How to Find Your Own Italian (That Even Your Husband Will Love)

Technically, Sid belongs to my daughter Emma. He has an Italian father and Emma bought him in Sweden in late 2022 after her first stay in Florence where she first saw the breed. She then brought him to Florence in the summer of 2023 when she came to study art restoration. And that is also the whole reason why I came here - I became her roommate who could also look after Sid.

My husband was not enthusiastic about the "get-a-dog" project. The objections were practical and many. The logistics, the vet bills, the lifestyle constraints. He made his case with reasonable Swedish efficiency.

Yet he drove for two days across Sweden to help Emma bring Sid home and three years later, he sends Sid video messages. I am not exaggerating. The saying "there is no greater bond than between the man and the dog he did not want" is so very true.

And for me these last solo seasons - when Emma went to university in England and left Sid and the Florence apartment in my care - this small grey dog became something I did not know I needed.  A talisman of joy. A schedule-enforcer. A boundary teacher. And a non-negotiable reason to close the laptop and go outside.

If you are considering finding your own Italian, there are a few things you should know about living with one:

Italian Greyhounds come with terms, and "Sheldon's" are non-negotiable.

Dinner is at 5 PM. Not 5:05. Not "in a minute". At exactly 5, the Santo Spirito bells ring here in the Oltrarno area where we live, and Sheldon begins his campaign.

Phase One is dignified: a slow untucking from his blanket, a pointed look toward the kitchen, and a quiet reminder that we have a schedule to keep.

Phase Two is deployed when Phase One fails: sitting directly beside me, staring out into the horizon with the most depressed face he can perform and with a look that says the terms of our arrangement are being violated and he would like that noted.

Phase Three involves kisses launched with surprising precision, followed by zoomies: the full-speed greyhound spin that is completely impossible to ignore, regardless of what email you are in the middle of writing.

He is my only deadline now. And I have never been so happy to honor one.

Every afternoon, Sheldon receives two, peeled and sliced, post-walk carrots. I don't know how it started, but this is not a treat; this is a non-negotiable life rule, and it is both expected and received with the focused reverence of someone attending a very important meeting.

What follows is the Carrot Coma - a phenomenon I can only describe as a deep, philosophical stillness that descends over him immediately after the last carrot has been munched. He tucks himself into the smallest possible shape in my lap and sleeps with the satisfied certainty of a man who has sorted everything important for the day. This is also his pre-dinner rest for the 5PM Santo Spirito toll.

(He is also a meticulous planner. I have, on more than one occasion, found a slightly dry meatball carefully hidden under my duvet - tucked away by Sheldon in case of hard times. You have to respect the preparation.)

The truth about Italian Greyhounds: they are the travel size version of the Greyhound breed and they are in fact a Swiss Army knife in dog form.

One moment, Sheldon is a pocketable, sofa-shaped companion. He is a warm bundle of contentment tucked into his "bar hang bag" beside me at a café, or neatly folded under the seat in front of me on an airplane without anyone possibly imagining his full length because he looks like a tiny chihuahua in his travel bag.

The next moment, he unfolds.

Because this same dog, who happily snuggles for hours during air flights or train rides, will also walk twelve kilometers through the hills above Florence without a single complaint. He transforms into a miniature athlete, marching past San Miniato al Monte and up to Piazzale Michelangelo at a surprising speed. We walk for three hours (including a caffè macchiato and lots of sniff & snoots). Twelve kilometers. Then he runs up and down our 85 steps when we come back, releasing "leftover energy".

He has, quietly and without fanfare, helped me lose 10 kilograms (22 pounds). Not because he demanded it, but because he loves a walk, and I love him, and some days the only reason you put your shoes on is because someone is looking at you with complete confidence that today is going to be a good one.

Here is something the travel guides might not tell you: in Italy, a dog is not just a companion. A dog is a social passport.

If you have ever worried about being a foreigner in a country where you barely speak the language, let me put that worry to rest. Get an Italian Greyhound and walk through any street in Florence. You will discover something extraordinary: your dog is almost more welcome than you are.

Italians do not just tolerate dogs. They adore them with a warmth that is hard to describe if you have not experienced it. Dogs stroll among the furniture displays at IKEA. They walk calmly down the aisles of grocery stores. They sit under restaurant tables as naturally as the bread basket sits on top of them. This is not the exception - this is Italian life.

At every café, bar, and restaurant, Sheldon receives a bowl of fresh water before I receive my order. Every single time. And I have never even once felt awkward dining as a single woman alone at a table or having a drink at a bar - I always have Sid as company and "ice breaker" and people always talk to us, both staff and guests. At the Italian airport check-in and security, I have watched staff members literally lie down on the floor to cuddle him. Not a quick pat - a full, unhurried, face-to-face greeting, because Italians always take the time for this kind of unconditional love.

But the most beautiful gift Sheldon has given me is something I never expected: a community.

When we go on our long post-lunch walks through the hills and streets of Florence, something magical happens. The moment another dog owner sees us, the invisible wall of being a foreigner completely dissolves. Suddenly, we are chatting. They speak to me in Italian, and I respond with my very limited vocabulary, and somehow - between hand gestures, laughter, and two dogs sniffing each other with great seriousness - we communicate perfectly.

