Our European adventure began in pretty much the most predictable fashion for myself possible: a 7am departure on literally no sleep (for me, at least), and finishing packing only moments before walking out the front door. Emilia’s nanny, Courtney, was kind enough to drive us to the airport after Emi had left her brand new winter jacket — the only suitable one she has — in Courtney’s car.
Traveling with Pancake in tow for the first time since she was a three-month-old pup (she rode in the hold that time, and after a very angst-ridden couple of flights, we vowed to never do that again if at all possible) threw a considerable extra layer of stress into the mix, as if moving to another country for seven months wasn’t a complex enough affair as-is. We gave Pancake the mild sedative her vet prescribed though, and it was reasonably smooth sailing from there, at least until we got to our layover.
At New York’s JFK Airport, we learned that Emilia had very possibly fainted on the floor of the bathroom on the previous flight. Shortly after asking me to escort her to the airplane lavatory, she’d mentioned to me feeling “car sick,” but didn’t seem especially out of sorts. After waiting in a spot out of the way of aisle traffic for what I’m guessing was about 3–4 minutes, the flight attendant opposite the bathroom door mentioned that Emi was calling for me. I opened the door to find her washing her hands sort of erratically and somewhat discombobulated. I was a bit alarmed, but not sure what to make of it, so I just had her stop washing and guided her back to our seats. She said she was still feeling ill and looked pale, but laying down and resting seemed to get her back up to speed. Later at the lounge, she told us she’d laid down on the airplane bathroom floor because she felt compelled to, even though she knew it was gross; that was the first either of us had heard of that. She seemed unsure of whether she was conscious the whole time, and combined with Erin having a history of fainting and the paleness after the fact, our suspicion is she passed out briefly. Apparently she was worried that we’d be upset that she’d laid down on the bathroom floor, and that’s why she didn’t tell us, which feels like a minor parenting fail. Oh well. She seemed to do well from there on, but that was a bit scary.
The five-hour layover proved to be wildly unproductive thanks to beagle shenanigans. Not having pooped all day, I was concerned she was overdue and didn’t want to take any chances. Once we got settled down in one of the lounges, I headed to the nearest pet relief area, which as it turned out was about a half mile away. Little did I know the ensuing standoff that awaited. She peed promptly on the fake grass, and I washed it off with the provided hose after she hopped off. This was a mistake. I pressed her to poop before returning to the lounge, but she wasn’t having any of it; I’m pretty sure the wet “grass” was putting her off. I threw in the towel after 10 minutes of this. We got about 500 feet from the relief area when my eyes widened in horror as Pancake did her little squat and attempted to lay some dog eggs. In one swift motion, I scooped her up and hoisted her beagle butt up in the air before the floodgates could open (as if somehow gravity would aid me in keeping everything in), and sprinted through the terminal like a madman back toward the pet loo. Disaster had been averted, but all the running and shaking must’ve traumatized her, and with her existing distaste for the wet pee grass, she no longer had any desire to poop. I was stuck. I forced her onto the pee pad repeatedly, but this only bred further resistance. I tried walking her a hundred feet or so several times, saw the signs that she was getting ready for a replay, and trotted her back to the dog john, only for her butt to go back on lockdown each time. This continued until over an hour had elapsed on beagle bathroom detail. Finally, at my wit’s end, I broke down and carried Pancake in my arms the whole half mile back to the lounge, knowing she was unlikely to do anything while being held, and passed the baton to Erin. I set her up for disaster, and for this, I am sorry. Six gates short of the relief area, Pancake dropped the bomb. Our apologies to Gate B27, you deserved better.
With not enough time remaining to get a decent meal before the flight, we departed New York, eager to bury Pancake’s shame behind us. Nine largely uneventful hours later, we touched down in Rome’s Fiumicino Airport ready to begin our long stay in Italy.
Adam
The journey begins… Keep writing!