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“Those bags are 0.90 of a litre.”
I reckoned 0.90 of a litre was close enough for even the overly-anal TSA to accept. So I imagined my next challenge was to find three-ounce bottles I could wash and put scotch into. Until I opened the box. The 0.90 litre zip-top bags are that lovely blue colour. Clear but not entirely clear.
I’m pretty certain, as you see the bottom of the page rapidly approaching, you’re wondering whether I’m ever going to explain how this is Zippy the Dog’s fault. Well, it’s like this. I wasn’t going to fly to Arizona to see my parents. I was going to fire up Mello Yello, the ancient and marginally trustworthy Volkswagen camper, and drive to Arizona, late October and early November being months where triple-digit temperatures finally give way to nearly triple-digit temperatures in Arizona.
But earlier this year, my folks moved into one of those retirement villages where, as my father put it, you enter erect and eventually leave horizontal. The place doesn’t allow dogs to visit. Come to think of it, they severely limit the duration of children’s visits. And, just as an aside, they don’t let the residents wear shorts to the dining room, a rule that is quite possibly criminally negligent in a land where anything more than shorts can lead to heat stroke.
So Zippy would have to be kenneled for the duration of my visit. Zippy’s never been to a kennel. My Perfect Partner was visibly uncomfortable with the idea of imprisoning him in a kennel. She couldn’t find a dog spa whose air-conditioning was verifiably cold enough for a dog that happily sits in snowbanks all day long but hates getting hot.
So it’s Zippy’s fault I’m flying. Which is as close to being treated like a dog as I ever hope to get.