TABBY TROUBLE

My husband and I were looking forward to starting a new life on the other side of the country. But first we had to get our plus-sized cat on the plane.

- Linda Barnard

I’M AN OCCASIONAL catastrophizer. Facing my first cross-Canada flight with my plus-sized feline, Lance, brought the “cat” part of my condition to the fore.

Planning for the trip involved slightly less preparation than a Sahara trek. My mind pin-balled around all the things I couldn’t control, such as the possibility that a 10-year-old, 10.5-kilogram tabby (down from nearly 12 kilograms; don’t judge) would produce a great, noxious poop at 30,000 feet.

Perhaps it would be somewhere over Winnipeg. A planeload of passengers would hate me.

What if Lance launched into his signature premeal wailing or those convulsive, strangled sounds that often serve as the opening act for a dramatic hairball delivery?

The flight was the final step in the decision my partner, Hans, and I made to move from Toronto to Victoria. All the stressful unknowns around this life change, including selling the house, hiring cross-country movers, shipping the car west by train, saying goodbye to friends and the city that had been our home for more than 35 years—all of that was a cakewalk compared to the anxiety I felt about getting a skittish cat onto a plane and keeping him calm during the process. Keeping me calm while trying to do that would be a bonus.

Neither of us would be sedated. The same vet who explained that Lance’s girth stems from being “food motivated” warned us that a zonked-out cat can suffer even more when he’s terrified and immobile.

So we bought a bottle of pheromone spray designed to calm cat nerves. I dosed Lance’s carrier repeatedly and considered spraying it on myself.