a couple of minutes the driver gestured off to the right and said, ‘It’s just over there’. C mumbled out an ‘...okay?’ Then things started to get weird. We approached a roundabout and did a complete circle. And then another. And then around we went for a third time. We finally exited and started heading back to Terminal 5. Clearly, he had no idea where he was going. This whole time his phone was ringing continuously with a bizarre ring tone that sounded like a techno/reggae/sitar fusion with a woman’s voice saying, ‘Hello? Hello?’. He may have at this point answered the phone and received some directions.

After slowing down, practically parking and then doing a U-turn on what was effectively a freeway, we went almost completely round the roundabout again, and then somehow ended up a short time later, much to our surprise, at Airpets Kennels. Surprising, because it was not where we wanted to be. Once again: ‘Would you like the postcode?’ This time he chose to hear us and after 10 minutes we arrived at the right kennels. Before leaving the cab, we repeated four times, ’So you’ll wait here until we get back?’. He seemed to get the message and it’s unlikely that he would have driven off given that we hadn’t paid him yet, but we were still a little nervous about leaving our bags in the car.

The parting was abrupt and brutal. The lady who met us showed us around to the back and we put Max in a cell. All steel bars and concrete floor. We wish she had just taken him off us reception so we wouldn’t have had to see the conditions of the place. We now know why most boarding kennels won't actually let you see where your dog is going to stay, but simply taken him off you at the reception. As G described it, you could see the other dogs standing in front of their cell doors, running their little steel mugs back and forth across the bars while singing mournfully ‘Nobody knows the troubles I've seen...’ 

The last sight we had of Max was his little face staring at us, his expression clearly asking ‘What have I done wrong?’ Both our hearts ached.

We then signed a form and left. Abrupt and brutal.

Thankfully, the minicab was waiting for us and took us back to the airport. The driver still only charged us £25. I think it would have been a lot more if they had gotten the address right in the first place.

On a side note, one other event of note happened while we were at terminal 5. While walking around, G had noticed an ever-increasing discomfort in his right foot. So, while stopped in a lift, he took his shoe off only to find a huge piece of what looked like lint compacted from a washing machine. About 10cm by 2cm. How it suddenly appeared in his shoe was inexplicable. We had a laugh later on thinking about how the piece of lint probably spent the next few hours going up and down a lift at Heathrow.

The trip back into London seemed very long and was quite tiring. A dinner of pizza and beverages with M. was a pleasant end to the day and, as we didn’t start eating until about 9pm, was most welcome.

Max is due to fly out in about 3 hours so hopefully everything is order with his documents. Fingers crossed!