– Mahatma Gandhi
Ukraine, the Russian invasion and bombardment has killed thousands of pets, deprived them of their homes, or separated them from their families. In Russia as well, the impact of war, while less harrowing, has made innocent victims of pets and their owners.
Many people felt compelled to leave Russia after the country’s “special military operation” was launched. Some had time to prepare, while others left in a hurry, fearing persecution from the Powers That Be. Such departures were particularly hard on pet owners, since transporting animals adds a huge amount of paperwork and logistical complications to an already difficult process. And not every animal can survive an airplane trip, particularly in the baggage compartment. As a result, many owners decided to leave their pets behind when they fled Russia. But some decided they could not abandon their furry friends. As the patriotic catchphrase goes: Мы своих не бросаем – We don’t abandon our own. Here we share some of their stories.
Alla, Journalist for Mediazona
I have two huge mutts, Gera and Ushshi. Gera I got in 2014 after seeing a notice about a puppy that had been found in the forest. I had not planned on adopting a second dog, but in 2017, in the winter, I was walking home, and a skeleton covered in skin crossed my path. I said to her, “Oh, little doggy, how are you doing?” And she looked at me as if her life was over. I decided to stop at the pet store nearby and buy her some food. We crossed the road together, I bought her the food, dumped it out, then said “See you.” She simply sniffed the cans and followed me. She looked so bad, I understood that, even if she didn’t keep up with me, I would never stop thinking about her. On the way home, I texted some friends involved in animal rights and asked if they knew anywhere that could take her. We arrived at the grocery store near my home, and I stepped inside, deciding that, if she waited for me to come back out, I would take her home.
I came out and saw her pacing the street, looking into people’s faces. I burst out sobbing and called to her.
We placed classified ads in the newspaper where I was working at the time, but no one wanted to adopt a dog. At first, I thought I was just fostering her. but I soon came to realize that I could never give her up. We’ve been together ever since.
Even before the “special operation,” there were conversations about the need for me to leave Petrozavodsk. There had been threats. Yet back then I didn’t want to leave. But now there was no choice. I could have left the dogs with a relative, but that would have been dishonest. Even if we set aside the reality that we would have missed one another, it felt irresponsible. When people offered to help me, they didn’t really grasp what it means to have two large dogs. What’s more, I just can’t live without them. And they can’t live without me.
First, I considered Tbilisi, but I didn’t want to fly with the dogs: it’s not easy dragging around two large carriers. Plus, there would be lots of stress for everyone. So I decided to go to Vilnius. It’s closer, and its weather and landscape are similar to Karelia’s – it doesn’t get too hot.
I went by car from Petrozavodsk to Petersburg, where I got a visa for myself and Euro-certificates for the dogs. When I got the visa, I went to Narva. There I found an Estonian driver who drove me to the checkpoint – it was a small, deserted trailer.
To a casual observer, I must have looked crazy: a rucksack on my back, from which hung the dogs’ food bowls; with my left hand I dragged a 30-kilogram suitcase; with my right I led two bleeping huge dogs.
The Russian border guards looked at me without hiding their surprise. They asked me question after question. They didn’t care about the dogs, just the purpose of my trip. They copied all my documents, then waved me through and a green light lit up on the turnstile.
I walked out onto Friendship Bridge. It was dark, and there was no one there except me, my dogs, and my things.
On the Lithuanian side, I said that I was a journalist, that I worked for an independent publication, and that I was forced to leave the country. That I was leaving in order to continue my work. They let me in.
The border guard asked me to wait for about 40 minutes, because there was someone from Tallin who wanted to speak to me.
“Some kind of @*$# KGB stooge is coming,” I thought. But the border guard said, “Don’t get worked up. You have nothing to fear; you’re not in Russia anymore.” It turns out that a Spanish journalist had been looking for me, so I just left my contact information for them to pass on to him, and I went into the city.
