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How to Fly a Cat Back and Forth to China
by Vanessa Sterling
Tucker came into my life in March 1995. At the time I was in Beijing studying Chinese and beginning to investigate archives for my dissertation. A self-labeled "crazy cat person," I had spent two months walking through markets looking at free tabby kittens, expensive pure-bred Chinese Persians (bosi mao), and all sorts of animals that I still haven't identified. It started as a bet to myself—could I actually adopt a cat in China, make sure it was healthy, and get it on a plane and through Customs on both ends?
After a flurry of faxes to the US Embassy and my sister in Chicago—my intended port of entry—I discovered that the process was not only possible, but should be easy. So one Sunday afternoon, I took a minibus to the now-defunct Xizhimen Bird and Fish Market, hopped out, and in three minutes I was in love. There was the future Tucker: a tiny, slightly grubby, six-week-old white kitten with bright blue eyes and a pink nose, cowering in the back of a cage. When I asked what kind of cat it was, the seller assured me that it was a female, pure-bred bosi mao—very healthy and ready to go home. Looking at the cat I knew maybe 35 percent of this was true, but I paid ¥100 ($12) anyway and walked away.
Tucker and I lived happily on the west side of Beijing until late May of that year. His veterinarian was convinced Tucker came to me malnourished, so she told me to feed him as much as possible. She also confirmed my suspicion that he was stone deaf. Oblivious to his disability, he grew like a weed.
I was then confronted with the task of getting him home. I began with airline logistics—coordinating a reservation for him and getting the airline to ship over a US-approved carrier for the cargo hold. They assured me that all would work well unless it was over 85 degrees in Tokyo (in June), where we were scheduled for a four-hour layover. I then investigated arrangements with PRC Customs—which was even easier, once I found the quarantine office hidden among construction sites by the Asian Games Village. Indeed, all I had to do was pay ¥700 ($85), consent to Tucker receiving a rabies shot, and wait for the documents to be typed. (Bear in mind that these documents are only valid for 14 days, a restriction that airport Customs officials strictly enforce.)
Getting through US Customs was even easier. In 1995, all animals had to ride in the hold for international flights, so I claimed him in O'Hare Customs and brought him to the US Department of Agriculture representative. This thoroughly unenthusiastic man looked into the cage for two seconds, stamped my paperwork, and sent us on. We were in the clear.
Since the US trip was so easy, I did not question Tucker's fate when I returned to Beijing in 1997 for field work. He was coming. Starting with the airlines, I realized that rules had changed in our favor. Tucker could now ride in the cabin with me. All I needed was a health certificate from Tucker's vet.
The first problem arose when the vet did not put his name stamp on the certificate, leaving a large blank white area on the form. Knowing that any Chinese would realize the mistake, without even being able to read English, I solved this by using my father's secretary's incoming mail stamp. No worries.
The second problem occurred when Tucker had an adverse reaction to the tranquilizer our vet had given me. Instead of becoming relaxed, Tucker became paranoid and bit my hand with full force when the security guard "helped" me get Tucker back into his carrier after going through security. Bleeding and flustered, I said goodbye to my parents and got on the connecting flight to Detroit. Shortly into our trans-Pacific flight Tucker gave in to the drugs and fell fast asleep.
The third problem happened when my hand ballooned during the flight in reaction to being seriously chomped by an angry 16-pound cat. It throbbed and turned purple, thus assuring me that my first task the next day would be to visit the Beijing International Medical Center for an antibiotic. Finally we landed, and I cashed enough traveler's checks to pay the ¥1,000 ($121) Customs fee for the cat. The inspector looked into the cage, said "Yep, it's a cat," took my money and Tucker's health certificate (the fake "stamp" was accepted), wrote down my address, and assured me that Customs would make a home visit within a month or so.
Customs never came. After my arrival in mid-September their office called me once in late November to set up a home visit. Since they wanted to visit on Thanksgiving Day—and I had dinner plans—I explained that I was busy. They never called again, and Tucker was thus successfully "repatriated."
Our return to the United States in August 1999 was even easier. We went to the same office to get his papers, got on the plane, and when we landed in Detroit the Agriculture representative was on a break—so no inspection at all.
Tucker is none the worse for wear and still plugs along. He's nine now, going blind in addition to his deafness, and approaching 19 pounds. He still loves baozi (steamed, stuffed buns) and still reminds me of Beijing everyday. He is the best souvenir I could have.
Vanessa Sterling is completing a doctorate in Chinese History at the University of Pittsburgh.
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