“Can Tristan come, too?”

We had been engaged for all of about five minutes before I brought up this all-important question. The dear, kind man who was to become my husband melted my heart with his response, given without even a pause to think.

“I don’t see why not.”

Tristan is my dog. Yes, to many people a dog is just a dog, but my life has never felt quite complete without a dog at my side, and Tristan has been that special once-in-a-lifetime dog I’d always dreamed of having. He’s gone everywhere with me – hiking in the mountains, vacationing at the beach, strolling through the parks at home – and he’s curled up beside me, quietly sleeping, when I suffered through a prolonged illness. Wherever I’ve gone Tristan has never been far behind and I couldn’t imagine abandoning him now.

It turns out there are a lot of “why not’s” when it comes to moving internationally with a pet, and there were a few times during the months of planning and preparation when the expense and all that was involved felt overwhelming, and I doubted whether I was doing the right thing. He was ten years old, after all. Would he be OK on the long plane ride? Was he so set in his routine that this mighty upheaval would send him into a decline?

Nevertheless, we persevered, and nine months after that question was first asked my husband and I found ourselves sitting in the waiting area in the Animal Reception Centre at London’s Heathrow Airport. Tristan and I had flown together on a British Airways flight from Seattle, he in cargo and I in economy class, which is actually less comfortable than cargo. The flight arrived shortly after noon, but the instructions had advised that it takes several hours for animals to be processed before they can be released to officially enter the UK, so we didn’t make our way there until after four o’clock.

Many people are surprised to learn that the six month quarantine is no longer necessary to enter the United Kingdom with an animal, as long as you follow all of the correct procedures regarding microchips, rabies vaccinations and tape worm treatments. Everything has to be documented and certified – at great expense. There was a delay with Tristan while they waited for my vet’s office in Washington to open so the date of the tape worm treatment could be verified. It has to be given between 1 – 5 days of when you plan to arrive in the UK and they are very suspicious of any appearance of falsification on the health certificate. A smudge on the date had set off alarm bells and they would not release Tristan until they’d spoken to the vet.

While we sat and waited I surreptitiously watched the other people waiting with us. There was a snooty French family – father, mother and teen-aged son – sitting on the far side of the room. I don’t know why I so often impute snootiness to French people when all of those I’ve known have actually been genuinely nice people.  Perhaps it’s because they tend to always be better dressed than I am. Perhaps it is because they tend to hold themselves aloof. Whereas I was openly curious about anything and everything around me, they seemed bored and disinterested. They never made eye contact with anyone – not even each other. The father paced around speaking into his mobile phone. He could have been talking about his upcoming bunion operation for all I know, but it sounded very important, very French. The mother flipped absently through a fashion magazine, looking like she stepped out of one herself in her elegant, casual resort attire. The son looked like a normal teenager, slouched in a chair, absorbed in his hand-held electronic gadget.

All of that changed when a staff member walked through the door carrying a small crate containing the angriest-looking cat I’ve ever seen. They sprang to life as one and clustered around the crate crooning French endearments at it. Even the dad cracked a smile and suddenly they seemed human, likable, and not snooty at all, but just people who had been worried about their beloved pet. My heart warmed to them as I watched them depart, all three trying to crowd through the door at the same time and still murmuring reassurances to their Very Angry Cat.

I didn’t envy them the pain and suffering that cat was going to give them over the next few days as it exacted its revenge, and I began to wonder if Tristan would be angry at me. I was, after all, the one who had ordered him into his crate, locked him in it, and then left him alone with strangers to be shunted around and shoved into the bowels of an airplane, all alone and in the dark. My imagination began to run away with me.

Finally the inner door opened again, there was a clatter of eager paws and Tristan, my own sweet Tris, burst through the doorway pulling on his leash. He didn’t even seem surprised to see me. Perhaps it seemed only natural to him that of course I would be there. Why wouldn’t I be? I knelt down and he was in my arms, jumping up and wriggling his whole body in an ecstatic wag. He had survived the long plane ride far better than I ever would have imagined and looked bright-eyed and alert, and not at all resentful. (We could learn a lot from dogs about accepting life’s little bumps in the road.) After a very long wee he even willingly subjected himself to being put back into the crate, which we loaded into our car, and he settled down quietly for the drive home, content to be near me.

That was July. Since then Tristan has come to love his new home. He turned eleven in November and is slowing down somewhat.

He spends many hours curled up contentedly on his sheepskin rug, snoring quietly, but nearly every day we walk out across the nearby fields and toss his stick for him. He barks and chases his stick and looks like he’s enjoying his golden years in the “old country”.

This summer we took him for a nine-mile long walk along the Ridgeway Trail and he amazed us by how much energy he displayed, marching along quite happily, and settling contentedly under our table when we stopped at a dog-friendly pub for lunch.

Every evening at five o’clock he lies by the front door waiting for “Daddy” to come home from work.

Now, sometimes I’ll hear my husband talking in the other room and call out, “What was that? I can’t hear what you’re saying.”

To which he will respond, with dignity, “I was talking to Tristan.”

Yes, it was a lot of hassle and expense. Yes, Tristan is an old dog who is food obsessed and sometimes amazingly stubborn. Yes, he rolls in smelly things in the grass and tries to eat cow pats. But he’s still my sweet Tris, only now he’s our sweet Tris – my husband’s and mine – and his presence makes our little house a home, and makes us a family.