There could be little doubt about the direction to be taken for the future career of Anya T. after that fateful day in the wonderful Creative Expressions class taught by the Legendary Mr. Christopherson.

The class had barely settled into its usual anticipatory torpor, each and every student eagerly awaiting whatever new and intriguing concept their combined intellectual potential would happen to stumble onto, hardly able to contain their enthusiasm as they wondered which of them would bring forth that day's pearl of wisdom ("pearls cast before swine," as the Legendary Mr. Christopherson used to put it in his amusing, unfathomable way), when young Anya burst forth with the question that kept the group occupied for the better part of the next ten whole minutes.

"Why is it that cats and dogs and so many other things can't fly?"

Unable to accept the admittedly difficult to grasp explanation involving lack of wings offered by the Legendary Mr. Christopherson, to whom the class always turned in the event of a stalemate between two varying points of view (Anya insisting that it was unreasonable for cats and dogs to be earthbound, whilst the other side, consisting of the entire rest of the class, with the exception of those creatively occupied dreaming day dreamers, felt that flying would give cats an unfair advantage at catch­ing birds and would be an undesirable capability, at least where cats were concerned), the young Anya made the decision to devote her life to setting things right.

Putting her seldom used artistic ability to work, she sketched out a fascinating kite‑like device that could be strapped to your typical dog or cat, allowing it to glide gracefully through the air. She demonstrated this marvelous machine to the class, bringing exclamations of excitement from all. For the first public test, she used a neighbor's greyhound named Pinscher (she had actually wanted a Doberman pinscher but was unable to find one that would tolerate her), guessing that, with its long legs, it would start out higher above the ground and thus have an advan­tage in becoming airborne over her own squat little dachshund, Gretchen. What a sight! The great dog began galloping along the hallway outside the classroom, wings fully extended, and rose smoothly into the air. The cheers from the crowd of onlookers somewhat obscured the crashing and splintering sound of Pinscher hurling herself through the closed glass doors at the hall's end, leading to the dog's resignation as test pilot, and resulting in her understandable wild barking and ferocious snarling whenever young Anya approached her. Of course, that first semi‑failure was followed by so many successes that the Parkland, Washington skies were soon filled with cats and dogs out having the time of their lives, swooping and soaring serenely overhead.

As she grew older, Ms T., with her love for flight, became an airline stewardess. She had set aside for the moment her hopes that all animals might fly one day. She made herself be content just watching the many people who flew with her as they behaved like pigs, wolves, skunks and monkeys‑-the flying zoo, as she put it to her closest friends. She traveled the world over, or rather over the world, as she sharpened her skills serving the needs of the flying public.

But then one winter night, while stopping over in a small Norwegian village because of a severe snowstorm which canceled all flights for the time being, she was approached by a tiny little Norse dog with a hand‑lettered sign hanging from a woven strand of colored yarn around its neck. The sign read in remarkably good English, "Hello, my name is Ola, please help me get to Minnesota by avion (European for airplane, as it turns out) to visit my relatives for the Christmas holidays, thank you."

It all came rushing back to her as she stood looking down at that wonderfully independent little dog. She remembered her inspired childhood and her dreams of delivering air travel to the masses of grounded animals in the world. Suddenly struck by a brainstorm, picking up the small dog, she hurried to the phone where excitedly she called her boss in New York and explained her plan to start up an air service for animals only, "Animal Airline, or AA" as she named it. Her boss' loud laughter fell rather short of the enthusiastic endorsement she sought, so she resigned her position and went into a partnership arrangement with Ola, who, as it turns out, had amassed a small fortune through clever investments in North Sea oil. Together they founded AA and have been providing intercon­tinental air service for well‑to‑do dogs and cats ever since. Finally, deserving pets could travel in style (AA was well known for catering to its guests, furnishing all the comforts of home, including flea baths, brushings, combings, and the occasional affectionate scratch behind the ear) to see loved ones overseas or take vacations to those off‑beat locales of the world which were only dreamed about before Anya and Ola worked their uplifting magic.