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Our last weekend in Australia was one of premeditated relaxation. Vicki and I were aware that we were about to throw ourselves headlong into a hectic pursuit of meticulously planned activities. Relaxation was supposed to produce the energy and give us the presence of mind that we required. That was the theory. So we duly put it into practice, visiting the historical city of Ballarat with its pleasing collection of nineteenth century colonial architecture on the Saturday and indulging ourselves in a winery tour on the Sunday.

Then packing and last-minute planning started and we soon realised that we may have left everything too late. The motion and movement got underway:

Tue., 12 April – In the morning Dubu goes to the vet for a medical examination preparatory to having his export papers prepared by AQIS, the Australian Quarantine Inspection Service. Mid-afternoon we learn that his international rabies inspection certificate has been lost. AQIS has certified a copy but this will not be enough to get him into the USA. They require the original. Frenzied communications follow. I contact AQIS and learn that they have just discovered the missing certificate, which had been lost amongst their paperwork. Problem solved. On to the next potential one? Hopefully not.

Vicki kissing Anaiis goodbye in quarantine.

Wed., 13 April – We take a bag of rugs, leads and grooming equipment with us to the quarantine station. Anaïs is well but thinner than we would like to see her with a big trip coming up. David undertakes to put some weight on her. We take some photos. This is the last time we will see her in Australia. Back at the B&B we divide our remnant possessions into those that will go with us to the other side of the world and those that we will abandon here, some going into the bin and some being left for our hosts, Fiona and Stretton. They have generously invited us for dinner. Vicki is overwrought and follows later. The evening gets off to a latish, shaky start but soon settles into a pleasant affair. Our hosts have gone out of their way for us. Their care and concern is humbling. Yet the clock is ticking as we are due for a pre-dawn start.

Thu., 14 April (Australia) –  At 4:30 am we wake to the sound of multiple alarm clocks. No risks are taken here. The adrenalin pumps in making up for an acute lack of sleep. Four hours is not enough. We comfort ourselves with the thought that we may be able to make it up on the plane. The drive to the airport is uneventful. We rendezvous with the animal carrier’s van at the airline’s cargo depot. Vicki places Dubu in his cage in the van. They drive off. Will we see him alive again? We are urgently determined that we will. Shortly after 9:35 am the plane lifts off from Melbourne airport. We are leaving Australia after living there for 15 years. Will we ever go back? Not long into the flight the question recedes to the back of our minds as the plane rocks and we start to descend rapidly. Vicki and I look at each other and then at the picture of Dubu that she has wedged against the tray in the back of the seat in front of her. We seek each other’s hands. The plane has gone quiet. So too have we. I feel our descent. It is rapid and relatively steep. Time slows and the present takes over. There is nothing like a mild panic to place one firmly in the moment. We level out as the pilot mumbles an apology. Apparently we had been buffeted by 180 kph crosswinds. We glance at the photo again. Has he survived? We will not know for another 10 hours.

Thu., 14 April (USA) – We arrive in Los Angeles at about 7 o’clock in the morning and the bureaucratic machinations of the US immigration service take over our lives and that of our puppy. The lines of eager visitors are long and the booths of the overworked officials are few. Fortunately, there is a separate one for special cases. I plead with an official, appealing to America’s soft spot for pets. It works. We are granted special case status and enter the USA. Now to find Dubu. The lady at the information desk is very concerned and helpful. Dubu is being held at the airline’s cargo facility but first we have to call for a taxi that is big enough to hold us and all our excess luggage (lots of it). Dubu is alive and well in his cage at the cargo depot but we are not allowed to take him out of his cage until he is officially allowed into the country. I have to sign forms, take a taxi to the Customs department, have them processed their and stamped, and then return with them to the cargo depot. Hours later I return with the papers that will officially secure Dubu’s release. By this stage Vicki has managed to persuade the cargo depot staff that Dubu is not about to infect every dog and human in the USA with rabies and has managed to secure his release from the kennel. Not content with her victory on that front, she has also managed to shame them into giving water to two other dogs that were panting weakly in front of their empty water dishes in their kennels. Long hours after our arrival we call a taxi but none shows. Fortunately, a considerate cargo facility driver offers to take dog, humans and a truckload of luggage to their hotel. Numb and dazed, dog and humans slump into grateful rest. But not for long. We have an appointment with a vet to have Dubu checked and his EU export papers signed for his onward trip to Europe. Supported by a friendly team, Dr Rachel is a pro and everything goes according to plan without a hitch.

