We are lucky, Sully is the type of dog that people see and want to pet. Not that he is special, he’s just a big-headed golden retriever. But for some reason, everyone wants to pet him when we are out and about. We have met so many people along the way just because of him.

The conversation usually starts with some French being thrown at us. We nod and smile. Say, “c’est Sully. Il est golden retriever. He is tres gentile”. More often than not, that is not the answer to the question we were just asked. But our depth of the language is still developing.

For the first few months, most were asking how old he is. “A quelle age”. Huh? “A quelle age?” Um, I’m just going to stare at you and hope something good happens. “How old is he?”, with a French accent. “Oh, he is deusan”. In English they generally say he looks good for his age. “No” I say as I hold up to two fingers. “He is deux an.” In the expensive French lessons, we took before moving over here, our instructor told us that when there is a word ending in a consonant followed by a word beginning with a vowel, the French will blend them together as one word. At least that’s what I think she said.

Apparently, I was telling people that Sully was 12 years old, not 2.

If the questioner is comfortable with English, we usually continue speaking for a few minutes with me telling them how embarrassed I am about not knowing the language, but I am really trying.

Invariably, the conversation turns to them asking if we are visiting. When we tell them we live here now, they ask how we got him over here. Come to think of it, that is what most people ask us. How did you get your dog over to France? Did you have to quarantine him?

The truth is, he came over in business class. 

 The Wild Ride of Getting Sully to France

Moving to France is one thing. Moving to France with a 75-pound Golden Retriever is another. For six months, my biggest stressor wasn’t visas, housing, or shipping our stuff—it was figuring out how to get Sully across the Atlantic without traumatizing him (or me).

Cargo? Absolutely not. The thought of Sully locked in a crate under the plane for eight-plus hours was out of the question. This is a dog who, as a puppy, howled through his first night in a crate like he was being abducted by aliens. By night two, he nearly hanged himself trying to escape. We took the hint. Some dogs are fine with crates. Sully? Not so much.

Private jet? Turns out, there's a whole underground network of people chartering flights for their dogs. Think of it as Uber Black for bougie pet parents. For the low, low price of $9,000 to $10,000 per person (that’s a lot of cheddar), you and your furry friend could fly stress-free in a cushy cabin. I briefly imagined us boarding a Gulfstream, Sully sipping filtered water from a crystal bowl while I adjusted my designer sunglasses. But reality kicked in fast: not only was it outrageously expensive, but the logistics were a nightmare. We’d have to get to New York, D and Sully would fly out of Teterboro, and I’d have to hop my own flight out of JFK or Newark, then somehow find them in Paris. This was starting to sound like a bad reality show.

Queen Mary 2? That floating luxury liner actually has a kennel program. I pictured Sully living his best Titanic life, paws on the railing, ears blowing in the breeze. But all the dog slots were booked for the year, and frankly, I’m not sure either of us is posh enough for the Queen Mary crowd.

That left one option: getting Sully in the cabin. And thanks to a well-timed conversation with one of D’s clients, we found a loophole. It involved paperwork, a little creativity, and a well-placed joke about D’s mental state (which almost got me punched). Once we had what we needed, we booked business class tickets to give Sully the space he’d need.

Still, I spent months stressing. What if they turned us away at the airport? What if Sully had a meltdown at 35,000 feet? D kept telling me, “We’ve got this.” I wanted to believe her. But I wasn’t going to stop worrying until our paws—his and mine—were safely on French soil.

Then? Well, then it would just be another adventure. And adventures are fun.