Littles doesn’t like to travel.

Or so says Ashley, who is prone to ever-so-slight exaggeration. According to her, Littles – her cat – defecates (shits) every time she takes him in a car.

And so I heard myself say to her, in a moment of maternal selflessness, “I’ll fly out with Littles after you move to Nashville. It’ll be too stressful for him – and for you – to drive cross-country with him in a car for three days.”

And later I asked myself, “Why exactly did I volunteer for that?”

But Ashley enthusiastically accepted my offer. I had several weeks to anticipate and plan for this event.

Admittedly, Littles had a rocky start in life. He had been a Craigslist kitten destined to be a birthday present for Ashley’s mother. But Littles’ ride to Orange County was aborted by a leaking heater coil in Ashley’s 1989 Volvo. My husband had to rescue Ashley and the cat from the shoulder of the Hollywood Freeway during a Friday rush hour. After that, when Ashley’s mom advised her, “No, I don’t want a cat,” Littles belonged to our household.

His second auto trauma was a ride to North Hollywood – atop the Volvo’s engine compartment where he had been sleeping – to be discovered only after Ashley arrived at her destination and popped the hood to figure out the source of a dreadful howling noise.

After a start like that, I could understand why he’d be averse to travel. But I sure didn’t want to fly for 3 hours, 40 minutes with a whiny cat covered in his own feces. And I’m pretty sure that 150 other Delta passengers would share my aversion.

The first step was a consultation with my veterinarian. Dr. Silverberg had successfully kept my old cat, Rocky, alive for about 18 months longer than I expected – so I trusted his advice. “Give Littles one Xanax a few hours before flight, disguised in a smear of cream cheese. But do a test beforehand – to see how long it takes to kick in, how he reacts and how long it lasts.”

Actually, that drive to and from the vet’s office was a test. Contrary to Ashley’s previous experiences, Littles did not poop once. Not even a nugget. He did cry like a baby in the car which I found tolerable for the fifteen minute duration.

On the day of our trial run, the cream cheese trick proved successful. I was encouraged. But it took longer for the Xanax to take effect on a 9-pound cat than expected. It didn’t knock him out, but only made him loopy. He lost strength in his hind legs and wobbled on his front legs like a drunken sailor.

On a 15-minute test drive, his crying was more feeble than when we drove him to the vet. Eventually his whining stopping altogether to the point I worried that maybe I’d killed him. That is a legitimate concern of mine, since I killed off Ashley’s pet chinchilla, Lima Bean, just a couple of weeks after she moved in with us after graduating from high school.

NOTE: I didn’t kill Lima Bean intentionally, but nonetheless, the little varmint expired while in my care.

Okay, okay – so you want to know the Lima Bean story? It was a Saturday morning, and Ashley’s $250 silver gray chinchilla had mostly been confined to the large cage in our mud room for the two weeks she’d lived with us. I’d seen Ashley put Lima Bean into one of those hamster balls and let her run around the kitchen. So on a sunny Saturday afternoon, I decided the caged little rodent needed some exercise. I put him in his hamster ball and set about doing my weekend gardening and other chores.

Ten minutes later she was dead. She’d jumped the threshold of the French doors, rolled across the brick patio into the garden and got stuck in the dirt. It never occurred to me that she could get that ball rolling fast enough to jump the threshold, and I certainly didn’t know that direct sun could kill her.

I was coming back into the house when I spotted the ball in the dirt with the lifeless little rodent inside. I rushed her indoors, took her out of the ball and started blowing into her face, shouting, “Wake up, Lima Bean, wake up!”

At this same moment, Ashley walked into the room. Hysteria ensued. Tears. Wailing. Inconsolable sobbing.

With only two weeks’ practice, I was already a wicked stepmother. I killed her pet. I felt terrible. We planned the funeral. I found an appropriately-sized shoebox and lined it with a piece of shiny fabric. Scott dug a hole in the rose garden and gave a heartfelt eulogy as Ashley grieved over the loss of her pet.

It wasn’t five minutes after the ceremony that she approached her Dad with an impish grin, “Okay, now can I get a kitten?”

And so, over the course of the next few years, we adopted a few cats (Franklin, Petey, Poe, Littles and Brutus) and lost a few cats (Franklin, Poe and my beloved 18-year-old Rocky). Ours was a happy household with three black cats – since black cats are the last to be adopted from the shelters.

Littles was an odd cat. He was most definitely Ashley’s baby, despite her being mostly allergic to him. But in the past year, I’d grown fonder of him. We had a special morning routine when he’d come into my closet, daring me to pull his tail, whereupon he would whine, run out of the closet and then come back for another round. And if I didn’t comply, he’d chew on one of my shoes. He liked to hump a ratty gray t-shirt of Ashley’s which he would drag all around the house. His favorite toy was a round rubber gasket. He loved to lie on the stairs and get a view of neighbors walking their dogs on our street. He always looked startled – with big, wide eyes – and a stubby black tail that never stopped thumping.

Last Friday was D (departure) day. We awoke at 6am and gave Littles his cream-cheese treat. His last breakfast was Friskies Shreds (Ocean Whitefish with Tuna, as I recall) mixed with a handful of Meow Mix for crunch. I encouraged him to use his litter box, without success. At 7:15, it took two of us to stuff him into his soft-sided cat carrier. I tucked a disposable diaper in there with him – just in case. Scott drove me to LAX, accompanied by Littles’ pitiful cries all the way there. Whenever I unzipped the top a couple of inches to reach in to soothe him, he’d try to wrestle his way out of there.

I deliberated popping a couple of those Xanax myself. This was going to be a very long day.

Scott dropped me curbside at Terminal 6, kissed me and the cat goodbye and wished me luck. But as soon as I got out of the car, Littles quieted down. I waited for about 20 minutes to pay the $125 pet fee at the Delta Special Services counter. Still, there was no struggle, no whining – to the degree that I double-checked to make sure Littles hadn’t escaped. The agent counseled me, “You must keep the cat in the carrier.”

“Of course.”

At the TSA checkpoint I had to take him out of the carrier. He was like a sack of rice – docile and quiet. Didn’t even object to getting put back inside his carrier on the other side. I started to be hopeful. I understood the relief that a parent of a toddler must feel when the kid finally settles down.

They called group 2, and I boarded the plane and took my window seat: 30F. I jammed the cat carrier under the seat in front of me and straddled it with my feet on either side. I could feel him adjust his position from time to time, but he didn’t make a peep, even during the noisy, bumpy takeoff. Occasionally, I’d reach inside to pet him and he didn’t make the slightest effort to escape. He was content.

Me, too!

About midway into the flight, I dozed off for 30, maybe 45, minutes. I’m not really sure. When I woke up, I heard my seatmates chatting away. The woman on the aisle turned around to look back toward the back of the plane. She turned back to her friend and said something funny enough to make her giggle. I heard only one word of her conversation: “Cat.”

“Excuse me,” I interjected. “Can you repeat what you just said?”

“There’s a cat wandering around back there,” she explained.

“Is it black?”

“Yes.”

No – that can’t be possible, I thought to myself. He was docile, submissive, content. How could he have escaped? I would have felt a commotion at my feet. I would have heard his little bell.

I reached down and groped around the carrier. Nothing but a diaper. Thankfully, still dry.

Maybe he needed to use the lavatory?

I don’t know how long Littles was loose on that flight – but as I exited the plane with the carrier and my little black Houdini, many passengers pointed and exclaimed, “Oh, there’s that cat!”

Or maybe he was just looking for first class!