From Baghdad To America

Copyright © 2008 by Jay Kopelman

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kopelman, Jay.

From Baghdad to America : life lessons from a dog named Lava / Jay

Kopelman ; foreword by Wayne Pacelle.

p. cm.

9781602392649

1. Dogs-California-Anecdotes. 2. Dog owners-
California-Anecdotes. 3. Iraq War, 2003—Personal narratives,
American. 4. Kopelman, Jay. I. Title.

SF426.2.K64 2008

956.7044'3092-dc22

[B]

2008011736

Printed in the United States of America

With gratitude to those who've made the ultimate sacrifice in service of their country.

“Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring—it was peace.”

—MILAN KUNDERA

I couldn't put down Jay Kopelman's first book,
From Baghdad with Love
, and when I received the manuscript for the book you're holding now, I couldn't wait to read it. I figured that where the other book left off, this one would pick up, with the story of Lava the dog living the good life with Jay in Southern California.

It does do that, of course, yet it does so much more. This is the story of what happened after Lava got to the United States. But it's also the story of what happened to Jay Kopelman after he came home, to marriage, fatherhood, and the many challenges of a return to civilian life.

I think Jay would be the first to admit that when he rescued a puppy in Iraq, he had no idea what a life-altering experience it would be. For the simple act of saving a dog has done more than just enrich Jay's life. It has truly changed him.

By telling the story of what he and his fellow Marines did to save Lava, Jay has done something wonderful for animals. By sharing the story of his own journey toward greater self-awareness, Jay has done his fellow service members and his country an even greater service. Honor, Courage, and Commitment are the watchwords of the Marine, and by Jay's account, Marines typically aren't the touchy-feely, emotionally open types. Yet this is truly a narrative of introspection, personal adjustment, and love. It centers on Jay, but critical to the story is his wife, his two children, Lava, his fellow service members, and his Marine Corps.

Jay took some heat for rescuing and trying to bring home a dog, but not from those of us at The Humane Society of the United States (HSUS). The HSUS counts numerous service members and their families among its supporters, and between 2003 and 2008, I wrote four letters to two American Secretaries of Defense (Donald Rumsfeld and Robert Gates) on animal welfare issues.

From the start of the conflict in Iraq, The HSUS fielded calls from military personnel trying to bring animals back home from the war zone, and from all kinds of people disturbed about the Department of Defense's General Order 1-A. GO-1A effectively forbids American soldiers and Marines in zones of conflict from taking action to rescue and care for animals in distress. It's not exactly popular with the troops, and we quickly learned that numerous Americans in the war zone, including base officers, were doing a lot to help animals, working their way around GO-1A, where and when they could.

We encouraged the Department of Defense to support our troops by letting them keep and care for animals they encountered, and to take a more effective and humane approach to animal control challenges in conflict zones. We spoke out against the confiscation and destruction of soldiers' pets by military authorities and contractors. We even offered to help the Pentagon devise a plan for bringing mascots and pets to the United States for all qualified personnel, one animal per person, in an orderly fashion, with shots provided and a forever home guarantee.

We also heard from citizens angry about videotaped incidents of apparent cruelty by American service members, and we tried to persuade America's military leaders to discourage those (fortunately still rare) incidents of cruelty to animals by Americans in uniform. The HSUS called for revisions in the Uniform Code of Military Justice to make cruelty punishable under military law, just as it is under the law of any state.

An explicit prohibition would be a reasonable step, easily taken, and the clearest signal that there is zero tolerance for animal cruelty in the American military. In my letter to Secretary Gates, I wrote, “We recognize that such incidents are not typical of the fine men and women who defend and protect our nation in both peace and wartime. From our perspective, that's all the more reason for decisive action to identify and address wrongdoing by those few whose misconduct reflects poorly upon the rest.”

We're still waiting for answers and positive response to these matters, but one thing is sure: Jay and Lava, and others like them, have put a face on these issues and it will be all the more difficult for our military leadership to overlook such concerns in the future.

In this book, Jay and Lava put a face on another important issue—one that concerns every returning veteran and one that should concern us all: the effects of stress, depression, detachment, and other negative emotions resulting from combat stress and trauma. Not every service member came home with a dog, but quite a number of those who have served in the defense of our nation came home to the challenge of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and related concerns. Jay addresses this issue with courage and sensitivity, and that's why
From Baghdad to America
has broad-reaching implications that go beyond its basic story of dog rescue.

Thus, to Jay's many heroic qualities can be added his openness about the struggle that he and others now face in confronting the complexities of life after combat. And to Lava's many designations—orphan, survivor, mascot, international traveler, playmate, and symbol—we can add another: therapy dog. I admire them both, and you will too.

Wayne Pacelle, President and CEO of
The Humane Society of the United States
April 2, 2008

For more than a half-century, The HSUS has been fighting for the protection of all animals, through advocacy, education, and hands-on programs.

Celebrating animals and confronting cruelty, find HSUS on the web at
www.humanesociety.org
.

“My dogs forgive anger in me, the arrogance in me, the brute in me. They forgive everything I do before I forgive myself.”

