Familiar

I’ve mentioned in an earlier post how my wife and I have managed to finagle the ultimate writing retreat: a fixer-upper farmhouse on the Ligurian Coast of Italy. Quiet afternoons there, watching the sun glitter off the Mediterranean, are the best times to unproductively open my laptop and pretend to write. But even with a cold glass of prosecco bubbling by my side and a little plate of olives to nibble on, I’ve often found something missing. Eventually, I realized the vital element necessary for a life of tortured writing was an animal companion, and for me, specifically, a cat.

Something about the pure, unabashed laziness of a cat—the way they manage to do nothing with such smug insouciance—makes staring into space and idly pecking at a keyboard seem not just acceptable behavior, but a down-right productive exercise. Moreover, cats have the same rhythm to their lives as I have at the computer: long, fallow periods of inactive contemplation followed by sudden furious activity. (For me, typing; for them, pouncing on some innocent insect.)

In Italy, my spot for pondering and pouncing on the keyboard of my computer in an attempt to peck out a few coherent paragraphs is a particularly dilapidated porch made of worm-eaten wood and scruffy glass known to all the neighbors, for whatever reason, as The Veranda. Although our Italian yard is awash in stray cats, the only animals spotted on The Veranda heretofore are a vast army of mosquitos, various species of ants, and a furtive hedgehog whom I tragically mistook for an oversize rat. (Not tragic in regards to the life of the hedgehog, just tragic in the amount of ridicule I was subject to at the hands of both the neighbors and my delightful wife.) As you can no doubt imagine, none of these unwanted animal companions served my purpose as writing companion.

With the requisite furry friend lacking, my wife and I contrived to do what many said was, if not impossible, certainly unwise. We decided to bring our two feline companions from our Los Angeles dwelling on the sixteen-hour journey to the Ligurian coast.

For most readers who are actually sane, I’ll detail some of what’s involved in flying on a plane with a cat to Italy. It begins with an expensive visit to a properly certified veterinarian who will sign a pledge stating your animal is of excellent health and free from contagious diseases, most especially, of course, rabies. This certificate must then be mailed (?!) to the State Department of Health for an official stamp. Then, the magic document is returned, again, by snail mail. (No offense intended to our friends at the United States Postal Service.) To add yet another fission of excitement to the whole process, the vet exam must be performed within a month of departure. This leaves a narrow, exciting window between the date of the vet exam and the date of the airline reservations. During this brief period, the laconic workings of the Health Department and the Postal Service must complete their unhurried processes or you would be obliged to postpone your flight, change your reservations, and begin the entire procedure anew.

Once you’ve past these hurdles with exquisite timing, you’re ready for the airport. The first challenge is to find a ride to the drop-off point with someone willing to carry two yowling critters through Los Angeles traffic. The cats must be securely ensconced in an airline-approved soft carrier of unforgiving dimensions meant to fit, theoretically, beneath the seat in front of you. (Long gone are the days of chucking your animal in a hard case and sending them down the luggage conveyor belt like Granma’s steamer trunk.)

At the airport, you present your documents along with a previously purchased “Pet ticket.” This is a supplement of a few hundred dollars giving you the privilege of shoving your poor animal where any normally proportioned person would put their feet. Now the real adventure begins: the TSA.

At the security screening area, a place known to unnerve even the most placid of seasoned human travelers, you are required to remove your terrified, clawed-and-fanged, killer-of-mice from the safety of their carrier and hold them in your bloody, shredded arms as you walk through the body scanner. In their wisdom, some airport screeners have recently rescinded the requirement that you remove the pet’s collar. This is probably after one too many wayward animals were found roaming the departure lounge after wriggling free from the lacerated arms of their stunned owners.

There are no direct flights from Los Angeles to Milan, so our journey usually involves a six-hour flight to an East Coast airport, then a delightful nine-hour flight on to Milan, followed by a brisk, two-hour drive down to the coast: Cat heaven.

Okay, detailing the horrors of the journey, I fully expect to hear shortly from the SPCA. The weird thing is that our animals, undrugged, but fasting to avoid any unpleasantness at 30,000 feet, go into a calm, catatonic state and emerge from the trip seemingly unaffected. I suppose if we could ask them, they might tell us a very different story. I can attest that their owners arrive harried, cramped, and exhausted.

At the farmhouse, the cats emerge from their carriers thrilled to tackle a bowl of kibble and surprisingly eager to explore, no doubt, because the resident mice have become careless. The bit of grass in the enclosed yard is even more of a joy to the little ones than the cool stones of the interior, probably because their backyard roaming area back in the States consists mostly of desiccated dirt and tired cactus.

Most importantly, on the insect laden Veranda, my favorite inspiration will lounge placidly in a shaft of Ligurian sun, teaching me the gentle art of staring into space, waiting for inspiration or a wayward bug to prod one or both of us to furious activity.

Now all we need do is plan for the journey back to Los Angeles!

Helpful furry friends