Flying out of JFK on 11 September was a sombre experience. As I checked out of my hotel the concierge dropped his daily niceties as a mark of respect, and instead gently urged me to ‘have a thoughtful day’. The handful of star-spangled banners that lined Madison Avenue flapped at half-mast and the skies opened as if in dark protest, chucking down apocalyptic rain and causing the traffic to crawl. As someone who suffers from an unfounded yet pathological fear of flying I decided there was only one way to step up to the plate and board my American Airlines flight to Los Angeles: vodka.
As soon as I’d gone through airport security I downed a shot of Pravda I’d slipped into my handbag. Pravda is patently an expensive brand of booze. It cost me $9.50 from the hotel mini-bar and the little glass bottle was not only frosted, but was also encrusted with a large, amethyst jewel which was surrounded by Swarovski crystals, giving it a slightly surreal, Alice in Wonderland-like quality. Unlike wise little Alice however, I didn’t dither about wondering if the contents might be poisonous. With my nerves screaming ‘Drink Me’, I just did as I was told.
By the time I settled down into my seat ready for take-off I was pleasingly numb. Glancing around the cabin at my fellow passengers, I then proceeded to have a minor but significant out-of-body experience. Sitting in the aisle opposite me was a 30-year-old woman petting a huge, scruffy, Benji-like dog. She meticulously set down a water bowl and put what Americans call an ‘incontinence-pad’ on the floor. As we were taken through the safety procedures prior to take-off, she stroked Benji obsessively. The poor dog shivered as the engines revved up and he abortively tried to cock his leg against her seat. I was totally mesmerised; all fears long forgotten.
As soon as the seat-belt sign went off I headed towards the lavatory, and while waiting, attempted to engage the woman in conversation.
‘How nice to have a travelling companion. I had no idea that one was allowed dogs in the cabin.’
‘Some are. This is not just any dog,’ she purred, speaking very, very slowly. ‘This is a special dog. He is here to offer me emotional support.’
‘Oh,’ I replied, aware that my post-breakfast vodka shot had suddenly kicked in with a vengeance. ‘So it’s not only guide-dogs that are allowed on planes?”
‘No. Predictor dogs are also permitted,’ she said, cleaning her dog’s mouth with a sanitised wet-wipe. I now began to feel as though I were hallucinating; life was definitely getting curiouser and curiouser by the minute.
‘You must excuse my total ignorance, but what are predictor dogs?’ I asked.
‘They are ultra-sensitive animals specifically trained to anticipate extreme medical conditions like epilepsy. They are the good guys.’
At this moment her dog let out a small yelp, and she rather aggressively clamped his mouth shut with her hand.
I made my way back to my seat, suddenly nervous that her canine Derren Brown might just have sniffed out my incredulous disbelief.