Tag Archives: Pomeranians

Operation Trixie Flight

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It’s been on-again, off-again figuring out how to get the dog to Scotland. Her name is Trixie, and she is the princess that sounds like. She’s a pom who weighs 12.5 pounds, and she stands 14 inches high.

The United Kingdom doesn’t let people fly their pets in the cabin of a commercial airliner, aside from service dogs and active military. A lot of people go to Ireland, which is in the European Union, and then take the ferry across to the UK.

Only one airline flies dogs internationally to Dublin: KLM. Which is a Dutch airline, so globalization does actually appear to be saving the world after all. Go figger.

There are the requisite paperwork pieces that have to be filled out not only in triplicate but in a timely manner and in order. Microchip, rabies, tapeworm, health certificate, clearance to travel, within 10 days of travel. No pressure, kids.

Then there’s the fact that the average underseat clearance on a KLM aircraft is 11 inches. My friend Amelia and I went to Petco and held a lengthy consultation with our phones and Google search dogs-flying-to-Ireland before selecting a carrier that is exactly 6 centimeters too long for a perfect regulation match, but conforms in all other ways.

I’m throwing dog treats into the back of the carrier and we can just get Trixie in. It’s cramped, but it’s better than flying cargo. Nobody puts Trixie in steerage.

I hear that the “strict” regulation about dogs not being allowed out of their carriers at all, ever, not no way, nohow is entirely dependent on the flight attendants on your flight and the person sitting next to you, once you’re airborne.

So we shall see. I have visions of Trixie in a smart little coat and tam (Royal Stewart tartan, of course) prancing on the end of her lead along the boardwalk that runs past the North Sea. She will greet the neighbors graciously. Once we get here there.

I’m flying back from Scotland in October to fetch her; she’s staying September with her first mum. Fingers and paws crossed, everybody.

Trixie Weighs In – all 13 pounds of her

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Right, people, listen up. Some of you may not know me. My name is Trixie and I’m in charge around here.

I am the emotional support dog attached to Wendy Welch. By which I mean, Wendy is my emotional support human. I have a few… neuroses, shall we say. Wendy helps me with my anxiety.

People ask, was I a rescue, because I am so anxious. Those people are clearly not well-informed on current events. If you’re not anxious, you’re not paying attention.

I work with Wendy at some food bank stuff. Once a week she goes to this place where people line up outside like an hour beforehand. And there’s a big guy with a big husky. The guy is really nice to me, but the husky has said some rude things I don’t appreciate. Mom puts my leash under a table leg and everybody talks nice to me. But it’s still a bit taxing on my nerves. So many people wanting to pet me, saying how cute I am. A dog likes to be taken seriously. Like the big husky barking her fool head off across the parking lot. (She has to wait over there because she doesn’t volunteer with the warehouse, see.) Nobody ever calls HER cute….

I can live with cute, though, when it comes to the other place with the food. Wendy works with a bunch of med students once a month. They cook meals for people in a rent-controlled housing facility. Everybody at the facility loves me. Naturally. When they call me cute, they slip me scraps of the chicken gumbo or whatever the med students are cooking. And when the students play ball with the kids, I get to play too. It’s fun to run around at the housing complex. It is a quarter mile to walk around the whole sidewalk circling the place, and I have run this MANY times with a group of kids. Once a bunch of people chased me because I slipped my harness. Good times.

So, it’s not all bad having an emotional support human. I’ll tell you more secrets later. For now, stay warm out there. I have a winter coat attached to me, but you people have to assemble yourselves to go out. That thing with your feet, weird. But do what you need to do. It’s all good.