We had to find some short-term housing. Everything was horribly expensive, but a budget option turned up in the Užupis neighborhood: a garage converted into an apartment. It looked perfectly suitable, and the main thing was that the photos showed a gas heater. The owner said that the heater was all set up and everything would be fine. It wasn’t. I woke up in the middle of the night because it was crazy cold. So that I wouldn’t freeze to death I had to wrap myself in dogs. Had it not been for them, I would have frozen. In the morning, we found out that the gas tank had gone empty. I spent one more day in the garage, then moved to a hotel. They said that they accepted dogs. When we entered, the woman at reception threw up her arms in surprise: “The notice said small dogs…” But the fellow standing next to her said, “They clearly grew en route.” They let us in.
Now I am renting an apartment alongside a forested park. Everything is almost like it was back home. We are all fine. Of course, the hedgehogs were completely unexpected. There are lots of them here, and neither I nor my dogs had ever seen one in the wild. The first hedgehog Gera met, he scooped up with his mouth, bringing him to me with a self-satisfied look, “So what do we do with him, eh???”
In the end, she spit it out, but the next day she fell ill, so we had to go to the vet. The bloodwork and four shots cost 100 euros. We avoid hedgehogs now.
Alyona, works in the beauty business
I left Russia with two dogs, one of which, Syusha, is very old.
She is fifteen and brachycephalic (meaning the shape of her skull is shorter than typical). These breeds have constant problems breathing, and so it is impossible to put them in the baggage hold. The changes in air pressure during takeoff and landing can suffocate them and they could die. Syusha has chronic bronchitis, and sometimes has trouble breathing: she can’t get air and wheezes. We use inhalers for people with asthma. But what would happen if she had an attack during a flight?
We concluded we could no longer stay in Russia but never questioned whether we would take the dogs with us. Of course we would!
Thankfully, Syusha was small enough to travel in the airplane cabin. My second dog, a poodle named Archie, went into the baggage compartment. I was very afraid to put him in there; anything could happen – the bag handlers could lose him, the carrier and the dog could be harmed in transit, or they could forget to turn on the heat and he could freeze to death. In short, I was super afraid.
I cried at Pulkovo Airport [in St. Petersburg] when handing him over at the oversized baggage counter. Maybe that’s why the passport control officers who let us through did not ask very many questions about where and why we were traveling, nor did they check our phones.
Aeroflot, they say, “murders” pets, and allegedly several are lost every year or are traumatized by being in baggage. I spent hours poring over information online and the conclusion was clear: when it comes to the death of animals on airplanes, Russian air companies have more written about them, in more languages, than any other. For that reason, we chose to fly on Turkish Airways, paying a lot of money for our tickets.
There are many requirements for taking pets in and out of the country. Thankfully, mine already had chips implanted in them, and both dogs also had international veterinary passports.
For taking them out of Russia you need to get a Type 1 or Type 5 certificate, depending on where you are flying. Then you have to exchange it for an international certificate, which, at the check-in desk, gives you the right to purchase a ticket for the animal and board the plane.
All of these documents require a visit to a state veterinary clinic or a state veterinary inspection point. They are good for just five days, so you don’t have much time between that veterinary visit and your arrival at your destination.
We spent five hours in line to receive the application for our Type 1 certificate.
Two weeks before our flight we had a check-up at the vet. They checked their hearts and analyzed their blood. For the flight, we gave the dogs a special sedative, so that they could handle this @#$*& more easily. We traveled more than 12 hours, almost five of which were in the air. We placed a blanket, toys, and my boyfriend’s shorts in Archie’s carrier. He loves to gnaw on them; it’s very important for dogs to have things nearby that smell like their owner.
An hour and a half before the flight, we took the dogs outside so they could pee on the scrap of grass near the entrance of Pulkovo.
They hadn’t been fed since early that morning. They should not be given food before a flight – they could vomit and suffocate. We also gave them very little water. We could see that they were afraid. So were we: never before had we worried about anyone the way we worried about them.
I affixed a sticker to the carrier with all our information, including my Instagram. It seemed unlikely that if he ended up in, say, Japan someone could call my Russian number. But everyone has Instagram, which would improve Archie’s chances if he ended up on the wrong side of nowhere.
When we boarded the plane, I comforted myself by thinking that nothing more depended on me, that I needed to be calm and wait to reunite in Istanbul. And, if we did not meet up, then I would have to turn the planet upside down to find my dog.
