EDITOR’S NOTE: In the weeks since this was published, I have been contacted by Delta Airlines who offered what appeared to be sincere apologies and some financial compensation for what I and they agreed was their fault in the experience described below. In contrast to how I was treated in person, I was pleasantly surprised by the treatment I received by their customer service reps. I still provide the following post in its original form, but I did want to give delta some credit for accepting fault and being nice and human about it. 

 

The last two weeks have been full of surprises. Since Thanksgiving, I’d been in cahoots with my father to sneak back up to Boston and surprise my mother by coming home for Christmas – a family occasion at which I had made twenty-three straight appearances, but 2013 looked to be the first I’d be missing. Everything was going swimmingly. Until three days before my super-secret, red-eye was due to leave Quito for the snow and family of the northeastern United States.

I got a message at 2am from two of my best friends in Quito who lamented that they were leaving Ecuador on very short notice. In two days. Besides being bummed at their imminent departure, I quickly saw where the message was headed – what to do about Laika?

We had rescued Laika from the street outside our hostel in September when she was a three-week-old kitten, terrified and alone and without a particularly positive outlook towards her future. We staff members had been begging our boss to get a hostel-pet, but thus far, our pleas had been rejected. When Jim and Colleen brought home a fifteen-ounce ball of tiger-striped fluff, however, we had reached the tipping point and were granted permission to keep her in our staff quarters.

And so, Laika brought us all together. Jim, Colleen, and I became close as we bonded over caring for the terrified, then curious, then rambunctious little animal with whom we shared our already-cramped living space. I was dubbed “Tio Ty” (Uncle Ty), and took my role as the zany uncle very seriously. I looked forward to the nights when Jim and Colleen were working the dinner shift, as I knew that lonely, little Laika would come and cuddle up in the crook of my arm as I read before going to sleep. We were all in love.

When I got their midnight message a few months later, Laika had grown from less than a pound of shivering skin and bones to a (continuously growing) miniature snow leopard with an eye for trouble. With Jim and Colleen leaving on such short notice (and heading to Mexico), it would be impossible for them to take their adopted daughter, and so I knew it was time for me to step up to my unclely responsibility.

With less than 72 hours until I was supposed to be awkwardly trying to sleep on my flight to Atlanta and onwards to Boston, I began making calls. My first plan was to see if I could simply move her up-town to live with her crazy tio – a plan that was unfortunately and quickly nixed by our landlord who said no to pets. I then began looking into bringing her back to the United States to live with a friend or my folks until I found myself a more permanent residency. Sitting on the balcony of a cheap hostel in the jungle-outpost of Santo Domingo, still dripping with sweat and mud from a 22-mile long run, I called Delta Airlines.

It took me three tries before I got a connection decent enough to make it through their automated system to get to a real human being.

“Yes, hi – I’d like to bring a cat with me on my flight back to the United States from Quito, Ecuador. I’m just trying to get a sense of what I need to do and whether this is possible in the next two and a half days.”

“Okay sure,” says the voice on the other line. “It looks like all I need to do is note that the pet is going to be with you on the flight to make sure we don’t have too many animals on one flight!”

“So, that’s it? What do I need in terms of documentation? Is there a fee?” I was skeptical

“Right, so there’s a $200 fee to carry the animal on board and it will need a certificate of travel from a vet saying the animal is healthy enough to fly.”

For those of you keeping tally – here’s our starting number: $200.

I was extremely lucky in that my friend Annelise had (coincidentally) also just left Quito with a rescued cat and had even been flying to the US. Talking to her was extremely helpful as she was able to tell me what documents I’d need, where to go to the vet, and to ask for some sedatives to help with the stress of traveling (for Laika, though I could probably use some as well). After a series of long conversations with her and questions I never thought I’d have to ask (“so, where did you let your cat go to the bathroom while you were in the airport?”), I felt decently prepared to tackle everything that stood between Laika the Ecuadorian and Laika the American.

The trip to the vet was relatively uneventful, if only mildly traumatizing for poor Laika, who had never left our small apartment. After forking over $40 for a cat-carrier, $50 for an exam, the certificate of travel, and her rabies vaccination, plus another $10 for the sedatives which (I hoped) would knock her out long enough to keep her quiet during out overnight flight from Quito to Atlanta.

For those keeping track, we’re up to $300.

