Remember the time I flew to DC with my Cat?

Preparing to leave one small island for another far off island nation-destination brought about many unexpected points of distinction this time around. First of all, I’m much better under pressured moving situations; I collect my shit, I put that shit in a bag, I put that bag on a plane – together me and said bag arrive at a new destination. A few days later I discover the bizarre arrangement of shit that made it into the bag. When you have two weeks to move, you GO! When you have a year and a half to move, you GGGOOOOOOOOO-ish… like the time I dropped a hammer on my toe from the top shelf of my closet. So, yes, who keeps a hammer on the top shelf of their closet? But the point is that I had too much time to think about it instead of just reacting: I see there is a hammer falling, so I lift my foot out of the way, however because the hammer was on the top shelf there is enough time for me to lift my foot, lose my balance, and thrust my foot back down to the hammer’s ambition - resulting in a screaming/bloody mess.
Also, it’s possible that I’m getting older. It seems that getting older adds an element to moving that I’ve never associated with myself; I collect shit, I like that shit, I give sentimental value to that shit, I don’t want to separate from that shit – I now have to choose from said shit, exactly what makes it into the bag. Do I really need to take a chop saw? Or should I prioritize the cat, my furry little ball of love and joy – with claws? What if it is impractical to pack either of these beloved attachments? I should think there isn’t a bag large enough or tear proof enough for either of these items.
Just to clarify, I do realize that only a true lesbian can have a struggle deciding between these two items specifically, but clearly I meet all necessary criteria…
 

And then there’s the cat: 

I love my cat, adore her, so much that I am willing to have her fur groomed into a Mohawk three times a year (which for some reason everyone seems to mistake for “the mange” – she does NOT have The Mange!), make her wear a tie on Thanksgiving (I believe in gender
neutrality) and put her on a 14 hour flight to my sister’s house so that she can be in a new place, with new people, until I’m ready to collect her.
Remember the time I flew to DC with my Cat? Yeah, well, the experience has been burned into my mind for the remainder of my time - pre-dementia. Oh, the sweet, cool breeze of dementia that awaits me…

Packing her up:

I’ll be brief in the particulars, but getting one’s fuzzy friend through the threat of agriculture and quarantine and up to the front door of the Honolulu Airport takes a bit of planning and a lot submitting. There are health examinations and shots to get, papers to provide, sedatives to take (regretfully for the cat) and a rather small pet carry-on bag to shove an actively unwilling/very dexterous, clawed ball of lint.

Okay, a quick aside: At some point I think someone should write a book with a chapter describing the uncanny reality that people somehow resemble their animals (Debbie Halbert?). While I was at the vet with Hamm (my cat), pre lengthy journey, I looked on as a rather petit, frazzled, jittery woman picked up a prescription of Prozac… for her whippet. If you’re unsure as to why this is funny, please google “the whippet.”

To the airport:

As in any US airport, the switchbacks of the TSA security check point line at the Honolulu International Airport (HNL) are like the bottle neck accumulated by the “strip-mall parking lot car accident” that is TSA, complete with burnt Midwesterners and overly aggressive make-believe cops. Once you’ve shown your ID at the top of the line, however, things just get frantic.  There are bins to collect, a strip tease to perform, electronics to be stashed or displayed, liquids to be slammed or mourned over, and in my case a surprisingly aware cat in a bag to deal with (astonishing considering the amount of sedatives that I pumped into her before leaving the house) – and all of this in the amount of time it takes to get 12.5 feet to the gate to freedom… the full body scan.

A couple of interesting rules in place for traveling with a carry-on animal: 1) No “pre-check” line – so aside from hanging out in the switchbacks for an additional half hour, there’s an added motivator to remove your shoes and jacket as quickly as possible while your animal moves slowly away from you on a conveyor belt toward xray hell, like a spy film, circa 1969. FYI: it’s not advisable to let your pet pass through the carry-on baggage xray; not only is it against TSA guidelines, it looks a bit suspect when the content of your carry-on has a life of its own.  Theoretically, you should carry your animal through the body scan sans protective carrying case. 2) Once through the body scan (is that a pussy in your pants?) you’re required to be swiped for explosive materials, because there is no one more suspect that someone carrying a shitzu. The TSA agent is always very polite in grabbing your bags from the conveyor, but do they then understand the OBVIOUS difficulty in exposing your palms so they can swipe your hands with what looks like a used Naxima face wipey? Apparently not.

Kitty Carry-on does have its perks – for example, at HNL there are multiple agriculture checks to ensure that you are not populating the US Continent with fruit we can only purchase in Hawaii - like California grown apples. (Aside: I do understand that there is a real threat of pests, but this is why we’ve allowed Monsanto to ensure that our children will have gluten allergies. We don’t need the USDA to fuck us twice!). A positive side effect of having a bag on your shoulder that jumps about on its own is that the agriculture representative is instantaneously captivated by the self-oscillating bag and spends the entire scanning process asking questions like “what is that? What sex is it? And, what are you doing to clear up the mange?” while missing other obvious violations - like an apple, or a bag of grapes, or a homemade yogurt parfait with fresh blueberries, strawberries and banana… for example.

