The Airport Pickup Ritual (CPH, on Mama)

🇩🇰 The protocol when Mama returns from a trip: I am parked at the kiss-and-fly drop-off at CPH Terminal 3 in the back of the wagon. Papa is at the wheel. I do not bark when she comes through the sliding doors. I do not jump. I do not strain the seatbelt harness. I supervise her approach.

The first sniff is at the back hatch when Papa opens it. This is the diagnostic. I am looking for: another dog she petted (concerning), an airport carpet (forgivable), a foreign cheese (suspicious), a Samoyed she met in the lounge (unforgivable). The verdict is delivered through the tail.

This trip the verdict is: she petted a dog. A husky, I think. The tail is at half mast. I will require additional reassurance over the 24 hours that follow. The reassurance will take the form of: lap time on the sofa, an extra walk around Søerne, and the ham off her open-faced sandwich at lunch. She knows the protocol.

(For the record, I have done this ritual 47 times in 2026. Mama travels for work. I have learned to read the calendar. Tuesday is suspicious. Saturday is for me.)