Summer. So begins, once again, my annual pilgrimage to Europe — and the compulsory crash diet. Any more than 14 pounds and it’s off to the cargo hold for me. Alas, how many times must I be humiliated by a ticket counter ogress over my alleged extra weight?

Perhaps a bit of back story would help. My name is Renzo and I hail from an illustrious Boston lineage, although they tell me that my great-grandmother ran off with a canine from rural Arkansas. One of my earliest memories is of a flight to Los Angeles to meet my new papa for the first time. We met, as happens nowadays, on the Internet, where he vied for my attention before the tête–à–tête that changed everything. Modern love.

Thanks to him, I am now a frequent flyer, and frankly, more civilized than most. I don’t snore. I don’t cry. And I certainly don’t accost the attendants simply because I need another mini-bottle of mediocre merlot. Naturally, I am grateful to the hostesses at Air France and gentlemen at JetBlue who allow me to travel in the main cabin, neatly tucked under my papa’s feet or sometimes, undetected, under a simple shawl while dreaming of filet mignon. Especially since so many airlines treat me like, well, a common canine. (You know who you are, British Airways and Air New Zealand. Here’s looking at you, Emirates.) Can you imagine the gall they must have to ask me to suffer in that glorified jail cell they call “the hold,” with, mon dieu, les bagages?

Accommodation is also a concern. I understand that “animal hotels” are practical, but I’d almost rather take my chances on a cot in a hostel. Human hotels simply have so much more space — and a feathered pillow or two. I like to have free rein to run up and down the carpeted corridors.

I’ve been invited to stay a week this fall at Le Meurice in Paris, where I expect to be pampered with special menus and walks through the Tuileries. Paris, oh Paris, how I love thee — my breakfasts, the tiny pieces of warm croissant at Café de Flore. Cannes, I dream of your film festival: the Promenade de la Croisette, with all its stars and ex-stars, my natural tuxedo on the red carpet. A few summers ago, we went to Vienna and stayed at the impossibly chic Hotel Imperial. It was so Stefan Zweig, so me. President Clinton, who had a suite across the hall, gave me a little caramelized carrot. What a sweetheart he is! But my favorite trip? The Nile, where I linger on the cool, silvery waters of the river in a simple felucca, listening to the birds, the cicadas and the distant hum of the muezzin’s evening call to prayer.

I have traveled every possible way — by Vespa, helicopter, private plane and donkey. By rickshaw, yacht and canoe. By speedboat in Spetses and motoscafo in Venice. I have ridden the Tube, the train and the bus, and never have I been charged for a ticket. And yet, despite the exorbitant cost of flying, nary an airline will give me so much as a frequent flyer number. Throw me a bone, darlings. Or at least a rewards card.