Air New Zealand has recently suffered a flying dog incident which went unreported in the press. I'm afraid the knock on effects for an air traveller such as Minty have been grave. I shall explain to the best of my ability:
The Duchess owns a travel cage in which Minty accompanies her when jet setting round the country. (That is, when visiting grandchildren. Duchesses do this, too). When the Duchess booked Minty on a recent flight, she was informed the dog's cage no longer met security standards.
''But this cage is foolproof - even for a rogue like Minty,'' the Duchess told the airline. (Minty is a qualified escapologist).
''There's been a dog security scare. A pup in a hold escaped his cage mid flight,'' they said. Details weren't revealed as this would be against the Air Terrorism Secrecy Regulations (Clause 18 Section 3 - Flying Dogs).
But it was clear the escaped dog had slobbered over the Louis Vuitton bags, puddled the floor, and wrestled out panties poking from side pockets.
Minty's flying fortress was no longer adequate. It needed upgrading with carefully specified widgets, and locks. Consultants were employed, tenders sought, and eventually the new improved cage was certified.
I'm afraid age has wearied Minty and the years condemned. But for all that, being a Jack Russell, she remains a barker. Not a stupid one who howls through the night, but a vigilante who barks whenever she thinks it's necessary.
Minty barks when she catches the garbage man stealing our stuff, or the cheeky postman sneaking us bills. She thwarts old men on mobility scooters, intent on ram raiding the premises. Ever watchful, she is especially good at catching other dogs in the act of being other dogs.
All this is understandable. Our forefathers took in their first pet dogs because they cleaned up the cave's scraps - and barked when the enemy snuck up. A dog psychiatrist may explain that when Minty barks, she is discovering her inner wolf.
I gather flying in the hold is no worse than being made to sit in the laundry, but it is not to Minty's taste, so she barks. Loudly, expressively and constantly.
The precise pitch of a Jack Russell's bark is such that it penetrates to a jet's passenger cabin, albeit faintly. This is awkward, and the Duchess has learned to sit schtum when the person next to her presses the hostess bell, and whispers:''I hate to mention this - but I'm certain we're being chased by a dog. It's been on our tail since Timaru.''
On their return I was waiting at the baggage carousel, lost in thought, which is unfamiliar territory. I was aroused by Minty barking at the workers out the back.
She'd spotted them stealing everyone's suitcases. A few minutes later, still outraged, she was dumped through the oversize baggage exit.
''Jeez, could we shut her up?'' I asked the Duchess, who'd got her bag.
''Easy - let her out of her cage and she'll be fine.''
But the security people had Minty's cage so bound and trussed, it looked like the Michelin man squeezed into a straitjacket. The Duchess went searching for a rescuer with scissors or a buzz saw, while I tried to quieten Minty.
''Good girl, it's me. Shoosh.''
Minty barked. I poked my fingers through the cage door and wriggled them.
''Sniff them, Minty. It's good old me.''
She barked louder. I scrabbled at the yards of sticky tape, trying to wrench them off. People began to assemble, staring, and making comments. The dog barked on. And finally I broke.
''WILL YOU SHUT THE **** UP,'' I shrieked.
A hush fell on a terminal of appalled people, as they stared at the awful man and the poor wee pup. I curse the airline and its new cage laws.
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
