Kerry Lee and Aspen at the Animal Quarantine Station.
Photo by Craig T. Kojima, Star-Bulletin

Out-of-state license plates are a familiar sight. People trek from the bus station lugging folding chairs and backpacks. Love and loyalty are tested daily. So is patience.

Life pulsates in this miniature city of tin-roofed catteries and dog kennels, hidden in Halawa Valley. Barking resonates in the hills, piercing the humidity and carried far by the occasional gust of wind.

Nestled in an industrial area, the state Animal Quarantine Station is the end of a pilgrimage those devoted to their animals must undertake.

For 120 days the animals have no contact with the outside world aside from visits from their owners and caretakers, under the strictest quarantine law in the nation. That may soon change, however.

A revised 30-day quarantine - preliminarily approved by the state Board of Agriculture - has been reviewed by the attorney general's office and goes next to the governor's office.

If the governor OKs it, the Department of Agriculture will hold public hearings.

"We didn't have any problems with the 30-day program itself," Deputy Attorney General Blair Goto said. "The real unknown in the process will be the public hearings."

Absent major revisions because of public comment, the new rule could go into effect late this year or early next year after final approval by the Board of Agriculture and the governor, he said.

Meanwhile, life trudges along at the station.

Catherine Petersen brushes Bandit during one of her visits.
Photo by Craig T. Kojima, Star-Bulletin

From his seat behind the counter at the store outside the facility entrance, Les Naki has seen both.

Naki, the operator of a state Department of Human Services Blind Vendors facility, knows how the 120-day quarantine cycle progresses for most.

"The first 10 days is the hardest part," Naki says. "I see their reaction. They're sad. After 20 days or so, they seem OK. They're going to be happy. After 90 days or so, it's kind of like jet lag."

Then, the stuff pet owners dream about.

"When they're ready to get out, they don't know what to do with themselves because this is like their second job," Naki says.

"They sleep, sew, do crossword puzzles, they bathe with their dogs."

Some pet owners view the facility - surrounded by a nearly 6-foot-high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire - as a prison holding their beloved critters, while others accept quarantine as a fact of life.

Many try to infuse a sense of home into their pets' kennels. They bring to the kennels pieces of daily life - radios, books, blankets - hoping to breathe normalcy into their and their pets' lives.

The Golden Retriever mix was an abused 3-month-old puppy when Catherine Petersen found him. Now at 4, Bandit's fears have been revived once again.

"I think it's really hard for him," she said. "I'm a firm believer that dogs can sense what you feel. I think he can sense I'm upset about him being here, but I think he knows I'd never leave him."

Bandit has little to worry about. Peterson, who is three months pregnant, said Bandit is well cared for by quarantine staff and she plans to visit him religiously. On a recent afternoon, she brought a blanket that she spread on the kennel floor and rested with Bandit.

"So, I'll be getting bigger as the time goes on," she said, sipping a can of Mountain Dew. "I come and lay on the floor with him. He's almost like a human being. ... He cheers me up."

By the time Bandit gets home, Christmas will have rolled around.

"It'll be my Christmas present," Petersen said smiling. Then she paused. "(There's) still a long road ahead of him."

The "little white furball" that Kerry Lee and her then-future husband Ron Mechlinski picked up about eight years ago in front of a convenience store in Tampa, Fla., is now a full-grown Staffordshire bull terrier.

"We didn't know what (breed) it was," recalled Lee, 28, then touring as a guitar player with a rock 'n' roll band named Ice.

"It didn't make a difference," she said. Contrary to the breed's reputation of being, er, bullish, "This is the sweetest dog I've ever had."

And a well-traveled one.

In the last eight weeks, Aspen and her owners have racked up more than 5,000 miles cruising in a rented car through several western states in a journey that has culminated in Hawaii.

Lee and her husband now run a computer graphics firm and have decided to settle in the islands. They're making sure that Aspen feels at home even in a kennel.

Blankets and pillows are spread on the floor. A water-filled plastic container for the canine is in one corner. Aspen even has a makeshift mosquito door - a pillowcase hung using clothes pins - on her carrier, where she sleeps.

Lee is balancing time spent with Aspen and work. So, while she visits, a backpack with work papers is at her side. So is a jewelry-making kit, a hobby of hers. With a lunch of watermelon on a recent afternoon, the only thing seemingly missing from Aspen's kennel were family portraits.

"Aspen is our child," said Lee.

Robert Koyama's marching orders were clear. Don't come home without Spooks.

So, the 26-year-old Navy officer stationed at Pearl Harbor made sure he picked up the alley cat before heading home. Shauna Koyama had made sure her husband would remember.

"She made it a point," recalled Robert Koyama on the release day. "She said, 'Make sure you pick him up tonight. I want to see him when I get home.'"

Robert Koyama complied, arriving at the station about 30 minutes before closing time to fetch 5-year-old Spooks.

"Code Seven," echoed the voice on the public address system. Two words that in plain English mean pet release. Music to the ears of pet owners.

"Hey, buddy, ready to go home?" Koyama asked an apprehensive Spooks after making his way to the kennel.

"(Spooks) is going to get to sleep in his own bed."

At home in Waimanalo, a special little box awaited and a corner of the Koyama home that Spooks can mark as his own.