The 90-Pound Loaf of Bread

The best role model for how I want to live in Portugal wasn't a person.

He was a 90-pound loaf of bread named Don.

His full name was Don Baton. Don because he was a boss. Baton because he looked like a little loaf of bread (батон). He "chose" us by biting our ankles, growling at our feet, and making it clear he had plans for us.

For the next sixteen and a half years he went everywhere we did.

And I mean everywhere.

He grew up in Kyrgyzstan, running all over the golf course, diving into water hazards, chasing anything that moved (yes, including golf balls), and swimming in Lake Issyk Kul until he could barely move. He lived his best life every day.

When we moved to Turkmenistan, we decided to drive… and he hopped in the car without hesitation as we took off from Bishkek to Ashgabat, across borders, deserts, even a pontoon bridge. He endured 50-degree summers (120 degrees to you and me) with a somewhat confused "Are you serious, dude?" look, but he never complained.

A couple of years later we drove to Kazakhstan for our next assignment, and he immediately fell in love with the mountains, open spaces, cold rivers, and endless sticks.

He also became a father, and took it upon himself to teach his daughter Gabby everything he knew about sticks, begging for snacks, and wearing pants. Yep. One of his favorite things, to our eternal confusion, was wearing boxer shorts and admiring himself in the mirror. We never figured out why, and honestly, we didn't need to. That was just Don.

Then came Texas, Don's first time living in the big, ole U.S. of A.

His head tilted slightly when we told him he would need to fly this time, but he was undeterred. Let's go, dad. His answer every time. And he was rewarded in Austin with a yard. Finally. He chased tennis balls, barked at squirrels, and carried sticks around to his heart's content.

By the time we got to Moldova, he had slowed down a bit but still introduced himself to every neighbor, child, and dog within range. The Embassy even built him a ramp so he could navigate the stairs on his own terms. Classic Don, quietly winning hearts and minor infrastructure improvements everywhere he went.

After our unexpected career pivot this year, we decided to hop in the car again, this time from Moldova to Portugal. Even though Don could no longer jump into the car… he insisted on joining the adventure. Moldova → Romania → Hungary → Croatia → Slovenia → Italy → France → Spain → Portugal. Those Airbnbs may never recover.

Sixteen years old. Achy. Tired.

Still excited about every new smell across four thousand kilometers.

He lived life the way I am trying to live it here in Portugal:

Happy.

Curious.

Simple.

And always interested in whatever food might appear next.

If I can live this next chapter the way he lived his entire life, ready for whatever comes, I will consider it a pretty good run.

Who, or what, taught you something about how to move through the world?

For me, it was a 90-pound loaf of bread who never once hesitated when we said, "Let's go."