I am learning more Italian from these sidewalk conversations than I ever did from a textbook. People tell me their dog's name, their dog's age, their dog's favorite food. They ask about Sid. They compliment his sweater. They warn me about the cold wind coming from the north. And in those small, warm exchanges, I stop being a Swedish tourist. I become a neighbor.

This is why I deeply love our long afternoon walks. They are not just exercise. They are my way of truly living my Italian life. This is when I take in the breathtakingly beautiful Florentine landscape and when I connect with other humans and their dogs. It is a fulfillment that is hard to put into words, but if I had to try, I would say this: Sheldon did not just give me a reason to go outside. He gave me a reason to belong.

I will not dwell on this, but you should know: there is no alone time in the bathroom when you have an Italian.

Wherever you go, he goes. This is not negotiable.

Privacy is a concept Sid simply does not think of. This is loyalty, expressed comprehensively and without exception. I have made my peace with it. The only reason a human sits on a toilet is because it gives the perfect position for scratching an Italian Greyhound's back.

If you have read this far and you are seriously wondering whether an Italian Greyhound could be in your future, let me save you some time: the answer is yes.

And here is something most people do not think about. Getting an Italian Greyhound in Italy could be the very reason for your first solo season. You fly here, you find a reputable breeder, and you spend your first two or three months doing nothing but bonding with your new companion. Teaching him to walk on a leash through the cobblestoned streets. Teaching him to travel on regional trains, tucked calmly in his travel bag. Introducing him to the rhythm of Italian café and restaurant life, where dogs are welcomed at every table.

It is the most beautiful excuse you will ever have to slow down, stay somewhere new, and build a routine that revolves entirely around something small, warm, and yours.

Now, one piece of advice that will save a lot of stress: keep the pee pad.

When you get an Italian Greyhound puppy from a good breeder, it will arrive already pee pad trained. This is how it is used to go to the toilet during its first 2 months in life. Many new dog owners then make the mistake of immediately trying to transition the puppy to doing all of its business outside. They stress about early morning walks, rushing out in the rain (Italian Greyhounds do not like rain), or panicking over accidents on the furniture or carpets.

Do not do this.

Keep the pee pad routine. Let your puppy do its number one and number two on the pad in a dedicated place whenever it needs to - morning, evening, middle of the night. And be sure to praise it for it like royalty. Every time. It will still happily do its business during your normal walks outside, but it will not destroy your sofa or your sleep schedule in between, because it knows exactly where to go even without waking you.

This is also how you travel with them. At airports, you simply bring a pee pad and find an accessible bathroom. Lay it down, let them do what they need to do, and continue on your way. No drama. No stress. Just a calm, pad-trained Italian who travels as elegantly as he lives.

The pee pad is not a compromise - it is the foundation of a stress-free life with a small dog. And stress-free is exactly the point.

I came to Florence the first time at twenty-three to study the language. I came back thirty years later at fifty-four to study something harder: how to build a work life that actually belongs to me.

"Sheldon" did not plan to be part of that lesson, but he was. He taught me that the best deadlines are the ones you genuinely want to keep. That structure is not the enemy of freedom - it is what makes freedom feel real. That you can be perfectly content in a very small space, as long as the space is warm, the carrots are sliced, and the walk was a long one.

He walks beside me through one of the most beautiful cities in the world every afternoon. He does not check his phone. He does not compare his walk to anyone else's walk. He is simply, completely, here.

I am learning to do the same.

I recommend one unreservedly, with the full disclosure that your husband will also fall hopelessly in love and you will both lose any remaining dignity in the most joyful possible way.

Your life will still have (some) meaning without one - but getting one takes life to the next level. A different kind of life - clearer, freer, more deliberately yours. And a reason to close the laptop on a schedule your Greyhound intuitively sets.

That life is what I have been building here in this Florentine attic along with the life wisdom from "Sheldon". Not just in my private life, but mostly my work life, where I transformed my previous web agency that was tied to a desk into a "Handbag Office" lifestyle, built not on the heavy hustle, but on a digital engine in the modern era of eCommerce that quietly works while I walk, sleep, eat or cuddle with Sid.

If this whole "finding your own Italian" lights a spark in you, but you get stuck in the "But How?", I have packaged my Sheldon-inspired work system into a free guide for any midlife woman who is ready to build her own Handbag Office.

No urgency. No countdown. Just the door, quietly open. Start with my free "Seven Days to Find Your Next Chapter" and then download the Digital Renaissance Blueprint. Come for the Italian lifestyle. Stay for the freedom 🐾🥂

P.S. Sheldon has reviewed this post. He found it acceptable, but noted that the Carrot section - while accurate - did not fully convey the spiritual significance of the afternoon ritual. He would like this officially acknowledged 🥕

For those who might have taken the title of this post a little too literally...

The great irony of my life is that I moved to Florence in 1992, immersed myself in the culture, and then went home to Sweden for Christmas - only to immediately meet the love of my life in my own country.

He is a "Swedish Viking" from the North who, in true modern Swedish fashion, built a life, a house, and raised two beautiful children with me long before we officially tied the knot in 2007.

Thirty-four years after that Christmas, he is the one who holds down the fort back north, sends Sid video messages, and supports this crazy, beautiful "Handbag Office" life from afar.

So, while I did eventually find my own "Italian"... I am profoundly grateful that I chose the Swede.