yesterday morning, that gal that loves me more than life itself tested me in ways i didn’t know a cat could be tested.  she gave me a some medicine to soothe my nerves and then shoved me into the potato sack known as “an airline certified pet carrier” so we could fly to our atlanta outpost.  when using the words, “airline certified,” it’s important to remember that airlines don’t want animals on their planes.  why?  because they hate us.  they think we’re sub-human and therefore unworthy of a place on the plane.  even though our humans need us, have legitimate cause to travel with us, and have paid through the nose to carry us on, we are scorned.

i’d flown twice before, in a pet carrier that was reasonably comfortable, but because of Damn Spot, galfriend needed a device that would carry TWO.  so a new version arrived with a zip divider that gave mister stinky-butt nine inches of luxurious comfort, and i got nine inches of claustrophobia.  i had a lot to say about this device, and i did everything in my power to remove myself from it, but sadly it was built to withstand the protestations of cats like me, and i was stuck.

there was a bit of mercy once we were through security (where the TSA people ignored the hiss out of me while treating Damn Spot like baby Jesus!), the gal took Spot out to give him a bottle and unzipped the divider so i could stretch out.  but then she had to carry that little fart from one side of the country to the other.  people oooed and ahhed and asked all about him while i was treated like luggage and stowed under the seat.  it took two planes and seven hours to get home, and when she finally let me out, all i could do was eat, use the litter box, and then crawl into bed with her.

next time we fly, she and Splat can enjoy the “pet carrier” experience.  i’m going first class.