After we took off, Syushi began coughing, but it soon passed. She was uncomfortable in her carrier beneath the seat, but you are not allowed to take your dog out of its carrier. She tried to open the door, scratched at the container, looked at me, and breathed heavily. I calmed her as best I could, and all but laid down beside her. Then she fell asleep. We encountered some pretty serious turbulence, and I began to really worry how Archie was doing. The stewardesses calmed me down, saying that everything would be fine.
When we entered the terminal in Turkey we rushed to passport control. Istanbul Airport is huge, and we spent a long time looking for the oversized baggage counter. We split up. Vlad took Syushi to get the baggage, and I went looking for Archie. When I got to the first counter, I didn’t see Archie, just a huge pile of all sorts of baggage. My heart sunk.
I had already burst into tears by the time I found a worker who could direct me to the oversized baggage counter. It was at the complete other end of the airport.
I simply ran the whole way, and when I got there found a worker standing beside my carrier. Lord, I felt so relieved! The man checked that my ticket matched the tag on the carrier and only then opened the door for me. Archie promptly peed a big puddle in the middle of Istanbul Airport. The workers said “No problem!” even though I was more than ready to mop the floor.
Thank God, Turkish Airlines took such good care of Archie, that there was not even a scratch on his container.
We arrived at the hotel late that night. I bathed the dogs, we showered, had something to eat, and passed out. Three days later we successfully took another flight, this time to Tbilisi. Now everything is good. We did it.
Nastya, independent media journalist
After the 24th [of February] it became clear that anyone wanting to work in the way they consider to be right had to leave the country. But despite the fact that state propaganda had been calling us enemies of Russia on the West’s payroll, not all of us (on the editorial staff) were ready to leave. Some on our team did not even have foreign passports.
My media outlet was in the process of relocating, but I was at personal risk, so I flew out before the general relocation. I literally just looked to see where there were tickets available to at that moment (Bishkek), and I bought them.
We have a dog and two cats. They were vaccinated but didn’t have everything they needed for departure. Major thanks to our vet, who made a house call and assembled all the required documents.
Given such a quick departure, we could not take all our animals. We had neither the money nor the opportunity: the rules are that each pet must have one adult accompanying it. I flew out with two children. Plus, we did not know our final destination.
And so I was confronted with a very difficult ethical problem. I always knew that it was impossible to choose one loved one over another. Like in the book Sophie’s Choice, where a Nazi officer tells a mother that she must choose which of her children will be killed. She chooses, then goes insane. Because it is a devil’s bargain that no one should have to make.
But we chose to bring along our cat Blinchik, because he and my eldest daughter Ulyana have a special relationship. We rescued the cat from the streets. It was clear he had been beaten, because he was very untrusting and independent. But he and Ulyana developed a very tender relationship; they could not be apart.
We put a harness on Blinchik, shoved him into a carrier, and headed to the airport. There it was explained that children had to have a Covid test, and that Blinchik’s passage would cost more than we had anticipated (the price rose while we were en route). We realized we could miss our plane and that I might be arrested. It was extremely nerve-wracking.
At the airport, the woman whose job it was to handle animal documentation was very helpful: she did her work very skillfully. The manager at the Pobeda Airlines counter was also very helpful, saying “Don’t worry, we will sort it all out,” and printed our boarding passes before we had finished with the cat’s paperwork or the Coronavirus tests. We ran to the gate and made it onto our flight.
I remember how at veterinary control the fellow asked, “What happened? Why are you flying with your cat?” and we answered, “We’re visiting friends in Bishkek. With our cat. That’s just how it worked out.”
The flight lasted four hours. Nothing in Blinchik’s life prepared him for this, and the same could be said of us. His breathing was labored the entire way, and I was constantly checking to see if he was still alive. The cat broke free when he went through the x-ray scanner, and then later on the plane. The rest of the trip came off without incident. The entire hellish flight, Blinchik behaved well, didn’t pee on us, didn’t crap, didn’t barf.
There were just three hotels in Bishkek that allowed animals. We got a room in one of them.
The kids hugged Blinchik and that calmed them down. The cat had a very therapeutic effect upon them. But I was beating myself up because I hadn’t taken the second cat and the dog. It felt like a betrayal.
