The Flight That Changed Everything

If you’re new here, a quick bit of context: earlier this year, I moved to France with my nine-pound Yorkie, Fonzi. That first overseas journey nearly broke me. It was exhausting, emotional, and more complicated than I expected. Still, we made it. We built a little life across the ocean, and now Fonzi has his own tiny French passport.

So when it came time to return briefly to the U.S. for the holidays to spend some much-needed time with my mom, I thought the hardest part of traveling with a dog was behind me. I was wrong.

I already felt more anxious than usual before this trip, but I knew going home mattered. Time with my mom feels increasingly precious, and I wasn’t willing to let fear make that decision for me. What I didn’t anticipate was just how much this return journey would stretch my nervous system—and my heart.

Fonzi is a wonderful traveler. Truly. I started flying with him when he was just a baby. But the reality of taking a small animal on long international flights is never simple. I was grateful to Delta for allowing pets to fly internationally, but this return trip would become one of the most stressful travel experiences of my life.

Luckily, at Charles de Gaulle, there’s a gorgeous small outdoor pet relief area hidden at the far end of the international terminal. It isn’t clearly marked, and none of the staff seemed to know about it, but finding it after more than an hour on the metro felt like a small miracle. We sat outside for about thirty minutes. Fonzi sniffed everything in sight, soaking in the smells of the Paris airport (and visiting smokers). Sadly, he never relieved himself. I was disappointed, but I understood—stress does that.

The flight to France earlier this year was about eight hours long. The return flight was over ten. Unfortunately, our departure from Paris was delayed, which immediately sent my anxiety into overdrive as I started calculating customs lines, baggage claim, and a tight connection waiting on the other side. “Surely we’ll make up some time in the air, right?” I thought. That didn’t happen.

We had already encountered one challenge on the way to France: Fonzi’s carrier, despite meeting size requirements, didn’t fit under the seat in front of me. That crew had been incredibly accommodating and moved a handsome young man from next to us to provide us with an empty window seat. On the return flight, I flagged this same issue to three different flight attendants. At first, it seemed like they would move us again. Then the doors closed. A mechanical issue had canceled an earlier flight, and suddenly every seat on the plane was full.

A strange calm came over me. Part of me thought that if they removed me from this flight, maybe it was a sign. I would have taken the train back to Rouen without hesitation. But before I could spiral too far into that thought, we were in the air, heading back to the motherland.

About eight hours into the flight, Fonzi popped his little head out of his carrier and looked at me with concern. I gently took him out, grabbed his pee pad from my backpack, and walked to the back galley.

“Would it be okay if I put this down for a moment to see if he’ll go?” I asked the flight attendant.

“I don’t care. Anywhere is fine,” she replied.

We chatted for a bit. She mentioned how often people miss the toilet. I asked, a little horrified, “Who has to clean that up?” “We do,” she replied. Blech! My heart ached for them. I had always assumed a cleaning crew handled those things.

Needless to say, Fonzi didn’t go. He just stood there, clearly frightened and confused. I picked him up, and as I turned to leave, the same flight attendant said, “If you want to hold him in your lap for a bit, I won’t say anything. I don’t know why some flight attendants get so uptight. It’s just a dog.”

So I held him for a few minutes. Then I put him back into his bag—his little sanctuary. I was exhausted and ready to close my eyes, and he seemed comforted inside his carrier.

A couple of hours later, I tried once more. This time, the kind flight attendant was gone. I placed the pad down and softly whispered, “Go pee, Fonzi. Please.” Instead, he laid down on it. Almost immediately, another flight attendant told me I needed to take the pad into the bathroom. I froze for a moment, remembering what I had just been told about how often that space was soiled. After only a few seconds, I picked Fonzi up, folded the clean pad, and returned to my seat.

I had him in my lap for about five minutes when the “Customer Service” flight attendant approached me.

Her tone was sharp. She accused me of having Fonzi in my lap for the entire flight, which simply wasn’t true. She told me I was noncompliant, that she would be writing a report, and that I may never be allowed to fly with him again.

I was stunned! All she had to say was, “Please put your dog back in the carrier.” I would have done it immediately and without question. Instead, I felt attacked, frightened, and suddenly uncertain about our ability to return home to France. I spent the rest of the flight shaken, eagerly anticipating the moment I could go back home to France.

When we landed, everything became a blur of movement and urgency. Customs. Passport scan. The agent had to scan my face twice because I couldn’t muster a smile that matched my photo. Then baggage claim. Luggage re-check. Another security line. At that point, I had twelve minutes to make my connection.

I ran for the tram, rushed up the escalator, alternating between sprinting and walking just to keep from collapsing. When I reached the gate, barely able to breathe, I asked if I was too late.

“No,” the agent said. “You’re just in time.”

I boarded, shaking with exhaustion and still trying to catch my breath. Since their WiFi didn’t work on the plane, a stranger kindly let me tether to her phone so I could message my mom. Fonzi stayed in his carrier for one last short flight. As we settled in, I heard the familiar Tennessee accents around me and realized I was truly back in the U.S. Between the coughing and sneezing around me, I felt deeply grateful for my mask and vitamin C tablets.

When we landed, I saw my mom, and we both cried as we hugged. Fonzi lost his mind when he realized his Nana was standing right in front of him. I ran him straight to the grass while we waited for our luggage.

It was the longest pee of his life.

A week later, I couldn’t believe it, but I received a letter from Delta about the “incident.” This time, they made the accusation that Fonzi had urinated in the galley and that the crew had to sanitize the area. My body shook, and I all of a sudden felt cold - my teeth were chattering. With the help of ChatGPT—because I knew I couldn’t respond clearly while flooded with emotion—I wrote back calmly and factually.

Their letter to me wasn’t a ban. It was a warning, but it still changed everything for me.

There is now a mark on my passenger record. And while I can technically still fly with Fonzi, I know future flights will come with extra scrutiny, less grace, and more tension.

The hardest realization of all is this: Fonzi will no longer travel back and forth to the U.S. with me. He survived this trip, yes—but fourteen hours of sustained stress for a nine-pound creature who doesn’t understand what’s happening doesn’t feel fair anymore. Sometimes love means changing the plan. Sometimes it means letting go of what’s convenient for us in order to protect what’s fragile.

Even when it breaks your heart a little.