 

Finally, our big day came. It was Saturday afternoon and I grabbed a bus from my apartment to the south of the city to pick up my travel companion and head to the airport. I packed Laika, her favorite toy, and a towel (along with an extra in case she had to use the facilities) into her carrier and the two of us hopped into my friend Omar’s mini-van. We drove the forty-five minutes out of the city to the airport, during which Laika howled. Nonstop. A wonderful start.

Once at the airport, I quickly found a single-use bathroom and tried to coax Laika out of her carrier. Having none of this traveling and loud-noises and bright-light nonsense, she remained content a curled-up ball in the back of the carrier. Finally, I coerced her out and held her on my lap on the handicapped toilet, using the eye-dropper the vet had given me to place five tiny droplets onto her tiny tongue. I tried to let her stretch her legs, but it seemed all she wanted to do was crawl back into her carrier, so I headed out of the bathroom and over to the Delta desk to check us in.

We’d arrived over four hours early for our 12:30am departure and it seemed that there were plenty of other gringos heading home for Christmas; the check-in line was already long and slow-moving. I became a magnet of attention, as little children and grandmothers alike broke out into smiles as they saw my little feline amiga. The tranquilizers seemed to be working, as Laika remained entirely oblivious of her newfound celebrity.

At the front of the line, I approached the desk with documents in hand – my passport, Laika’s certificate of travel and rabies vaccination certificate. The woman smiled at me, smiled at Laika and then asked if I had my form from the Oficina de Agrocalidad.

“Um,” I looked at her blankly.

“La oficina de agrocalidad – hay que tener permiso de la departamento de agricultura.” You need to have permission from the Department of Agriculture, she explained.

I tried to remain calm.

“But I called Delta. I called you guys and this is what you told me I need. I have all the documents!”

No panic. But why hadn’t Annelise had to do this?

There was no negotiating. I was directed to leave the line and find the Department of Agriculture office which was – naturally – on the opposite side of the airport. When I found my way there – naturally – the office was closed. A hand-written sign on the door left a cell phone number and nothing more.

A second, more concerning, sign outlined the dozen or so necessities in order for an animal to be cleared by the office. Among them listed was a rabies vaccination at least 30 days before travel. My heart sank. Laika was lucky if 30 hours had passed since her rabies vaccine.

Now, I started to panic. Until now, I simply had extra hoops to jump through. But this was a hoop that Laika technically wouldn’t fit through. As I returned to the Delta check-in agent to ask for help in finding the mysterious person at the other end of the cell phone number on the Agrocalidad door, I started running through plans b, c, d… z.

What if they really wouldn’t let Laika come with me? I could offer to pay an “extra fee” to the officials, but how exactly does one phrase that? Are they going to take her away from me? Quarantine her? Could I get her back into the city and leave her with Deco and Jason until I got back in the worst case? Would I miss my flight? At this point, Laika’s tranquilizers had her calm as a summer day; it was my turn to freak out.

We got the office on the phone and they agreed to meet me in their office in a few minutes. I hurried back down and across the airport, Laika still obliviously at my side, and was happy to see a friendly, smiling young woman. She led me into the room where she explained that I needed to photocopy all my documents. They had no photocopy machine – Naturally – but there was an internet café just outside the airport.

I left Laika in the office and sprinted out of the airport and copied her certificates and quickly returned. My heart raced as the officers took down Laika’s information. They printed out a sheet of paper, asked me to verify the details, and finally printed it out on the official Deptarment of Agriculture letterhead. They barely even glanced at her forms – seemingly more interested in collecting the $14 fee and getting out for the night.

For those keeping score, that’s Ecuadorian Bureaucracy: $314; Tyler and Laika: a few pieces of paper.

“We’re gettin’ outta here!” I whispered to Laika as we trudged for the millionth time across the airport and back up the stairs to the Delta check-in desk. My new best friend greeted me at the front of the line and I handed over what I really, really hoped would be all the paper-work we’d need.

Five minutes later, we were walking towards security.

“You have to carry the animal through the metal detector and put the cage through the x-ray,” a stone-faced security agent instructs me.

This I was ready for. I reached into my backpack and took out the itty-bitty leash I’d bought and clipped it onto her collar. Already zonked out, Laika barely even flinched as I dragged her out of the back of the carrier and swaddled her through. She looked around confused for a second and promptly returned to oblivion.

With Laika back in her carrier, we breezed through passport control and found our gate. It was almost midnight. It had taken us close to four hours to get this far.

Enjoying the eye of the storm, we waited a few minutes to board our flight to Atlanta. I figured at this point, there should be no more hoop jumping until we get to US customs. Laika seemed so sedated that I wasn’t worried about her flying and I was actually breathing a little easier.

