By Koji Anderson
After yet another terrifying, then exhilarating experience yesterday, I believe it’s finally time I tell you what this whole Italy thing has been like from my point of view.
First of all — this is Koji.
Most of you probably know me already, but if not, my mommy and daddy are Esterina and Daren. Mommy is helping me write this because, despite my many talents, typing is apparently beyond my skill set.
It all started with the crate.
I hadn’t seen a crate since I was a tiny puppy. Back then I actually liked it. One day it disappeared, which I assumed meant I had proven myself trustworthy enough not to destroy the house while nobody was home.
Then suddenly, eleven years later, a giant crate appeared in the living room.
This one was sturdier. More serious.
Naturally, I climbed right in because I remembered the assignment. Also, every time I went inside, treats appeared. Sometimes daddy closed the door and left me in there for a while. Honestly? Not bad. Cozy enough. The crate sat next to my dog bed for weeks, so eventually I stopped questioning it.
Then one day the house became chaos.
Suitcases.
Humans moving quickly.
Doors opening and closing.
Stress smells.
And then somehow the crate came too.
I knew we were going on an adventure because suitcases always mean somebody disappears for a while. The trick is figuring out whether I’m included. I watch carefully for clues:
- Is my food being packed?
- Is my travel bed involved?
- Has someone picked up my leash?
The leash is the final confirmation. Once the leash appears, I allow myself to emotionally commit.
That day, I knew I was coming.
But something felt… suspiciously large-scale.
We all got into a huge car with a driver. Me, mommy, daddy, bags, and somehow the crate too. I sat between them while the world rushed by outside the windows.
Then we arrived somewhere unlike anywhere I had ever smelled before.
Let me tell you something about airports:
Outstanding smells.
Absolutely incredible.
Thousands of humans.
Thousands of shoes.
Old crumbs.
Fear.
Coffee.
Perfume.
Mild panic.
One abandoned french fry.
A sensory masterpiece.
At one point, some men took my crate away while mommy and daddy walked beside me telling me I was a good boy in the tone humans use when they are pretending not to worry.
That’s when I realized:
Something weird was about to happen.
Eventually they guided me into the crate and suddenly we were separating.
I squeaked a little. Not dramatically. Just enough to register concern.
Then came many loud noises, strange movements, rolling, lifting, waiting, more rolling, more noises, and an extremely long period of time where absolutely nothing made sense.
At some point the whole world tilted upward.
Later downward.
Then loud again.
Frankly, I decided the best strategy was acceptance.
Eventually the crate started moving again and suddenly — THERE THEY WERE.
Mommy and daddy.
I cannot adequately explain the relief.
I exploded out of that crate emotionally and physically although I tried to remain composed.
They tried to get me to eat and drink and use the potty, but I was simply too overwhelmed to focus on bodily functions.
Then we got into another car — this one just for us — and after a long ride we arrived somewhere quieter.
There were two ladies there.
And another dog.
His name was Rhum.
We sniffed each other thoroughly and professionally. He informed me I was welcome to drink from his water bowl, which I appreciated because suddenly I realized I was incredibly thirsty.
That was the moment I understood:
We were staying here.
Soon I was introduced to what appears to be my new life.
Honestly?
I like it very much.
There are hills everywhere, which is admittedly a little tough on my hips, but the tradeoff is excellent smells.
I have now smelled:
- olive groves
- vineyards
- medieval streets
- beach air
- outdoor markets
- approximately twelve thousand years of accumulated Italian dog pee
Daddy likes to say I am smelling “medieval urine.”
I don’t fully understand what medieval means, but I respect the depth of the scent.
The most shocking part of Italy is this:
I AM ALLOWED EVERYWHERE.
Stores.
Restaurants.
Outdoor cafés.
Little shops with meats and cheeses hanging everywhere like some kind of fever dream.
The humans speak in different words now, although honestly I never understood English either, so this has not been a difficult transition for me.
People here love dogs.
Sometimes they bring me water.
Sometimes treats.
Sometimes they bend down and call me “bravo cane,” which apparently means I am an excellent citizen.
I already knew this.
One of my favorite things is going to restaurants with mommy and daddy. They sit for very long periods of time while I rest under the table like a furry security detail.
The only issue is other dogs.
When another dog walks by, I do feel it is important to announce myself loudly so everyone remains aware of the situation.
This has not always been appreciated.
Still, overall I believe my public behavior has been excellent.
We also visit many piazzas, which seem to be giant outdoor human gathering zones filled with conversations, footsteps, pigeons, espresso, and confusion.
They are exhausting.
I often collapse directly in the middle of traffic flow to recover.
Yesterday, however, was the strangest experience yet.
We arrived somewhere with an alarming number of stairs.
An unreasonable number.
A hostile number.
I was already emotionally preparing myself for the climb when I noticed something horrifying:
The stairs were moving.
I immediately lay down on the ground because clearly this was a terrible idea.
But mommy and daddy reassured me with pets and encouraging voices, which usually means they are about to force me into personal growth.
Daddy gently dragged me onto the moving stairs.
At first I trembled.
Then suddenly I realized something incredible:
THE STAIRS WERE DOING THE WALKING FOR ME.
Honestly?
Revolutionary.
By the second escalator I was uncertain but cooperative.
By the third one I trotted right on like an experienced commuter.
I have changed as a dog.
Mommy later told people this story and her friend Sarah — Chester’s mom — apparently said, “You can teach an old dog new things.”
I was very proud to hear that.
Anyway, I thought it was time I explained what this whole Italy experience has been like from my perspective.
Terrifying.
Confusing.
Beautiful.
Exhausting.
Delicious-smelling.
And honestly?
I’d do it all again tomorrow.
Ok — this is Esterina now.
I want to pause for a moment and say how incredibly lucky we are to be able to bring Koji along on this adventure. And honestly, he’s pretty lucky too.
Koji is a rescue dog from a high-kill shelter in Tennessee. On Friday, May 15th, he turned 12 years old. As a larger dog, we’re starting to see signs of age creeping in a bit, but he is still unbelievably happy, curious, loving, and as healthy as we could hope for.
Because Daren, Koji, and I were fortunate enough to find one another — thanks to my son Tom, who originally petitioned for us to adopt him — I’ve been thinking a lot lately about giving back to other dogs and to the organizations that make stories like this possible.
That bumper sticker that says “Who rescued who?” really is true.
I recently created a small section on my website (Digital Downloads) where I’m sharing collections of digital iPhone wallpapers. Some are favorite older photos from the U.S., and others will be small collections inspired by our time here in Italy.
They’re simple instant downloads that cost just a few dollars, and all proceeds will be donated to the Cosgrove Animal Shelter in Branford, Connecticut.
If you’d like to support the joy, comfort, companionship, and second chances that rescue animals give so freely, feel free to download a photo you love.
Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!
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