Fri., 15 April – After breakfast we head off with Dubu and the sacred papers to the local USDA APHIS (the US equivalent of Australia’s AQIS) office to join a queue of equally animal-crazy humans. Finally, it is our turn. Vicki takes Dubu for a walk, while I present the papers, have them signed and pay the fee. We are clear to travel with our puppy tomorrow. Now we can relax but we are too tired to do anything but hang around the hotel until evening. We find a pleasant restaurant and decide to splurge. Dubu is also allowed in. The Americans are so laid back about dogs. The USA was a good transit choice. We toast to our good fortune. The first leg is down. The next starts tomorrow.

Sat., 16 April – The Americans are so easy about dogs in airports and Lufthansa’s approach to animal transport is so enlightened as to fix the Australian and Qantas regime firmly in the modern equivalent of the Dark Ages: tough, uncompromising, bureaucratic and extortionate. We get to take Dubu for a walk after we have checked him in along with our luggage and then have a final cuddle before he is whisked through security (‘killer Bichon’ was just a joke, guys) to board the plane. Europe here we come.

Sun., 17 April – Was that really what we have had to jump through hoops for just to get Dubu into the EU? This has been the real test? We can barely believe it. So we arrive in Frankfurt and psyche ourselves up for another gruelling ordeal through Customs but this time coupled with the ominous veterinary inspection and examination of the holy papers that we have spent so much time, energy and money preparing for. First surprise: where is the dog? In a bonded warehouse as he was in the USA? No, simply parked with the oversize luggage in the passenger terminal. Vicki discovers him accidentally while I retrieve the luggage. So we are going to have to declare Dubu to Customs and then there is the veterinary check. Heavy duty stuff, you would think. Customs is so disarmingly casual. Just wait over there: the vet will be along in a moment. And he duly comes, has a chat with another couple bringing in animal products, then saunters over to the cage and peers through the bars at Dubu. ‘Ah, an old Bichon,’ he nods. ‘Everything in order?’ he queries, ignoring the sacred papers in my outstretched hands. ‘Good. Enjoy your stay in Germany.’ He smiles and saunters off.

Andrew and Dubu after our arrival in Europe.

We have arrived safely in Europe with our puppy, not with a bang but a whimper. The rental vehicle is big enough to accommodate everyone and everything. Awed and bustled along by the disciplined, high-speed, precision traffic on the autobahn, we promptly take a wrong turn and add an hour to what should have been a brief trip to a charming hotel perched on the banks of the Rhine. Bingen am Rhein, we have been here once before. It should make an ideal place to come to rest and celebrate. It is and we salute ourselves with a local wine within view of castles and churches dotting the banks of the river. Our dog is alive, we are safe and our new life in Europe has just begun. Bring it on!

Mon., 18 April – Rested and relaxed we drive to Hooge Mierde, a small village in the south of the Netherlands just a few kilometres from the Belgian border. It is home to one of Vicki’s numerous sisters, who lives right next door to the Bartels’ Academy, a bastion of the international dressage establishment in general and the Dutch contingent of it in particular. Dolly, a nickname that has stuck, has always been there for us ever since Vicki and I chose to make history together in the early eighties, just as she is here for us now upon our return to Europe a little over 19 years after our move to the other side of the world. Vicki’s twin sister, Agathe, joins us to celebrate my birthday. It is a relatively quiet affair. The enormity of what we have just done subdues me.

More than a month behind, it looks as though this journal is going to be playing catch-up for some time to come if I insist on a day-by-day account.