On that same note, everyone is nice to you when you’re attempting to get through the airport with a cat. This is either because they pity you, they assume that anyone willing to go through THIS for a cat afflicted with mange is worth a smile or two, or they think you have some sort of ailment by which this “emotional support” cat is necessary; not to say that Hamm was being especially supportive, but I did have a letter stating that she was my emotional service cat, all the same. 

During the HNL Airport experience I went through a myriad of emotions: sympathy, heart break, exasperation, supplication, tough love, the silent treatment, and resting for an unreasonable amount of time on trying to influence Hamm’s behavior through verbal abuse… out loud: “okay, that’s it, next time you’re carrying ME through the airport!”

At the gate, she did somersaults while I ate my homemade yogurt parfait.

Flight Numbero "are we there yet?":

While standing in line to board, I think people initially came over to see what was in the bag, but quickly excused themselves due to the potentially unstable woman trying to reason with the cat inside. Inevitably this was the only 30 seconds in which the copious amounts of drugs that I’d shoved down the cat’s throat seemed to overwhelm her capacities and she sat still like a dopey eyed angel in her miniature sized carry-on, a virtual picture of tranquility.  Then everyone just stared me down, like “it’s just a cat in a bag.” Fuck you. Have you ever tried to put a cat in a bag/leave said cat in that bag for roughly 12 hours and 7000 miles? You know what doesn’t agree with cats? Small confined spaces and 30,000 feet.

It is no small accomplishment to successfully take an animal, which is otherwise travel unfriendly on a lengthy CAR RIDE, onto a flight offering absolutely no survivable exits. There should be an award for people who are willing to board a flight con kitty – the longer the flight, the higher the award points. It’s like the mile high club, but instead of fucking at altitude, you’ll be fucked at altitude. It’ll be called the 30k ft. with A FUCKING CAT club; just substitute the standard bonus points associated with bathroom sex contortionism, with one’s ability to convince the flight attendant that the carry-on purchased specifically for this flight (due its guarantee that the animal will fit under the seat in front of you) isn’t actually WAY too big to fit under the seat, and that you have plenty of legroom… you’re just sitting cross legged for the sake of serenity.

Aside: While standing in the bathroom of the airplane with a typhoon of cat doing laps around the luxurious 2’x2’ safe harbor, for those who have lost all resolve to keep their cat in the bag, I noticed 2 signs asking you to please not dispose of your cigarettes in the lavatory trash bin. This seems doubly redundant as I believe there is no smoking allowed on board ANY commercial flights at this point. This was only made further confusing by the ashtray on the inside of the lavatory door. It’s like the chain-smoker from the airplane design and/or refurbishment department started questioning their own in-flight resolve.    

Changing planes at LAX was simple. I got off the plane, walked from the furthest possible gate at Terminal 2, out through security, down to Terminal 3, back in through switch-back TSA security, and back up to the… I don’t want to overstate this… second farthest gate at Terminal 3. As we passed by AeroMexico Hamm kicked back into high awareness, or what I like to call fur-ball fury. Apparently either a) the sudden submergence in the Spanish language reminded her of her time spent in a correctional facility somewhere in the Deep South where the only person who treated her with kindness was a Guatemalan coffee dealer/cat lover named Jesus OR b) her drugs wore off. Oh good, another chance to get swiped for explosives while clutching an irate, confused cat, with a hangover. Hair of the dog anyone? I drugged her again immediately upon arrival at the next gate.

Sedatives? What sedatives?

Hamm either hates disco lights or model quality flight attendants, because she had a rager in her carrying case during the second flight resulting in the absolute demolition of her kennel from the inside out (everyone has at least one bad trip). Hungry Hamm? Hopefully not after tearing your way into the outside pouch from the inside, ripping open your 3 pound bag of food, then having a “taste the rainbow” hour - rolling around in mouthfuls of salmon flavored PurinaOne. To be fair, I've had dreams of doing this same thing with Cheetos for years…

Aside 3: Virgin America – Remember when flights offered peanuts? Well, apparently now they offer free substandard WiFi as a shitty replacement. Thanks VA, for keeping me inescapably connected… Can I please have my hypoallergenic peanut replacement party mix back?

Also, VA recently made every on-board amenity available at the touch of a screen, undoubtedly with the intention of freeing up time for the attendants to walk around modeling their uniforms and teaching anyone over 60 how to navigate past the $17 cocktail and candy covered pecans to get to the free peanuts, while bent over the person in isle seat (that’s me) for twenty minutes. I’m almost positive that being both attractive and annoyed at the world (except you, you’re lovely) are job requirements of VA flight attendants.

By the time we landed, we both needed a break from the remnants of the kennel, enough so that being on leash seemed like a great idea. So, we found a corner to drop our stuff, then “walked” over to the baggage carousel to collect our belongings.

I'd like to take this quick opportunity to thank Gynnie Robnett (my sister) for rescuing me from the airport and for agreeing to take on Hamm with all of her unforeseen... quirks.