When Dogs Fly
Air travel is traumatic. Driving to the airport is stressful because I don’t know the way. Siri guides me, but he’s been known to make a mistake – or just quit talking. I curse myself for not leaving home earlier.
But I make it. With time to spare.
It’s a long drive and I need to pee – immediately. So I squeeze into the stall with all my baggage. The stalls were not designed for this.
At the ticket counter, an agent scrutinizes my ID, prints a boarding pass, and checks in my baggage. Relieved of my suitcase, I head to the TSA inspection station for examination of my belongings and my body. But before I enter, I realize I left my lunch in the car. I really don’t want a tuna sandwich and an apple to cook for five days. So I retrace my steps to the long term parking lot. The sun is sweltering, and it’s a long walk. And this time my carry-on bag is digging into my shoulder, rather than riding on my rolling suitcase.
Food safely in my purse, I return to the terminal. It had been my intention to eat my tuna bagel before the TSA inspection, but I’m feeling like somebody will think it odd that I checked my suitcase and then left the building. If I don’t show up at the TSA station soon, I might be suspected of doing something terroristic. So I head straight to the inspection line.
I do what they ask—put my laptop, satchel, purse, jacket and shoes into bins to be x-rayed, and walk through the people-scanning booth. I’m waiting on the other side, barefoot and bagless, for my belongings to catch up to me. Clearly something has raised suspicions.
Indeed. A special agent is summoned to examine my tubs of stuff by hand. He begins to sift through my purse—pulls out the tuna sandwich, turns it over and over in his hands, raises his eyebrows, and puts the bagel back in my handbag. I’m free to go.
I’m exhausted.
I make it to the departure gate and plop into a chair. There is a woman already seated, fielding questions from other passengers about the dog she just pulled out of a pet carrier—and about her job. She is a “flight nanny for dogs.” She was hired to escort young pups from an Arkansas dog breeder to their new homes in other states.
The dog is uber-cute. A black dachshund. Six or seven months old.
When it’s time to board the plane, I regret not having petted the pooch. I need frequent dog contact for survival. I find my aisle seat and wait to see who will be my seat mate.
Lo! It’s the nanny! I hastily make room for her and her charge. Conversation ensues.
Nanny and I both understand that carry-on items must be stowed for take-off, although neither of us understands why babies don’t get stuffed under the seat but puppies do—especially since puppies have to pay to ride, and babies don’t. Once the plane is in the air, we get the pup out of the bag—without asking for permission.
The dog spends the entire flight stretched across our laps, her sweet little snout resting in my right hand while my left strokes her velvety ears. Flight attendants notice but seem nonplussed.
Although I have misgivings about dog breeding as an industry, I was mighty grateful to have this snuggly pup in my lap for the entire three-hour flight to La Guardia. A therapy pup, to ease the trauma of travel. This should be standard issue. I arrive in New York ready for anything.