Schmuggelware? No, Schnuggleware!

In which I fly — eventfully — with my Havanese, Newton, from San Francisco to Saudi Arabia.

I was confident that my experience traveling with my dog Newton from Saudi Arabia from San Francisco would be relatively painless. 

This European airline had a reputation for being good with pets, and had relatively straightforward policies.  

When I started flying with Newton in 2007 the ‘therapy dog’ aka emotional support animal concept was still in its infancy.  It would be generous to think this idea was conceived to help anxious flyers. More likely, it was a marketing ploy to promote a new revenue stream which tracked the explosion in small dog ownership.  

For a time, therapy dogs were allowed in cabin free of charge with a letter from a licensed psychologist.  

But soon, both the airlines and dog-owner flying public started to exploit the trend. Airlines charged higher and higher fees for dogs-in-cabin. Dog owners found new ways to try to evade those fees. Often the cost of a domestic round-trip for a dog in a bag under the seat in front of you exceeded the price a human ticket.

I wasn’t happy with claiming Newton as a therapy dog, even if the collective impact of spending months in war zones gave me some reason to substantiate that claim.  But I felt it inhumane to force a dog larger than a breadbox to stay in a bag under a seat for hours on end. 

I then discovered that if one claimed the dog as a therapy animal, he/she was allowed to sit under one’s feet, or even on one’s lap for the whole flight (to administer drip -therapy, of course).   Granted, not all dogs were as chill as Newton. I didn’t want to be accused of using the therapy dog status as a means of shirking a fee. So I usually did both: I paid the fee, while subjecting myself to the skeptical looks of check-in staff when I submitted Newton for inspection as a therapy dog.  ‘Why would I do such a thing?’, you might ask. This was baffling to anyone who heard the following story:

When I checked Newton in on the flight from San Francisco to Frankfurt, I did everything by the book. I paid in advance. I submitted the necessary forms in advance. I had copies — in duplicate — with me. I informed the check in staff that he was a therapy dog.  They looked up my ticket and waved me off. 

“We don’t need to see you paperwork.”  

“Are you sure?,” I said. “Usually, you need to look over the papers, and examine my dog. And this is [insert name of German airline here] right? I mean, you’re fastidious.”

 “No problem, sir, you’re all set.”  

“Ok, great!” I thought to myself. “Unusual, but great.”

I got to my seat, and Newton fell asleep at my feet.

Just before the doors to the plane closed, one of the crew approached me.  

“Sir. You’re not allowed to have the dog outside the carrier. For the duration of the flight.”

I didn’t want to say, but he’s a therapy dog, only to hear a chorus of groans all around me.

“Could you please check the ticket please?” I asked.

“Meine Güte!” she exclaimed. “Your dog isn’t on the manifest at all.”

At that point, a younger member of the cabin crew walked past. I recognized her as one of the two who had checked me in at the terminal.  I motioned to her, and asked her if she could help me sort this out.

The younger woman winced as she caught the look of the older woman, whom I deduced was her superior.  Clearly, neither was going to be helpful.  

More crew came over and started arguing amongst themselves.  

“May I suggest something here,” I asked.

“The dog is paid for. I have the stub here. So until we’re in the air, I’ll simply keep him in the carrier, and we can figure it out later — ok?”

But no – The group of five insisted on my coming out to the jetway to resolve the issue of my “Shmuggelware.” I got the gist, but looked up the precise meaning of the word on my iphone.

“Contraband?” I said. “Please. Is it really necessary to use such loaded terms?”

“Unless… (and I was proud of myself here, you mean… Shnuggleware?”

Of course, she found that totally not funny.

I fumbled through my carry on for all the papers I had neatly prepared prior to check in, but which I had in haste shoved under some books and a sweater. 

As I got up, I heard a very sharp yelp, then felt a searing pain in my hand.

I realized that in my hurry to get out of my seat, I had accidentally stepped on Newton.

I was worried I’d broken his leg. After a quick inspection, he seemed ok. Just mightily irritated. Once he saw my face in front of him, he calmed down.

Me. his solicitous owner. Moi! But I couldn’t really blame him for biting me.   He’d bit me four times in his life — four times more than was acceptable. There were very specific things he didn’t want to do — like being removed from the driver’s seat of a car when he had his paws on it. Or being extracted from behind a sofa for a bath.

Meanwhile the gaggle of flight attendants had collected at the gateway, waiting for me.

The only people who saw this incident were the person seated to my left, and the two people seated behind us.  I looked around to make sure no one had whipped out an iPhone and was recording. I could just imagine this scene going viral: A perfect example of why airlines shouldn’t allow people to bring their untrained dogs on planes.

Newton had resumed looking cute-- and appeared contrite. To the chorus of dog scientists who say such looks are evolutionary fake-outs, I disagree. 

I’m sure he knew he had bit me. And was sorry. Or sort of.

Just then, I felt a strange sensation on my hand, as if someone were dribbling catsup on it.  I looked down, and saw I was bleeding profusely from the bite mark.  I hastily used my sweater -- only thing I had at hand -- as an ad hoc tourniquet, and left to join the inquisition. 

“You’re in danger of being expelled from this flight,” one of the crew admonished me, on the metal platform outside the plane,” as I tried to keep my bloodied sweater out of view.

“You have an unauthorized dog…and the captain is not willing to delay.”

I stooped down to put the various papers back in order, before handing them to the purser. A collective look of surprise when he realized I had every bit of documentation required -- the service animal forms, receipt of payment, and the dog boarding card.  

He shouted something in German at the woman who originally interrogated me, and she scurried off.

I realized at this point that the reason they didn’t want to see the service papers at check. With the dog paid for, the other papers were a nuisance.

I was left me to return to my seat, where my row-mate was giggling hysterically, his hand covering his mouth.

“That was some funny ****,” he said. “Is your hand ok? Is your dog’s hand ok?”

I could see other passengers giving me dirty looks. They’d collectively identified me as the jerk who caused a now half-hour delay. 

My connection in Frankfurt to the flight to Riyadh was already tight. But since we were late, I now had a massive dash clear across the airport – which turned out to be more than two miles, through two sets of security screens.  

Between lugging a suitcase and balancing Newton’s carrier on my shoulder, I was sweating profusely by the time I made it to the gate for the flight to Riyadh.  

As soon as I boarded the plane, I patted my back pocket, only to realize I couldn’t find my wallet. Or my passport….

‘Maybe in my rush I’d left them on the plane — or in one of the X-ray machine bins’, I thought.

I wouldn’t be allowed into Saudi Arabia without a passport. Then I’d have no credit card or ID to get back, or get a hotel. Panicking, I took inventory of how screwed I was going to be -- and tried to assess whether in fact there was any point in my getting on this flight.

As I was rummaging through my things frantically, a pretty female flight attendant came up and said, “You have a dog!”  

‘Oh no… not again,’ I groaned.

But the tone was distinctively soft: “Can I see? Is that a Havanese?”

“Yes! Why yes he is!”

“I have one at home in Munich. They’re such dear dogs, so affectionate.” she said, in flawless English. “Does he follow you to the bathroom?”

I gave Newton a side-look.

“Can I hold him while you look for your things?  Don’t worry… you don’t have to hide him. You can let him out of the bag.”

Finally, I thought, some humanity in this dog-eat-dog world.

At that very moment, and to my enormous relief, I found my wallet and my passport in the side pocket of my carry-on. I sat down, drenched and winded and ordered a drink. I looked down at Newton, who was now curled up at my feet -- also clearly exhausted.

If life were fair, I’d have offered him a drink too.