[UPDATE, For people who have only read halfway and gotten the wrong idea: The perro's fine. Our thanks to the self-correcting blogosphere. We continue.]
We've written over 2,900 posts here over the years, just about all of them complimentary of Mexico - or, at worst, playfully antagonistic. (We're not counting the early-morning-fireworks posts; those are written with a heart full of hate.) That's why we never thought we'd find ourselves saying this. But here goes:
Fuck you, Mexico. Fuck you so fucking hard. ¿Y tú Mamá? Fuck her, tambien.
Are we forgetting anyone? Oh, yeah - every fucking airline that fucking flies to Mexico: fuck you, too.
THEY'VE TAKEN THE PERRO HOSTAGE!!!
Okay, let us back up a bit. A couple of recent comments here by CM Mayo - our go-to expert for all things Mexican pug-related - alerted us to the fact that United (one of the two airlines serving Querétaro "International" Airport) no longer allows in-cabin pets. But we had just flown from Houston to Newark sandwiched between two people with in-cabin dogs, so we just assumed that, like most of our commenters here, she was drunk or crazy or both. Sadly - and we knew this in our hearts - Madame Mayo is never wrong.
We're standing at the intersection of corporate America and official Mexico, so we're dealing with the informational equivalent of a 50 car pileup, but basically, sometime in the last few weeks, the Mexican government passed a new rule; or started to enforce an old rule; or completely ignored the existence of an old rule, which was then discovered by the airlines and exploited to maximize profits; or just woke up one morning and said, "Hey, how can we make the folks at Burro Hall hate our fucking guts?" Whatever happened, the bottom line at the moment is that pets are no longer able to fly in the cabin on any flight to or from Mexico.
(An heroic attempt at untangling this clusterfuck can be found here. The anti-corporate take on it is here.)
Regular readers will be familiar with our rather tedious ability to make an enormous fucking deal out of any small problem, but this is no small problem. For the perro, there are now just two ways out of Mexico. The first is to to take this elderly, highly neurotic creature, who suffers from some DSM-IV-level separation anxiety issues, and put him in a cage in the baggage hold of the plane. The fact that most airlines will not guarantee your pet's survival is irrelevant: he would die of a massive heart attack the minute we put him on the conveyer belt.
The second is to travel over land, which, aside from the hassle of increasing travel time to New York from six hours to six days, would involve traversing a stretch of road now affectionately referred to as "The Highway of Death." Needless to say, we would die of a massive heart attack the minute we saw an SUV with tinted windows. And the perro would die in the ensuing crash.
So there we are. Unless we hire a coyote to walk him through the Failed State of Arizona desert - a plan that would be more promising if he were able to circle the block without sitting down - the perro will remain in Mexico forever. Don't get us wrong, he loves it here, but it's better when that sort of thing is voluntary.
Did we mention fuck you, Mexico?