Hello, I’m Prince Hubert von Fluffles-McDowell, actress Andie McDowell’s Japanese Chin (dog). I’m here to tell the true story behind what happened this weekend when Andie and I were forced to move from our seats in first-class because apparently, animals are not allowed in first class. Well, let me tell you, coach is FULL of animals and I WASN’T one of them.

I mean, Look at me:


I’m a prince among dogs and must be treated as such. Image via AKC.org.


Tell me, do I belong in steerage like all those sad Irish people from Titanic? No. I’m the Billy Zane of dogs and I demand to be treated as such. My bare paws have never touched actual dirt and yet I belong in coach? Or, as Andie called it, ‘tourist’ class? I think not.

The horrors of tourist class began with the offerings at the complimentary snack buffet: NONE. No crudite, no tapenade, not even mint seltzer!? Instead, Andie and I were offered Pepsi and oyster crackers. What am I, an audience member at Dr. Phil? Pass. Instead, I politely waited as the sky servant poured me some bottled (THANK GOD) water.

After she poured my water, she asked what ‘meal’ I preferred: Chicken or beef? I barked at her,“Uh, vegan kosher, you idiot.” She laughed in my face and said to Andie “Imagine if he said chicken. I’ll see if I can find some lil scraps for him.” So not only was I reduced to eating ‘scraps’ but those tourist-class servants aren’t trained to interpret the barks of wealthy dogs? Shame on you, American Airlines.

It only got worse from there. Let me tell you, It smells AWFUL in tourist class. Really, are you people not being bathed in distilled water and rubbed in rose oil 3 times a week? Before I board a plane, I have my team groom me, hydrate my doggy skin nose to tail, place me in my Birkin and give me an enema before I board. These beasts are just using a tiny shit-closet mere feet from where their ‘lunches’ are prepared.

airplane food

You call THIS food and then call ME an animal? Hypocrisy, thy name is the airline industry. Image via Thrillist.com.


Speaking of the beasts themselves: if tourist class represents the majority of America, we are doomed. I saw a grown woman openly weeping over a copy of Eat, Pray, Love. A young boy filled page after page of looseleaf paper with inaccurate drawings of female breasts. I watched a small child squeeze yogurt from a pouch into it’s mouth. What kind of creature feeds it’s young in this way? Ah, but yes, the dog who can accurately distinguish between a Syrah and Malbec is the ‘animal’.

I cannot believe that I, a pup with genes so refined they should hang in the Met, was subjected to this menagerie of horrors. I’m from Greenwich. I’ve never even seen a ‘pizza bagel’, god help us all. A snapshot of my poo is the standard for the perfect soft serve spiral. I can bark Handel’s Messiah perfectly on pitch but I am more of an animal than a man who asks for seconds on his shrink wrapped chocolate mousse? I think not.

Now will someone gently dangle my small body above a rhododendron shrub? I have to tinkie-dinkie-doo.

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