Out of safety concerns, we could not stay long in Bishkek, and so the next stop was Istanbul. And this opened a doorway to hell, because the veterinary rules were different in Turkey and Kyrgyzstan. We were not able to get all the cat-related paperwork done in time. And so I was faced with a choice: stay and place ourselves in danger or leave the cat behind. And for my eldest daughter, the cat was her heart.
A few years ago I gave a lecture in Kyrgyzstan and met an amazing student named Begaim. We had not communicated since that time, yet here I was writing her at one a.m.: “Begaim, do you remember me?”
“Of course I remember. How can I be of service?”
I explained that we needed to give her our cat. Begaim lives in a rented apartment where cats are not allowed, yet she said “Of course, bring the cat over.” And then I explained to my daughter Ulyana at length that we could not bring the cat with us. She sat hugging the cat and sobbing. Afterwards, I kept wondering how could we have done that? How could we have left him behind? I knew I had done a bad thing.
Soon, my husband, who had stayed behind in Moscow, borrowed money and flew to Bishkek for the cat.
Blinchik is now back in Moscow with all the other animals. Soon they will travel to be with us and stay with us for good.
This entire story is about a life ruined. All your life you live and make decisions, not thinking that something like this could happen. And then, in your forties, you find yourself in a foreign country, phoning up apartment owners who say “No animals.” It is very humiliating and difficult to ask, to beseech, to offer to double the deposit, even though you can’t afford to. Moreover, I only told the apartment owner about our two cats and the children. I was too afraid to say anything about the dog.
After this ordeal, in which I was forced to first choose one cat, then leave it behind (which was the biggest blow of all), there was no way we were leaving the animals behind ever again. We will not abandon them. Yes, we will spend a long time struggling to rent an apartment. Yes, the long car trip will obviously be difficult. But I will never again abandon one of my own.
In Belgrade I got a picture of Blinchik that my eldest daughter drew tattooed on my leg. So that home would be with me wherever I went. And as a reminder that you should not leave your kin behind.
Alina, broker
I am from St. Petersburg. Two years ago I was working in a coffee shop and a charming cat came up to us. I took him home with me and named him Kostya.
It was all good, then what happened, happened. My husband and I moved to Georgia, and our cat temporarily stayed with my friend. We decided to get settled in, then come back for him. We didn’t want him to fly with any stopovers, which is very traumatic for animals.
After we found an apartment and moved in, we used an animal delivery service.
A courier drove the cat from Petersburg to Krasnodar Krai. There he was handed off to another courier who brought him to Tbilisi. From there, someone was supposed to transfer him to Kobuleti [a town on the coast of Georgia, north of Batumi]. On the day that the cat was supposed to arrive, a strange man with an accent called and said, “Your cat has run off. Can we buy you a new cat?”
Tears, nose-blowing, attempts to find out where exactly our “cat ran off.” They said in the village of Dighomi (a section of Tbilisi). I raised the alarm throughout Georgian Facebook. Russian animal rights workers went there to look for him. They were treated to plenty of the recently popular expression, “Russian warship, go #&*$# yourself.”* The next day we took a train to Tbilisi. We kept harassing the couriers: “Look for the cat wherever you like!”
When we arrived, they told us that someone they knew had seen a cat at the bus station. We wrote a new post on Facebook. We walked the streets, showing everyone a photo of Kostya. There were more animal-rights activists in Tbilisi, and they also went looking. Someone noticed a cat that looked like Kostya under a car. We drove there and suddenly got a call: “Your cat is on its way to Armavir.” They explained that they had found our Kostya in Tbilisi and drove him back to Krasnodar Krai, to the people who had lost him. Whether that was truth or not, the next day they nevertheless brought Kostya to us. And the couriers even wanted a reward for finding him!
Only the cat knows what really happened. And he’s not talking.
The fact that he was found so quickly is a miracle. No more couriers! If we fly somewhere, the cat is flying with us.
Maria, contextual advertising professional
I am from Piter. I have a pug named Sofa, who is seven years old. Together, she and I left for Batumi, for moral and ethical reasons. We left, shall we say, for the free world.
