The Flight of the HouseCats.

Anyone who tells you that traveling with pets is easy should be shot on sight.

When I began planning my Aliyah, nothing made me so nervous as the thought of bringing my 3 cats on the plane with me. The 5 minute drive to the vet was always a constant three-part harmony (with Avi singing a resonant bass), so I could only imagine what a twelve-hour flight might be like. Of course, there was the two-day drive from Charleston to Newark, one night in a motel somewhere north of Richmond, getting them through security at the airport, waiting for 3 hours at the Newark El Al terminal, fitting them on the plane, dealing with 3 cats experiencing their first-ever plane take-off, re-medicating them throughout the flight, keeping them calm while I filled out various forms and received information at Ben-Gurion airport, and a partridge in a fucking pear tree.

My Mom, amazing, understanding, cat-loving Mom, felt the same way I did, but nonetheless took on the challenge of helping me get the cats overseas and setting up my house a bit. It would have not been possible to bring all three on board without her. I am forever grateful.

I didn't even have time to feel anxiety about my own overseas move--I was too worried about theirs.

First, of course, there was the fact that I have 3--not 2--cats. If I only had 2 cats, they would not require a license to bring them to Israel. But I have little Avi, in all his little Avi-ness, and so I had to contact the Department of Veterinary Services in Israel (a division of the Ministry of Agriculture. I always associated the word 'ministry' with Pink Floyd's The Wall for some reason), and get from them the necessary forms to fill out, and to have my veterinarian fill out and get stamped by the USDA Vet in Columbia, and still have it all in my hot little hands NO MORE THAN SEVEN DAYS prior to my arrival in the country.

Oy vey, as they say.

Having received all necessary information, I received a Permit to Import 3 Domestic Cats from the USA to Israel. The permit will be scanned in as soon as my scanner arrives from America, as it is hysterically funny. Definitely worth the read.

Avi, as it turns out, is a great little traveler. Everything is pretty chill in Avi World. He was in a carrier with Rita (El Al allows carriers weighing no more than 8 kilos, and Chubstein--Isabelle--combined with either Rita or Avi would have been over the limit, so she got a carrier of her own). Rita was not pleased with the situation, but I slipped her the magical acepromazine, and she cuddled up with her baby brother almost as though she didn't spend the bulk of every normal day planning his death. Isabelle, who has always been a foaming-at-the-mouth, screaming-and-whining, chewing-through-the-bars-of-the-cage kind of traveler, needed twice the medication that her sister and brother did. I found, luckily enough, that grinding up the pills and sprinkling them like parmesan cheese over beef baby food fooled her every time.

The car ride from Charleston, including an overnight at a motel, was not pleasant, and I was a nervous wreck. Isabelle started screaming the minute I turned on the Jeep, and didn't stop until she was unconscious from medication. Unfortunately, I was not able to partake of the tranquilizers, as I was operating a motor vehicle--the motor vehicle of my dreams, my dear sweet love, O Midnight Blue Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo (a tear wells up in my left eye. But I digress.

I had them calm enough, again thank you to the makers of acepromazine, animal tranquilizer, in the airport. A "passenger", who was clearly a member of Mossad, or whatever the Israeli equivalent of Air Marshals is, feigned interest in the cats and came over to check them out. Proud Mommy that I am, I was happy to show my sedated angels to her. As I was not smuggling military secrets or little baggies of plutonium underneath Isabelle's belly, I wasn't concerned. We boarded the plane without incident, aside from the cooing of the flight attendants at the splendorous beauty of my cats. Every few steps it was: "Oh, can I see? So beautiful! What kind of cats are they?" I wanted to say: "The kind that hate questions", but I don't want to fuck around when the Mossad is flying in the cabin with me.

At takeoff, it was Armageddon.

Isabelle totally lost her shit. I knew she would. As soon as the engines turned on and she could feel the vibration of the floor beneath her and hear the noise all around her, no amount of acepromazine or valium or whatever they use on charging elephants, nothing was going to stop the Tasmanian Devil-like spin of Isabelle Marigold Gannon. As the engines got louder and louder, Isabelle did as well, so I unzipped the top of the carrier enough to put my hand inside. The familiar smell of her Mom usually soothes her.

She drew blood, and lots of it, from my right hand, but I kept it there until we leveled off a bit and she could relax some.

Then I took my valium. But I couldn't sleep, because no amount of valium was going to stop me from needing to check my cats' vitals throughout the flight. I would wake them, look at their eyes, force water down their throats for hydration, make sure they weren't looking anything more than a little doped-up, and pet them for a few minutes each.

And we made it. No sleep, one lousy meal, one scuffle between Avi and Rita, and a few Isabelle tantrums, but we made it.

Then those lovely folks at the Ministry of Absorption (do you see marching hammers?) took my picture for my Israeli ID card.

No warning. Thanks, folks. Welcome to Israel. I look like shit.