Something I have ALWAYS wanted to do: live abroad.

Top contenders over the years have been the UK, Ireland, France, Italy, Spain, The Netherlands, and even Australia. Costa Rica gets an honorable mention as well, but ultimately, I’m not a tropical sort of person—and the tropics are rough on most dogs.

Something I have NEVER wanted to do: fly my dogs in the hold of an airplane overseas.

The mere thought of doing so has long made me queasy and kept me rooted firmly in place.

I’ve always been able to see, in my mind’s eye, a future for myself in the French or Italian countryside, sipping wine on a sun-soaked patio, dogs lazing at my feet—or perhaps in a café in an old-world city, reading copiously once again while writing books. And yet… there was never a version of my life where I didn’t have dogs.

Can you spot the inherent problem here?

At some point, decades began to fly by in the blink of an eye, instead of crawling at the agonizingly slow pace of a teenager counting down the days until summer break—eager, impatient, and hungry to take a big bite out of life.

There are now more “somedays” behind me than ahead.

With this sobering realization, I eventually arrived at a crossroads, where the weight of lifelong longing and potential regret felt more daunting than the idea of taking a risk or coping with temporary discomfort.

And so… I leapt!

Spain was chosen—for many reasons.

There were two false starts. One in the spring of 2020 (yeah, you can imagine why that didn’t pan out), and another in September 2024, when I nearly fell prey to a shady deal that really rattled me. By that point, I had already sold or given away nearly all my worldly possessions—including my home.

After licking my wounds from that sour deal and still reeling from the loss of Laz, I was nudged by a bold and beloved friend to, “Just choose something! Make a move, ferfucksake.” Her message landed.

In November of 2024, I hopped on a plane to Spain for ten days, looked at rental properties, and tried my best to convince landlords that my dogs were, in fact, trained and well-behaved.

Miraculously, I managed to find a lovely little white house with a courtyard, nestled in an olive grove, only 30 miles from a major city rich in art, culture, and a bustling, modern airport. The place is idyllic. And super cute. Even more miraculously, the owner of the property was totally fine with my dog situation.

Mission accomplished.

A move-in date was set: mid-January.

But how, exactly, does one move six dogs—three of them quite large, two of them quite spicy, two of them restricted on many airlines, and one of them a restricted breed in some European countries?

This is where the fun begins!