My Big, Weird Adventure (aka: The Time My Human Put Me in a Plastic Spaceship)

I knew something was up.

First, the big plastic crate showed up—my human called it a “travel bed,” but I knew better. I barked at it for fifteen minutes straight, just to make sure it knew I wasn’t scared (even though I totally was). She tried to win me over with treats. It worked… sort of. I’d sneak in, grab a snack, and jet out like I was in a spy movie.

Then came the “practice” sessions. She’d lock me in there for, like, forever (half an hour), and sit nearby looking sad and talking to herself. Or maybe to me. Or maybe just trying not to cry.

Because here’s the thing—I could feel it. She was scared, too. Not just about me and the flight, but about all of it.

I’ve heard her talk to the therapist (I always listen from my bed). She said goodbye to so many people, holding back tears every single time. She told the nice lady on the screen that she was excited to start over—but also afraid she wouldn’t know how. That she wanted to “eat, pray, love,” whatever that means. (I assume it includes snacks.) But she worried she’d slip into old routines and forget to explore.

So yeah, we were both kind of a mess.

At the airport, I was overstimulated by the chaos and noise, so when she opened the crate, I climbed in willingly. It felt safer in there. She gave me something the vet said would help my nerves. I think it worked, because I barely remember the flight. When we landed, I was tired, confused, and sore. She looked tired too—but her face lit up when she saw me again.

She had three big suitcases and me in a crate, and somehow managed to drive two airport carts at once. Honestly, she looked ridiculous. But determined.

When we finally made it to her dad’s place, she looked at me and said, “This is your new home.” I sniffed every corner, christened the driveway with a proper game of fetch, and decided it would do. She’s been calling the driveway “Luna’s Runway” ever since.

We’ve both been adjusting. She’s constantly scratching mystery itches—something about invisible mosquitoes having a feast on her. And don’t even get her started on the time. She’s working in East Coast hours but living in Portugal, which means she’s always either too tired, too early, or completely confused about what time it is. The other night she thought it was lunchtime at 5pm.  She’s tired, but she’s also carving out something she calls Me Mornings. That’s when we walk to the beach together and she does her breathing stuff, stretches on a mat, and scribbles in a little book. I try not to interrupt, but sometimes I dig a hole next to her. For moral support.

She says she wants to heal here. To live slowly. Bravely. Joyfully.

And you know what? I think she will.

Because if there’s one thing I know about my human—it’s that even when she’s scared, she keeps going. And as long as she keeps walking, I’ll be right there beside her, tail wagging and heart wide open.