—GUY DE LA VALDENE

You've probably guessed, judging by the cover of this book,
that I have a special relationship with my dog. He's not just any dog. I brought him back from Iraq against all odds—and military regulations. I wrote that story already.
From Baghdad to America
is about what happened next, after I returned from Iraq. For starters, I broke up with my girlfriend of the time; I hardly recognized my former neighbors; I realized that nine out of ten people in my town were self-involved and over-entitled; and, worst of all by far, on one warm and sunny afternoon I somehow wound up watching Lava, my newly repatriated war mongrel, run into the street ... straight into the path of an oncoming car.

Okay, so you're thinking,
What kind of asshole saves a dog from Iraq only to let him get killed by a car in San Diego?
And I really can't argue with you on that one. I mean, how in God's name do you reconcile something like this with everything you know to be right? You've survived the absolute worst conditions in the world, including rocket attacks, mortar attacks, and suicide bombs. You've made it safely from Iraq to Kuwait on a night flight to avoid the surface-to-air missiles. You come home to “America's Finest City,” where you're surrounded by surf, mountains, and desert—not to mention your friends and family—you don't look before you cross the street one day, and
wham!
Just like that, it ends.

Well, it wasn't quite that bad, but it was pretty damn close for Lava.

I have him outside for a walk off-leash one afternoon. It's a beautiful Southern California spring day and we're enjoying the weather and each other, knowing we've been through hell and made it out the other side okay. I see a car coming down the street from the distance, and I know Lava doesn't notice it—or maybe it just doesn't register on him that here in America people drive cars too big for their skills at speeds approaching the sound barrier in otherwise peaceful residential neighborhoods.

So I approach him cautiously. First and foremost, I don't want to spook him. Lava is still a bit skittish; any quick movement in his direction sends him scampering for presumed safety, and he's just a few feet from the road. But as I get closer, predictably, he bolts. And the driver of the car—I know she sees us, or at least sees me standing by the side of the road—doesn't even slow down. Her being in a hurry is obviously more important than safety or common sense (she's easily going forty-five, fifty miles an hour).

At this point I know we're in trouble. Lava's making a run for it, and not toward the house. I know this as surely as I know my name and Social Security number. Lava's going straight into the street, and there's nothing I can do to stop him. Time compresses so hard that for one brief moment, it stops.

Then it happens. Brakes grind, tires squeal, smoke and the acrid smell of burned rubber are in the air. Then a spine-tingling yelp of fear and pain as thirty pounds of dog encounters six thousand pounds of automobile.

But Lava is still the fighter I always knew he was. He doesn't lie in the middle of the road wounded and whimpering. No, Lava gets up before I can take even two steps toward him, and runs at full speed for the house, all the while continuing to howl as though the screaming will somehow propel him even faster to safety and salvation. It's the most bloodcurdling, heartrending yelp I've ever heard in my life, and I've heard some sounds come out of wounded men that would make you vomit on the spot. I feel like I've been hit, too. Lava is sprinting on three legs faster than I can ever hope to run on my best day. All I can do is run after him—and it isn't difficult to track him because the blood trail is heavy, let me tell you. I run so fast my shoes fly off my feet. All I can think of is getting to Lava and finding him help.

I know he's hurt—hurt badly—and I have to get to him, to hold him, to tell him it's okay. It's difficult to really believe that when you're looking at your dog's leg and can see the bones and tendons through a shredded, gaping hole. And you know he was dragged beneath the car because his belly and the surface of his tail have been de-furred by the pavement. How can I tell my six-monthold, terrified, wounded—not injured,
wounded
—puppy that everything is going to be okay? How would you explain that to your infant child, for example?

My whole world is shifting—it's as if there has been a seismic shift and the North Pole has become the South—and I'm powerless.

It's happening again.

I wrap Lava in a blanket, get him in the car, and get him to a vet as fast as possible. My mind is racing, taunting me:
You broke the rules to get Lava here, and you deserve this. It's some kind of sick karma coming down and you're gonna lose Lava because you broke those fucking rules and saved a fucking
dog
. Asshole!

I've never felt such sadness, anger, desperation, and grief all at once. My best friend was just returned to me a few days ago.
He can't die here, like this.
And then we're at the hospital, and he's on the operating table, and the veterinary technicians are frantically working to start an IV drip, take X-rays, assess the damage. The damage I caused by my carelessness and neglect. The absolute worst is when they won't let you see what they're doing; you don't know what they're thinking while they're working on him . . .
you have no control over whether he lives or dies.

I'm a complete wreck of a human being when John Van Zante finds me at the hospital. I'm thinking to myself,
John helped me bring Lava back from Baghdad and was there at O'Hare Airport the day Lava landed in the United States—and now he's going to be here to see him go.
I'm not even sure why I called him, except that I thought he might understand. He does his best to console me, telling me that it wasn't my fault and that it happens all the time. He lets me off the hook with the bullshit all of us run to when we don't know where else to turn:
There was nothing you could do.
Yeah, except not let it happen. I'm back and not even sure where back is, and now I may have lost the only valuable thing I got out of Iraq.
There was nothing you could do.
Here I thought I was home, but it turns out that you really can't go home again.
Nothing you could do.
Getting Lava out was the best and hardest thing I've ever done and now I've gone and fucked even that up.