the 49th parallel universe

I hitched a ride with my niece, who attends university in Waterloo, and we drove through Sarnia and Port Huron to an early Easter at her parents' home in Michigan.

Her station wagon was filled with both of our belongings and my mother's dog, now my dog, asleep in its travelling case.

On the American side of the border crossing, at Port Huron, a wizened, cheerful customs officer began his round of questions. After the standard few, he asked:

"Is that a cat in there?"

"No," I replied. "Just a very old dog."

"Does she have dog food?"

"Yes."

"Is it in its packaging? If it's made in Canada, I can't let it in."

The customs officer and I met at the back of the car, and I opened the bag containing the dog food. I asked him if this had something to do with mad cow disease, and he nodded in the affirmative.

First bag -- made in Canada. Confiscated. Gone. Sheesh, I thought.

Second bag -- both he and I examined the small print, and it was safe, made in the U.S. of A.

Third bag -- seeking the small print again; safe again, made in the U.S.

The last was a Tupperware-type container, filled with the primary dog food.

"I don't know," I said, "whether this is from Canada or the U.S."

"Oh," he said, quickly.

"That's from the U.S."