WHEN PIGS FLY
First Class air travel isn’t what it used to be. I don’t like to rub elbows with riffraff, and while it still weeds out the hoi polloi, it no longer weeds out the animal kingdom.
These days, anyone with an emotional disability can fly with an emotional support animal (ESA). This is a companion animal that provides some benefit for a person disabled by a mental health condition or emotional disorder. These beasts are typically dogs, but they can also be cats, parrots, pot-bellied pigs, or even a miniature horse. Passengers must be certified by a psychologist, therapist or psychiatrist. Or, in a pinch, a bartender or nail-care professional. The animals are in the cabin with the owner, outside of a carrier. They must fit on your lap, at your feet, or under the seat, and cannot block the aisle. And they can’t have a seat of their own, not even if they’re in First Class and are as snobby as I.
By the way, what do these animals do when Nature calls? Do they do their business in Business Class?
I never fly Coach, of course, but Coach passengers walk past me on their way to the rear (why don’t they have a back door on planes?). These people have always given me dirty looks as I sit in a roomy leather seat sipping a Dubonnet with my pinky extended, but now their animals also give me the fisheye, sometimes literally. Some of them look like they want to rip my throat out. (I’m talking about the animals, but I guess it could apply to some of the people as well.)
First Class seems to attract the more exotic animals, while the more mundane ones are common in the cheap seats. But whether it’s a cockatoo or a cocker spaniel that’s stealing the honey roasted peanuts out of your hand, it’s still an assault on Civilization.
According to the National Institute of Mental Health, 20% of Americans suffer from a mental illness, including anxiety. The National Bartenders Association agrees with this.
On one flight I sat next to a woman who confessed to me that she really didn’t need her Labradoodle’s emotional support; she just liked his company. (I didn’t find him all that fascinating.) She said she lied about having an emotional illness so that Doodles could become an ESA.
Another passenger put his Siamese Fighting Fish, Rocky, in his martini because the fish had a bigger fear of flying than he did. (Actually, since you can bring more than one animal, maybe Rocky could have had a pet of his own.)
A woman with a Shih Tzu named Shihtzy told me these animals fly for free, which is true, and that they even earn their owners Frequent Flier Miles, which turned out not to be true.
Based on her faulty information, I decided I would get myself a fraudulent emotional support animal. Also appealing to me was the fact that when you travel with an ESA you are not permitted to sit in an emergency exit row. I hate being pressed into saving lives in an emergency.
First, I went to my therapist and asked her to write a letter saying I had emotional problems. I felt that she agreed too quickly.
Next, I thought about having my wife’s cat, Snooty, certified for emotional support, but he and I haven’t had a meaningful interaction since that time I accidentally dropped a bagel with whitefish salad on the kitchen floor.
Typically, an airline’s list of unacceptable animals includes hedgehogs, ferrets, insects, rodents, snakes (SNAKES ON A PLANE!) spiders, birds of prey, farm poultry, amphibians and sugar gliders. (A sugar glider is a flying phalanger that feeds on wattle gum and eucalyptus sap, native to Australia, New Guinea, and Tasmania. It’s like a flying squirrel, only uglier). Also, animals with tusks, horns or hooves, excluding miniature horses trained as service animals.
(Is a horse trained as a service animal the same as a horse in the service industry? “Hello, I’m Tony, and I’ll be your pony this evening. Would you care for something from the bar?”)
I decided I needed a small, subdued animal. Who am I, Jack Hanna? Marlin Perkins? Ramar of the Jungle? I Googled “Turtles that stay small,” then went to the pet store at the mall and bought myself a musk turtle. I named him Elon.
On the Internet I found a list of things to bring along for a dog, and I adapted it for a turtle:
1. Blanket. I substituted a pocket square from Brooks Brothers.
2. Collapsible bowl. I brought a silver finger bowl from Tiffany’s. It was so small it didn’t need collapsing.
3. Pee pad. I borrowed a maxi pad from my wife’s medicine cabinet.
4. Thunder shirt. I found that a fur-lined, suede glove seemed to provide my turtle with a soothing, snug fit. (Also from Brooks Brothers, where discriminating turtles shop.)
5. Benadryl. I couldn’t calculate the proper dosage for a musk turtle, so I figured I could just add a little Glenlivet to his finger bowl if he got nervous.
6. Toy. I have to admit this one had me stumped. I went with a Rubik’s Cube.
My deception worked and Elon became my constant travel companion. Eventually, I found out that he was not actually accumulating travel miles for me, but by then I had gotten used to flying with him. In fact, by then I think I had developed a genuine emotional disorder, so I no longer felt guilty about lying to the airlines.
