The Full Pet Travel Kit I Bring Every Time I Move Cities

New York to Lisbon. Eleven hours, one layover in Frankfurt.

At the gate, a ground crew member walked over and asked to check the carrier. I set it on the floor. She pressed down on the top. It compressed. She waved us through.

That moment used to make me nervous. Now it's just part of the routine.

The bag situation first

I travel with two bags. One is mine. One is hers.

The 8807 goes on my back. Her carrier goes on top of the rolling suitcase, handles looped over the trolley, until we hit the gate — then I pick it up and carry it through. It fits under the seat on every flight I've taken her on: Frankfurt, Korean Air, Delta domestic. The trick is the soft sides. When they ask you to compress it, you compress it. 43×28×25 becomes something closer to 43×28×19 under a little pressure. It clears.

I stopped overthinking airline carrier sizing after the third trip. This one works.

What goes inside the carrier

Four things, besides her.

A collapsible bowl that folds flat and clips to the side pocket. It takes up less space than a paperback. At Frankfurt during the two-hour layover, I found a quiet corner near a window, unclipped it, filled it from the water bottle with one press of the button, and set it on the floor in front of her. She drank. We waited. Nobody bothered us.

A pee pad at the bottom, under the fleece mat. Eleven hours is a long time. It's never been a problem, but the one time it might be, I'll be glad it's there.

Her toy. A small thing she's had since she was four months old, slightly destroyed, completely non-negotiable. It goes in last, right next to her.

What clips onto the outside

The 8807's left shoulder strap has two things clipped to it before I leave the apartment.

The poop bag dispenser — already loaded, pull cord out and ready. Lisbon was the first city where I realized the ritual: land, clear customs, find the nearest patch of grass, dispense. The city doesn't wait for you to settle in. Neither does she.

The carabiner from the collapsible bowl clips there too when we're moving. Nothing loose. Nothing to dig for.

The harness stays on until we get there

She wears her harness from the moment we leave the apartment to the moment I close the door of wherever we're staying next.

Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof during a connection is not the place to be wrestling with a harness. Neither is a crowded boarding gate. She's clipped, controlled, and — this part I didn't expect — calmer. The harness means something to her. It means we're going somewhere.

In Lisbon, I put the bags down first. Then I unclipped her harness. She walked three slow circles around the apartment and lay down by the window.

That was it. We were there.