Except by snakes, I mean dogs.
Dogs that are far more well-behaved than those pesky old snakes.
And far more expensive.
As most of you know by now, Scott, Jolie and myself are moving to the Land of 10,000 Lakes this weekend.
Unfortunately, we won’t be able to snap a photo of this sign at the border as we’ll be flying, not driving. After about two minutes of discussion, we realized dredging through Idaho, Montana and North Dakota in our Corolla during the last week of January was not safe, fun or sexy. Plus, no one is there to give you pretzels and juice. T’was a no-brainer.
Did I mention that upon arriving in the North Star state we can expect to be greeted with a balmy 19 degrees?
This will be quite a change from the 80 degrees and sunshine we experienced in Kauai last week…
Relax. It’s called a strapless bikini, people.
The midwestern temps will certainly be a drastic change from our week in the tropics, which conveniently took place during the great Seattle Blizzard of 2012. That’s right, lucky Mr. Taylor and I missed all of the snow and power outages. While all of our fellow Western Washingtonians were firing up their generators and shoveling snow (or as I like to call it, “Satan’s dandruff”) were busy stuffing our faces with Macadamia nuts and taking naps in the sand.
The littlest Taylor was not so lucky.
Poor Jolie was stuck in Tacoma at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, forced to tromp through snow three times her height in order to relieve herself. Even when my dad shovelled off a special area for her to conduct business, she refused to brave the outdoors.
Something tells me she’s in for a rude Minnesota awakening.
Something also tells me I’m about to deduct $50 from my shoe budget in order to purchase this bad boy.
It’s called the Rascal Dog Litter Box. We’ll be ordering the “Little Squirt” size for Jolie.
Yes, that’s really its name.
Did I mention it comes with free training spray?
But if $50 for a doggie litter box is bad, then $125 for a canine plane ticket is absolutely maddening.
Did I mention that’s $125 each way? Ridonculous.
No, wait. Ridogulous.
The good news is that there are loop holes. Service dogs for the visually impaired and therapy dogs for passengers with severe anxiety disorders are allowed to fly for free.
The bad news is that within five minutes of pretending to be a blind woman (Versace sunglasses and all), Jolie blew our cover by attacking a TSA drug-sniffing dog at the security checkpoint.
I soon came to the humbling realization that while Jolie as a seeing eye dog is far from believable, me as a crazy person is quite plausible.
Unfortunately, a doctor’s note on orthopedic letterhead wasn’t considered a “credible” evaluation of my mental health. Clearly, the desk agent had never heard the phrase “crazy legs.”
Before I could point this out, the woman informed that she was well aware my “doctor’s note” had been written by my husband.
To which Scott swiftly responded, “Believe me — she’s got issues.”
I didn’t know whether to kiss him or kick him.
The agent’s decision to still charge us the $125 dog fee may have contributed to me choosing the second option.
Here’s my beef with paying $125 to bring Jolie on a plane. I’m not allowed to let her sit on my lap or shoulders (I quickly got in trouble after snapping the photo above), and she has to remain completely enclosed in a carrier under the seat in front of me for the entire flight.
That sounds an awful lot like a carry-on.
A $125 carry-on.
Also? Jolie is much more pleasant when she’s allowed to rest comfortably in my lap as opposed to being trapped in the bowels of Pink Panther.
Normally a perfectly well-behaved dog, Jolie transforms into an incredibly powerful yelper, barker and sprayer when enclosed in the pink kitty carrier of doom.
What does she spray, you ask? Why, rancid fluid from her anal glands, of course. Apparently it’s how dogs demonstrate fear.
I was once on a red-eye flight to L.A. seated next to a woman who squirted mayonnaise into a can of tuna in order to make herself a sandwich mid-flight. For years, I was convinced this was the worst thing I would ever smell on a plane.
Let’s just say Jolie’s spraying incident made that tuna sandwich smell like roses.
And it would never have happened if the flight attendants would just relax and let me hold her in my coat.
I could go on and on about the injustices those who travel with their beloved pets face. There are dozens of arguments, but I’m going to leave you with one.
It’s free to fly with a baby on your lap.
As someone who flies frequently, I would argue that dogs who fly are usually more well-behaved than babies who fly. (No offense babies, but whenever I sit next to you, one of you seems to spit up on my jacket.)
Did you know I had to make a reservation for Jolie to fly with us? There is a policy that no more than six dogs can be on a single plane at one time.
I can only speak for myself, but I would much rather be on a plane with six dogs than a plane with six babies. (No offense, babies. You just always seem to cry when I’m trying to take a nap.)
Delta also had the nerve to ask how much Jolie weighs. At seven pounds, she’s well under the fifteen pound limit, but it seems kind of ludicrous. Perhaps it’s just me, but if a plane is dangerously overloaded, it’s most likely because of all of us overweight Americans, and not a chihuahua who is tiny enough to fit comfortably beneath a seat, right? (And no offense babies, but most of you are kind of chubby.)
Did you also know that if Jolie were to poop in her carrier while on the plane, I would be charged a fee? (No offense, babies — but we all know what you’re doing in seat 24D.)
Since the airlines seem desperate for money, they should think about charging parents when their baby takes a crap in the clouds. They’d make a king’s ransom. Plus, I bet all those incontinent babies would potty train a whole lot sooner.
Before going any further, I should clarify that I don’t have a problem with babies.
I would even say that I love babies. I just don’t want to fly with them. In fact, I would argue that babies on a plane might be almost as bad as snakes on a plane.
Alright, maybe I went a little too far with that last statement.
And if I’ve learned anything from a life of complaining about absurdities it’s this:
If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
Which is why I’ve strategically chosen this outfit for Jolie to wear on Sunday.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
I really don’t hate babies, I promise.