I boarded the plane early (“passengers requiring special assistance”) and was greeted by a friendly Delta flight attendant.

“Oooh – that cage is not going to fit,” he said as soon as we crossed from gate into cabin.

“What do you mean it’s not going to fit? I called Delta at least three times in the last 36 hours to confirm what I could bring on this plane and these are the dimensions that they told me.” All true.

“Well, maybe those dimensions were for a soft shelled carrier. Either way, there’s no way the carrier will fit under the seat in front of you.”

“Well, what can I do?” Now, I was beginning to get frustrated.

“You will have to purchase the new carrier; this is the only option.”

Seriously?

“Wait, I have to pay for this? You guys messed this up! You told me what to bring and now it doesn’t fit on your plane! Can I just use the carrier and give it back on the other end of the flight? I only need it for like 6 hours.”

“No, sir. This is the policy. The cost of the carrier is $65. If you’d like to make a complaint or a suggestion, you can do so after the flight.”

“I just might do that.”

We transferred Laika to her posh new soft-shelled carrier and finally it was over.

“Oh and one more thing, sir,” the same attendant grabbed my attention. “The people next to you have an allergy to cats, so we’re going to reassign you to row 44.”

The plane had 45 rows.

I knew I had a fairly tight connection in Atlanta, so I’d been pleased when I saw my seat was right next to the door. Great, I thought, I’ll get off quick and can be one of the first in line for customs. But – naturally – Delta was now insisting that Laika and I be literally the last couple to disembark.

As we approached row 44, I heard mumblings from the peanut gallery and quickly ascertained that in a large enough sample, you will invariably find at least two people with feline allergies. And so, despite all of their promises and despite all of the money paid and despite all of the hassle of moving me to the back of the plane, Delta forced the two of us apart, leaving me in row 44 and Laika tucked away alone in the back of the plane.

I didn’t sleep on the five hour red-eye, but instead found myself either in my seat and worrying about Laika or leaving my seat and going to visit her. I’m not sure which of us was more stressed, but we landed as a weary pair.

As promised, we were the last pair off the plane. I glanced at my watch as I got my passport stamped and headed over to US customs’ secondary inspection. The one remaining uncertainty. I carried Laika up to the inspection officer and handed over her documents.

The officer asked what kind of animal she was, looked at her papers, and asked if I had any raw meats with me (nope).

“Do you want me to take her out of the carrier?” I asked, assuming he’d need to do some kind of inspection.

“No, that’s okay. You go right ahead. Follow that hallway to your right.”

And just like that it was over. This time for sure.

We had no time to spare and so we quickly caught the subway which connects all of the terminals (sidenote – ATL airport is HUGE) and headed to our connecting gate. We got there just in time and walked right onto the plane, not a moment too soon. With her new carrier looking like a simple gym bag until close inspection, I decided to not mention the fact that there was a cat in it. If my neighbors had allergies, they could sniffle for the two hours up to Boston.

I had never been so happy to land and walk out of Logan Airport. Mariana had come to pick me up and I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved. The sub-freezing temperatures couldn’t keep me down because it was over. Finally, finally, finally.

 

Later that night, having been awake for forty hours, I burst into the restaurant where my parents were dining. Surprise! There were tears.

The next morning, I brought Laika to my parents’ house in a wicker basket with a bow. Surprise! More tears.

 

****

 

When Omar and I had been en route to the airport, I’d explained how much it was costing me to bring Laika with me.

“But you could buy 20 more cats with that money!” He replied indignantly. “I’ve seen kittens in store windows for $10, no more.”

It’s true; I’d seen them too. And the pragmatic engineer in me likes his argument. But the truth is that the bonds we make with others – be them family or friends or felines – outweigh logic and reason.

I’m a fairly well-seasoned traveler and I can honestly say that this was the single most stressful travel day of my life. But seeing my parents – seeing the tears of surprise and happiness on my mother’s face when she realized her youngest son was home for the holidays; and seeing Laika in her new home, knowing that she’ll never have to fend for herself on the mean-streets of South Quito – it didn’t negate the exhaustion of the day, but it made the relief and fulfillment that much more powerful.

This Christmas wasn’t for me. If anything, it was a huge stressful interruption of my normally routine and low-key life. But I’d do it all over again a thousand times. More than anything I gained a tiny insight into how parents develop super-human strength and lift cars to save their children. We do crazy things for those we love. I may not have had to lift any cars, but at least I know that if I had to, I could.