I didn’t explore the option of leaving my dog behind. I decided that I would take Sofa, no matter what it cost me.
Some airlines won’t take brachycephalic dogs in the baggage hold, only in the cabin. And Sofa weighs nine kilos, even without her carrier. She can only go via baggage. But it is so scary, how many accidents there are!
On the internet they scare you with figures, that the odds of survival are 50:50, that it is extremely dangerous. But my mom volunteers for a foundation devoted to pugs, and they fly them by plane. She reassured me that everything would be fine. Armenian Airlines agreed to take a pug in its baggage hold.
Two weeks before my departure I had a nightmare: I was standing at the baggage carousel, my carriage came out, and a dead dog was lying in it. I got up in the night, cried, hugged my dog, and told her that everything would be fine.
On the day of our departure, Mama drove us to Moscow. Sofa and I spent the night in a hostel and then boarded the plane.
And then, for real, there I was standing at the baggage carousel, waiting for my dog. Luggage came out, but no carrier. My hands began to shake: my dog did not make it here! But then, finally, she came out, and I saw Sofa standing up and looking out at me.
In general, the entire move was terrible. I flew alone, and in addition to the dog had lots of things. I brought my computer – the CPU and monitor. Imagine: my dog in a huge carrier without wheels, a 31-kilogram suitcase, and a computer monitor in its box. I asked everyone in the world to help me.
Then I took a shuttle to Batumi, overnighted in a hostel, then lived for a time with friends, until I could find an apartment. But the flight did not come without a cost. Sofa began to have health problems. For the first three nights, she coughed like a full-grown man. I was sure they would kick us out of the hostel. Half the night I tossed and turned from guilt and shame. It was the same at my friends’ place. Gradually, Sofa’s breathing calmed down, but then the cystitis started. Slowly, everything began to stabilize. I found a studio apartment not far from the sea. We take lots of walks, and everything is good.
Alexei, tutor
We are a family from a town outside Moscow. We left Russia because we don’t agree with the country’s foreign policy, because we didn’t want to be accomplices to this crime, to indirectly support it with our taxes.
It so happens that we have six cats. One was rescued from the streets, another inherited from its former owners, another hung about and begged for food at work, and still another found us on its own. By now we see them as full-fledged members of our family.
The question of emigration arose immediately after the first shock of February 24. We had no idea how to transport animals to another country. But we decided that we would only leave with them – cats’ lives depend entirely on us; they have put their lives in our hands.
We started to gradually study all the information, to prepare the necessary documents, to get the cats their shots and ID chips. We chose an airline that was more committed to the safe transport of animals and spent a long time looking for housing in a new country (and with a zoo like ours, that’s no easy task!). Gradually, step-by-step, we completed our research and made our preparations. It took us about two months, mainly due to the vaccinations, which had to be spaced out.
We were, of course, very worried that something might happen with our cats on the plane. How would they handle the flight? Would one slip away by accident? Might some nasty airline representative give us a hard time? And would they even let us on the plane? Yet, in the end, everything went smoothly, almost everything.
At the animal inspection before boarding, one of the cats broke away. We chased after it, crying “Stop the cat!” and jumping over barriers, running through areas whether we had access or not. I don’t know why they didn’t arrest us.
Just when we were about to give up hope and I had all but decided that we would not be flying anywhere, that we needed – at all costs – to find our little deserter, a young woman approached me and asked, “Are you looking for a cat? She’s hiding there.” And she pointed at a little hutch used by airline staff. To this day, I have no idea how I nabbed her after she again made a run for it – whether I caught her mid-air or simply managed to grab her quickly enough. We stuffed her back into her carrier and, though I was scratched up and bitten, we all boarded the flight together.
The flight went very well, and just a few hours later both we and our cats were in our new home in a new country. I am only sorry the young woman disappeared so quickly that I didn’t have a chance to thank her. In case she is reading this, she should know that she is our heaven-sent angel.
For those planning a flight, I recommend a harness with a leash, so you can safely remove your animal from the carrier (you will have to do this twice). Also, consult with a veterinarian and choose a sedative (not all of them are safe), take along a syringe (without a needle) so you can give the cat water in flight. If you do everything thoughtfully and calmly, and you will succeed!
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