PlainGeets

After four years in France – the last two filled with urgent family trips and professional back-and-forth – we finally decided it was time to move operations to India. Life had gotten too scattered, too fragmented. Coming home felt like the only way to piece things back together.

Only, it also meant that Arya would have to make the journey back with us. In cargo. Again. We’d done it once. Surely, this time it would be easier? Spoiler: it wasn’t.

At first, things looked smooth. Our early enquiries didn’t throw up any major paperwork. No red flags. We exhaled.

Then, two months before departure, came the twist: we needed a document from the DDPP (Directions Départementales de la Protection des Populations), the French animal health authorities, to take her out of the country.

First stop: the vet, who would notify the DDPP and guide us through. So off we went to our vet, who wrote to the DDPP on our behalf.

Second step: write to the DDPP. Not wanting to leave any stone unturned, I also wrote to them directly. They responded swiftly…a surprise, given the usual pace of French bureaucracy. But a week into the email exchanges with Dr Dhier, the officer in charge of the case, we hit a major snag.

Turned out Arya had never been registered on ICAD, the national pet database in France. She had a passport, but somehow not the equivalent of an Aadhar card!

A technicality, yes. But a non-negotiable one. The vet had forgotten to complete the formal registration after her first vaccination in France. And of course, given our usual luck with paperwork, that slight slip was going to haunt us.

Back we went to the vet — only we were flying out for a work-related trip to India, right on the day they needed a signature from us to finalise that paperwork for the ICAD submission. The timing, as always, was impeccable!

After a pointless two-week delay, we finally got it done. And then began the now-familiar wait.

Three weeks later, we opened our mailbox to find Arya’s official ICAD card inside. Relief.

We sent it straight to the DDPP, who, as per their protocol, gave us an appointment two days before our flight. Only to be told by Indian authorities that they needed the same document five days before departure to issue the No Objection Certificate that would allow Arya to re-enter the country!

Because, of course.

While all this was happening, we were also dealing with the crate saga. Wanting to simplify life, we had ordered one online weeks in advance. But the delivery partner messed up, and despite several follow-ups, a week before departure, Arya had no crate!

In complete panic, we ran to Animalis to buy a new one off the shelf. Got the size wrong, and had to go back to exchange it for a larger size. And then to the DDPP, showing up without an appointment and hoping Dr Dhier would see us. Thankfully he not only agreed to see us two days before our appointment, he was very co-operative, and signed off on the paperwork without any fuss, allowing us to get the crucial NOC from the Government of India. Sometimes, kindness appears just in time.

And then the day came.

Arya, older now and more anxious, went into full-blown panic mode once she saw our suitcases, and resisted with all her strength when we tried to put her in the crate! Even the calming medication didn’t help. It took everything we had — patience, calming touches and comforting words — to get her inside and sent off as oversized baggage.

We made it through a painfully long border control (vive les vacances!) and sprinted to the gate, desperate to confirm that she had been safely boarded. She had. I finally boarded the flight with two sets of passports and boarding passes.

But I couldn’t relax. Not really. Not until we saw her again. The flight was a nine hour-long blur of worry.

Arrival in India: Unlike France, where she came out on the luggage belt, here in India we waited for what felt like forever before her crate was finally handed over to us. Peering inside to check on her, we found her a bit dazed, mildly annoyed, but fine. And we weren’t done yet.

One final stop at the Animal Quarantine Office, to scan the RFID chip beneath her skin and confirm she was indeed the dog we were claiming. Fortunately, the officer was warm and efficient. Within minutes, it was done.

We were exhausted, but relieved, overwhelmed. We were home. And so was she.

Our brave little mongrel was now a a survivor of customs, crates, microchips and more. Looking back, it’s hard not to notice how absurdly human this entire process felt — the ID cards, the medical certificates, the bureaucratic back-and-forth. I have always maintained that Arya is no less than a human child to me. And now, the system seemed to agree. She had effectively become a tiny citizen navigating two nations’ immigration systems. We had assigned her human-level agency and paperwork, while all she probably wanted was to be where we were.