two of the three flexible ribs out of lit-
tle blue house, it could be (mostly)
squished under the seat.
Hans would be responsible for carry-
ing Lance onto the aircraft, while trying
not to look like the carrier weighed
enough to dislocate his shoulder.
I planned to board with a small purse,
while the cat would have a wheeled
carry-on suitcase lined with an alumi-
num roasting pan for a makeshift litter
tray in case the flight was cancelled or
delayed. The interior was jammed with
litter, kibble, pee pads, plastic bags,
latex gloves and a towel and change of
clothes for me in case there was an
unfortunate feline incident.
we closed the door on our Toronto
house for the last time on a rainy after-
noon, sliding the key in the mail slot
as I cried sloppy tears fuelled by emo-
tions and stress. Lance quietly meowed
a few times in the SUV as we started
our drive to the airport. Then he curled
up and went to sleep. Let’s hear it for
the pheromone spray.
Security at Pearson was the first test.
Did I mention that Lance tends to let
fly a horizontal stream of urine when
he’s nervous?
I had to take him out of his carrier
to go through the security scanner. I
brought a harness and leash, in case
he was tempted to bolt. But if getting
Lance into his carrier was often a
trial, getting him out in a busy airport
would be worse.
“My cat is a projectile pee-er when
he’s nervous,” I told the security officer.
He and his colleagues found this
hilarious. They led me to a private
screening room, where the newly
laid-back Lance was easily parted from
his carrier.
Lance did not pee. He was quiet.
And he went back into his little blue
house willingly.
He slept in a corner of the Maple
Leaf Lounge while we waited for
boarding, occasionally looking out the
mesh panels to watch the world. He
accepted pettings. He was the same
cool cat in the departure area.
Quiet and content, he even purred
occasionally during the flight. He
didn’t entirely fit under the seat, and
many thanks to the flight attendant for
failing to mention it. He didn’t care
about turbulence, takeoff or whether
there were decent in-flight movies.
Lance, I discovered, is an absolute
champ at air travel. As it turned out,
being with us was all he needed. The
snoring cat at my feet reminded me it
might be a good plan to occasionally
let life just unfold.
Eleven hours after locking our Toronto
front door for the last time, we walked
into our Victoria apartment. I set up a
litter box, water and dinner for Lance—
and a large glass of British Columbia
pinot noir for Hans and myself.
We were home.
©FAT CAT AS CARRY-O 2019, LINDA BARNNARD. FRO LUGGAGME,” “HTHOWE G TOLO PACK YOBE AND MUR AIL
(AUGUST 6, 2019), THEGLOBEANDMAIL.COM.rd.ca 67