How we moved our English Bulldog to France

One dog, two dads and a poop emergency at baggage claim

Picture it: two dads, one sassy four-year-old, six bags, two backpacks, and an English Bulldog with a job to do, all clomping into Chicago O’Hare like the opening credits of a sitcom no one asked for.

It’s the big day. We’re excited. Nervous. A little gassy? Who knows. The rules say if you’re flying internationally with a toddler and a service animal, you can’t check in early. Because that would make sense. So there we are, dragging our entire life through the terminal, inching forward in the check-in line like airport zombies. Things are going fine until we’re next in line and Sonia, my sweet and savage daughter, looks up and declares:

“I need to pee.”

Of course you do. Because why not. The bathrooms are visible…taunting us, really, but we can’t leave the line. So, like all parenting decisions made under duress, one of us sacrifices himself to the pee gods. Yuri rushes off with Sonia. I’m left to shuffle forward with 6 bags, a bulldog, and a prayer.

But let’s rewind a bit, because this story deserves a little respect before we get to the poop.

First, a serious note. We know the term “service animal” carries weight. There are people who rely on highly trained dogs to literally keep them alive, and they face doubt and scrutiny thanks to others who abuse the label to simply take their misbehaved dog everywhere they go. If you’re one of those people: we see you. We respect you. We tried to walk this line with full integrity, and yes, a vet and trainers stamp of approval.

Zelda, our beloved bulldog, wasn’t some cute pet in a vest for Instagram likes. She was in service dog training before we decided to move. We didn’t sign her up for training just to hop on a plane, we did it because she showed promise and our family needed her in ways we didn’t even fully realize at the time. When we left the U.S., she was a year old and in the foundational stage. She had been to stores and airports. She had practiced. But moving day was real-deal stuff, and I was nervous. She’s wrinkly. She’s adorable. Everyone wants to touch her. Would she stay focused?

Spoiler alert: she nailed it. I mean absolutely crushed it. Sat calmly by my side, no barking, no tugging, no drama. Which, to be clear, is exactly what she’s trained to do, but still, I was a proud papa. TSA? Smooth. Not a peep. Only one person dared whisper “that’s not a service dog” as we walked to our gate and honestly? Mind your business, Cheryl. If you can’t tell the difference between a well-trained animal and a handbag chihuahua in a tutu, that’s on you.

Now, let’s talk logistics. This is where America and France wave goodbye to each other when it comes to doing things on time. America sets a calendar reminder, and France lights a cigarette and says, “On verra.

”

If you’re moving with a dog to France, here’s the deal:

Microchip first.

Then the rabies vaccine.

Yes, in that order. Backwards? Do not pass go, do not collect 200 euros. If your dog already had the vaccine, congrats, you now get a booster. Then, about three weeks before you leave, your vet submits ALL the paperwork to the USDA electronically. And the USDA, in their eternal wisdom, will send it back within 10 days of your flight. Which means yes, you’re sweating bullets until the literal week-of, and yes, I called my vet daily like a helicopter parent before the school play.

We were living in a hotel that final month, which is great if you love instant eggs, harsh cleaning chemicals, and nowhere to store your your dogs raw food. Zelda broke out in hives. She started losing hair. Between the food transition, environmental allergies, and general chaos, she looked like a tiny gremlin wearing a bulldog suit. But she rallied. We all did.

Fast forward to the flight: Zelda’s at our feet, being her best self. Movies are playing. Everyone’s calm. Then we hear the dreaded overhead voice:

“Sorry folks, there’s a small technical delay. We’ll update you shortly.”

Three. Hours. Later.

I’m spiraling. This eight-hour flight is now eleven. I signed a form saying Zelda wouldn’t go potty on the plane. My eye is twitching. She’s chill. I’m the wreck.

Finally, we’re in the air. Everything’s fine except for the one passenger who just had to reach down and rough up her face without asking. No, ma’am. This is not a petting zoo. Flight attendants were obsessed but thankfully professional enough to keep their hands (and squeals) to themselves.

We landed in Barcelona because international pet travel is never direct and I just knew it was time. Zelda had held it in for eleven hours. Customs had no dog relief area. But our girl had on a doggie diaper (IYKYK). We get through customs and we’re rolling toward baggage claim when suddenly, she stops.

The squat happens.

Time slows down.

I yell a soft internal “NOOOOOO,” rip off the diaper, and catch the poop midair like a frazzled parenting ninja.

Success. Sort of. Until I stood up to throw it away and in my jetlagged stupor dropped the damn diaper. Poop side down. On the shiny airport floor.

Zelda looked at me like,

“Yeah. That’s mine. You’re welcome.”

Thank god I had paper towels in my pocket and the will to flee.

Where were Yuri and Sonia during this elegant little moment? Well, apparently Yuri got food poisoning from the airplane and was sprinting to the bathroom. Our ride to Carcassonne was a series of “pull over. Pull over again.” Once more for dramatic effect.

But we made it. That’s how we moved to France with a 40-pound squishy-faced service dog-in-training, a preschooler, and whatever was left of our dignity. Zelda now eats a home-cooked diet, because her stomach is bougie and her allergies are real. The butcher knows us. The butcher judges us.

“Votre chien mange bien!” he says.

Does she? Heart and liver are nowhere near the VIP section of my haute cuisine menu.

But here we are in Carcassonne, somehow living our best lives—croissants in hand, paperwork in limbo. Zelda, our ever-enthusiastic English Bulldog, is thriving with her daily strolls through medieval streets, always on the lookout for a new friend (or unattended snack). And I’ll just leave you with this little gem: WHY do the French refuse to pick up their dog poop?! I live in a stunning medieval city, not the sidewalks of San Francisco’s Tenderloin. This isn’t a choose-your-own-adventure obstacle course—it's a public street. If you can't scoop the poop, maybe you shouldn't have a dog. There, I said it. And I meant it.

Moral of the story: Moving abroad is glamorous until you’re catching dog poop in a diaper at baggage claim. Then it’s just parenting with a passport.

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Follow on Instagram @Le_Simple_Sudiste for more portraits of Zelda doing her best Brigitte Bardog impression in the South of France.

Final thought: If my bulldog can cross international borders, behave better than most toddlers, and get her own vet file thicker than mine, what’s your excuse?