It was a typical flight announcement, yet it contained the most unexpected phrase. “Your cat is in business class.”
Startled, I looked up, questioning if I had heard correctly. Surely, the flight attendant wasn’t referring to my cat, who was supposed to be peacefully asleep in her carrier right under the seat in front of me. “There must be some mistake,” I replied, still clutching my magazine. “My cat is right here.” I pulled the carrier out to show her, but a wave of panic washed over me. The zipper was open. My cat was gone.
The flight attendant’s words were sharp with disbelief as she scolded me, “How did you let her out?”
“I didn’t! She was asleep! The carrier was zipped shut! I even gave her a sedative before we left for the airport!” I insisted, my voice rising with anxiety. She remained unconvinced. “You need to go and get your cat,” she instructed, with a tone that suggested this was a regular occurrence, though for me, it was anything but.
Jumping up, I hurried into business class, the flight attendant following close behind. My mind raced. Even sedated, my cat wouldn’t be moving slowly if she was scared. And scared she must be, navigating this unfamiliar environment. There she was, just as I’d imagined, weaving through the maze of seat frames in business class, a furry grey shadow moving through a steel labyrinth. She was groggily making her way through what seemed like an underground city of metal and feet.
This presented an immediate challenge. First, I’d have to navigate over the legs and belongings of premium passengers to reach her. Second, any sudden move or loud noise could frighten her further, sending her deeper into the unknown parts of the plane. I crouched low, trying to get a better view without causing a commotion.
The surprised gasps and murmurs of United’s business class passengers, en route from San Francisco to Chicago, confirmed her presence. She was indeed grey, adorned with white paws that looked like leggings, and a distinctive, uneven white patch marked her face. As I got closer, I could see her pupils were wide, dilated like those of a teenager who’d indulged a little too much – the sedative clearly hadn’t worked as planned.
She continued her curious exploration, creeping towards the front row of business class. Then, her small, white-whiskered face peeked out from under the aisle seat, and I saw my chance. I reached out, ready to scoop her up and end this airborne adventure. But just as I was about to grab her, she darted forward with surprising speed – and disappeared into first class.
First class was a different world altogether. Meal service was in full swing. Crisp white linen cloths draped the first-class trays, and I could hear the delicate clink of real silverware. Just then, another crew member appeared, holding my cat’s empty carrier. “The zipper is broken,” she explained, examining the damage. “It looks like it was pulled open from the inside.” My escape artist was also a master of feline engineering, it seemed.
I continued my pursuit, tracking my cat’s furtive movements through the first-class cabin, feeling increasingly like I was in a bizarre dream. Finally, I spotted her. Now in the aisle again, she staggered to the very front of the plane, right to the cockpit door. She bumped against it gently and then collapsed into a small, furry heap, seemingly defeated by her grand adventure.
Relieved, I scooped her up, holding her close as I stood to face the first-class passengers. Dozens of eyes were on me, forks paused mid-air, conversations suspended. The silence was thick with unspoken questions and perhaps a hint of amusement. I felt a profound need to address the situation, to offer some kind of explanation for this unprecedented feline intrusion. “I am SO SORRY,” I announced to everyone, my voice echoing slightly in the suddenly quiet cabin.
The first flight attendant reappeared, her expression softening slightly. “Please, return to your seat,” she said gently, escorting us back down the aisle. The cat, now safely back in her carrier, was quieter, perhaps finally feeling the effects of the sedative, or maybe just exhausted from her unscheduled first-class tour. The busted zipper of the carrier was now secured with a strip of masking tape from the galley – a temporary fix for a truly unique travel mishap.
I had been in California for weeks, immersed in the solitary world of memoir writing. Writing my life story, I was constantly wrestling with the fear of over-disclosure. Were the stories about my parents, my family, my relationships, other people’s tsouris (troubles), too much? What was essential context, and what crossed the line into Too Much Information? This internal debate had consumed me for over a year.
Now, on this flight home, as my cat embarked on her own journey through the plane’s hierarchy, it felt strangely beshert – destined. In my book, and now literally in the air, the cat was out of the bag. Some things, it seemed, were simply meant to be revealed, no matter how unexpected or unconventional the delivery.
