Cindy Fan

Flying with animals delivers lesson in the need to be humane.

By Cindy Fan

It doesn’t take long for the meowing to draw surprised and grumpy stares from my fellow passengers.

I have done everything right to prepare my cat, Chepe, for this flight. I scoured the internet for advice and the vet assured me everything would be fine.

Yet my normally mellow feline is yowling and thrashing inside his carrier case as if possessed by demons.

A man spins around in his seat, looks at the cat, then at me, his face contorting with annoyance. He deliberately spins again and locks eyes several times to ensure I see, and feel, his disdain. I am so unnerved, I request to move to an empty row as far away from him as possible.

We take off and the situation descends into Mad Cat: Fury Row. Chepe furiously claws and chews the mesh panels of the carrier, one of the strongest available.

Before long a white and ginger head pops out, attempting an escape. I unceremoniously shove him back in. This goes on for the entire 12-hour red-eye flight like a deranged live version of whack-a-mole.

When we finally land at Istanbul Airport for a transit stop, I take refuge in a shower room. Exhausted, Chepe flops into the sink still wet with my toothpaste foam and looks up at me with drowning eyes. The nightmare is not over; there is another flight to go. Now it’s my turn to cry.

Before rescuing Chepe, I could never have imagined flying with a cat, let alone pathetically sobbing with one in an airport shower. I was unprepared for the comfort he would bring to my often lonely life as a travel guidebook author.

This is my fifth global relocation in eight years; I’m grateful to have him.

But anger is easier than empathy when trapped in a tin can at more than 10,000m. We have been pushed to the edge with shrinking leg-room, seats that barely recline, toilets the size of a utility closet. Then there are the kickers, elbow jabbers and man­spreaders to contend with, as well as primates who put up their feet against seat backs, douse cologne, clip fingernails or play games on their phone with the volume high.

My cat is simply doing what we all want to do on a plane: scream.

We’ve become so fiercely defensive of our comfort that something as natural as a helpless baby draws ire. Japan Airlines recently has added an online seat map indicating where parents with babies will be sitting so passengers can avoid them. Instead of innovating to improve their comfort, airlines are making these mums and dads into pariahs. Why don’t airlines offer noise-cancelling headphones to those in their vicinity? Should I be handing these out on behalf of Chepe, along with chocolates, roses and gift cards?

It’s time for the second flight. I push Chepe into the carrier. The caterwauling begins immediately.

As I have feared, there are eye rolls and grimaces from fellow passengers as we take our seat. My neighbour requests to move; the flight attendant informs him the flight is full. I want to disappear.

Chepe pierces the cabin with tragic warbles as the plane rumbles for takeoff. The businessman across the aisle closes his tablet device and looks over. I prepare to apologise. To my surprise, he addresses the cat in Swiss-German with a friendly, soothing tone. With every meow he gently pats the carrier and says something encouraging, as if there is nothing strange about a flying feline. In fact, he appears delighted by it, and this creates a magical shield.

I can feel others thaw and move their attention elsewhere. I’m awash with relief. For the first time during this wretched journey, I relax. “He’s not an emotional support animal, he’s an emotional distress animal,” I quip.

The realities of flying — navigating chaotic airport terminals, battling claustrophobia, being patient, suffering discomfort and tolerating beastly passengers — remind us what it is to be human.

But flying with an animal should remind us of the importance of being humane.

This JOURNEYS column was published in The Australian on November 11, 2019.