I am a whippet and I fly

But first let me introduce myself. My name is Lilou (no connection to the Leeloo from The Fifth Element, by the way), and I’m a gracefuI and lean whippet. I was born and raised in the United Kingdom and I’m almost 6 years old. My dad is French. When he and his partner broke up, Dad insisted on sole custody and returned to France with me. Dad just looooooves aviation; it’s the big passion in his life (apart from me, of course.) It’s also Dad’s job—he’s an airline pilot and flies internationally, but when he’s home we’re always together.

Before we moved to France, I hadn’t ever been in an airplane. Flying being Dad’s thing, he wanted to pursue his passion but he didn’t want to travel without me. (Obviously.) He didn’t think it would be fair to leave me behind for weeks at a time. So in order to travel, and to travel with me, he rented a Cirrus SR22 at the Paris-Saclay-Versailles Aerodrome, not far from the capital. To make sure I enjoyed flying he slowly introduced me to the aircraft, took me around the pattern, and expanded from there. And it was fine! Dad was happy that he could now go on trips and take a vacation, because I was able to accompany him.

He never exceeds three hours per leg. Here’s how he found out that’s my limit. (Hint: Treats make everything better.) He talked to several veterinarians and they all recommended he feed me treats in flight from time to time and once I refused them, it was a sign that I’d had enough. That turned out to be around the three-hour mark. Which is perfect, because that’s about how long it takes to fly to Corsica. By the way, treats also work well on descent. Chewing helps my ears pop. Dad plans his descents with my ears in mind and keeps the rate of descent around 300 feet per minute. He seems to really love a "stabilized approach," whatever that means.

On longer trips, we normally hang out on the ground for one or two days in between flights; it’s less stressful and it’s a vacation, after all. Our longest trip so far has been to Orkney, off the coast of Scotland, and we’ve also been to Switzerland and Ireland.

I normally stay in the right seat (close to the treats). I have a harness clipped to a leash that’s tightly wound around the seat, and I just curl up and enjoy the ride. I have to admit, though, it limits my movement, and a dog needs to stretch sometimes, right? So when Dad knows it’s going to be smooth in cruise, he lets me loose in the cabin and I can hang out in the back just for laughs and giggles. Being a whippet, I’m more elegant than rambunctious and I love a smooth ride. I always go back to the treats. Seat. I mean seat.

Dad thinks he’s a little obsessive compulsive with me (whatever that means), and he makes sure my ears are protected when we fly. He hasn’t found earmuffs or headsets that perfectly work for my silken ears, so he replaced the ear pads of the closest fit with some quality ones from Bose, adapted the elastic band and straps, and padded some of it so it wouldn’t be uncomfortable for me. He also followed some good advice from the vets. He first starts the engine and puts the headset on my head after a couple of minutes. I’ve learned to associate the muffs with some kind of relief from the noise and welcome them instead of fighting them. The vets also advised against noise-canceling headsets, because some of the very high frequencies used to cancel out the actual noise are audible for canines and might be painful.

I’m pretty much comfortable at altitude, but Dad makes sure he never exceeds 10,000 feet. He says we could both get woozy.

Dad seems to spend some time doing paperwork before we fly together, and some  countries require more paperwork than others. He has not asked me to figure that out, because paperwork is not something I am good at. I was in an accident when I was a puppy, and as a result my tail had to be docked (I call it a “designer tail”). In Switzerland that’s considered animal cruelty unless Dad brings proof that this was not a cosmetic procedure, so without that we wouldn’t be allowed in. We also cannot directly fly from France to the U.K., but we are allowed to go through Ireland. Ireland is pretty nice.

Then there’s the food. Would it surprise you if I told you that I will tolerate only the best? For a short trip, Dad cooks my food in batches, freezes some, and carries it in a bag with ice packs. On longer trips, Dad packs dry food and supplements it with local fish or chicken (yum).

You might think I’m spoiled (but of course, I should be!), but that’s not the whole story. Dad tells me what to do, and I listen to and obey commands, especially around aircraft. Except I don’t speak French, so all my orders are spoken in English. Dad thinks that’s funny. I should probably work on my French.

With that pawtastic and adventurous lifestyle, it’s a given that I should be on social media. Dad posts all the time about our lives and outings on Lilou the Flying Whippet (@the_flying_whippet) and tells me that nearly 20,000 humans now follow our adventures. We get invitations all the time to fly to places all over the world. I’m excited to see what’s next! Oh, Dad is, too.