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The Guardian
3 days ago
- The Guardian
Should you take your dog on holiday? We went on a European road trip with our border terrier to find out
When, two years ago now, our dog sitters cancelled on us just 24 hours before we were due to go on our summer holiday, we felt more than a little put out. Aware that we couldn't leave Missy, our border terrier, home alone with a tin opener, we sent out frantic texts and made urgent phone calls before at last finding someone, a friend of a friend of, I think, another friend, and simply hoped for the best. What else were we to do? The flights were non-refundable. It all turned out fine, but it was not an experience we were keen to repeat. And so, the following year, we took Missy with us. Dogs are portable, after all, and have a nose for adventure. Also, this was to be an extended holiday, away for a full month – working part time in order to fund it – and we couldn't be apart from her for that long. Missy had grown bored with our local parks, so I thought she would enjoy the break. Isn't hindsight a wonderful thing? My wife and I set off in a state of high excitement – our girls waving us goodbye, then promptly disappearing inside to plan illicit parties. As we drove first to France, where we were to spend a week, and then to north-eastern Spain for three, the dog sat bolt upright for the entire journey, panting heavily, her tongue practically down between her knees. At each motorway pit stop, she pulled me towards unfamiliar smells with an urgency that bordered on the deranged, and then, once we had arrived, she remained in a state of perpetual confusion. If we were enjoying the novelty of a new neighbourhood, a new language, and alfresco meals that ran late into the evening uninterrupted by Netflix, Missy didn't. Seeing her tail tucked tightly into her body, I became convinced she'd sunk into a depression. The dogs she encountered during our daily walks were baldly antagonistic towards her (revenge for Brexit?) and she took to hiding between my legs. This was not good. Just like Withnail and I, it felt increasingly as if we had gone on holiday by mistake. A decade into our first experience of dog ownership, we had come to feel a certain relief that Missy was one of the good ones: calm, not easily riled, gloriously uncomplicated. She had no separation anxiety, was good off the lead, and always happy. But when I speak to Simon Wooler, author of the dog training guide More Than Just a Dog, he explains that travelling with animals is rarely straightforward. 'There are a lot of issues that might not initially occur,' he says. 'Like, does your dog travel well? Are they prone to travel sickness?' France, we were quick to learn, would prove hostile towards Missy, its green spaces flaunting NO DOGS signs, the locals frowning whenever she squatted to relieve herself. We were staying in the hilltop village of Saumane-de-Vaucluse, Provence, by a golf course we had no interest in using, but with a pool we very much did want to enjoy. Missy wasn't allowed near the water, and so we left her indoors. That she refused the familiar parting gift of a meaty treat was surprising – she just pinned back her ears, and slunk away. She'd never done that before. 'It's the unfamiliarity of the place,' Wooler tells me. 'It might have been causing her anxiety.' Clearly. When I went back to check on her, my walk was accompanied by the intriguing sound of howling, and I immediately came over all Chris Packham: were these French deer? A Provençal owl? An ancient tribe of Gallic wolves? I then realised that it was coming from her, my inconsolable chienne. The next day, we set up Zoom on the laptop to monitor the situation. Again she refused the offer of a treat and, as we bid her goodbye, she walked off to face the nearest wall. Within 10 minutes of our departure, she began again to howl, like Kate Bush on Wuthering Heights, necessitating one of us to rush back to her, full of guilt and apology. We ended up taking turns staying in with her while the other went to the pool alone, which might have proved interesting if this were The White Lotus, or we were swingers, but it simply meant that we were spending most of our days apart. In the evenings, because she wasn't allowed in restaurants, we took to eating takeaways on park benches. As desperate people tend to do, we told ourselves that things would get better. We would be in Calella de Palafrugell, a pretty coastal town 80 miles north-east of Barcelona, for three weeks. Here, she would have time to settle; also, the imminent arrival of our daughters might help. But, no. She wasn't permitted on the beach, and didn't want to walk. The fierce breeze that whipped through the flat each afternoon slammed doors and shutters as it went. She did not like this. At night, riddled with insomnia, she would sit by our bed whimpering, then refuse any comfort we offered. The night a bat flew into the bedroom, sending each of us screaming in different directions, did not ameliorate the situation. Occasionally, we tried to behave like normal holidaymakers, visiting churches, cathedrals, shops. But each time, I had to remain outside with her. She didn't like the pack parting, wanting us all to keep together. On the day we drove to nearby Girona, there was a sudden spike in the temperature – 38C said the sign outside the pharmacy – and so we searched frantically for shade, pouring bottles of water over her, while I Googled 'dog heat danger death'. If each of us was counting down the days until our departure, Missy was counting them quicker. When at last we got back home, she made a beeline for the kitchen, and waited impatiently while I unpacked her cushion, then flopped down on it, curled into a comma, and let out the most operatic sigh. Sign up to The Traveller Get travel inspiration, featured trips and local tips for your next break, as well as the latest deals from Guardian Holidays after newsletter promotion 'Should it have occurred to you that she wouldn't enjoy it? No,' says Wooler, kindly. 'Some dogs do enjoy going on holiday with their owners, but others might not. They may need medication first, or to go away for less time. They may simply be happier left at home, with friends or family. Remember that they won't be missing out if you don't take them with you.' This year, we'll send postcards. Taking a dog on holiday is not wrong, but bear in mind that they will be in unfamiliar places, and might be feeling somewhat conflicted. If the holiday requires a long drive, then take a few preliminary drives first to gauge whether they get travel sickness. If they do, there is medication and sedatives you can buy. Do some trial runs to unfamiliar places, to see how they fare, and then extend those distances over time. This is much easier with a puppy, but not impossible with adult dogs. Make positive associations with new places by filling them with fun games and nice treats. Ultimately, whether your dog will enjoy the holiday as much as you depends on its personality. 1 Microchip your pet. 2 Vaccinate against rabies. 3 Get an animal health certificate from your vet. 4 Get tapeworm treatment for your dog. 5 On arrival, go through a travellers' point of entry, to show proof of each of the Wooler People Who Like Dogs Like People Who Like Dogs by Nick Duerden is published by John Murray Press (£10.99). To support the Guardian order your copy at Delivery charges may apply
Telegraph
27-05-2025
- General
- Telegraph
After 40 years as a cat person, I've abandoned them for dogs
When we got our first dog in 2015, there was much talk within the media about the scourge of loneliness and social isolation. The more time we spent on our phones in this modern world, the less we knew how to interact in real life. And we were suffering accordingly. But thanks to Missy, a border terrier I sourced, as it happened, on my phone, I found that people are still only too eager to talk to strangers; they just need an excuse to do so. And nothing quite facilitates easy conversation better than walking your dog in a park. I was in my mid-40s when we got her, and she was, at least initially, an unknowable thing to me: over-friendly, over-eager, tauntingly tireless. I'd previously been a cat person, drawn to their aloof independence, and the fact that they could treat you the way Zsa Zsa Gabor occasionally did her husbands. I liked that, for some reason. The dog, in comparison, was a love bomb, always exploding in your face. She arrived at a stage in my life – specifically, midlife – when I was beginning, with palpable relief, to extricate myself from certain friendships, while lamenting those that just seemed to unravel of their own accord. But the dog then led me, without fanfare, into an entirely new social circle, comprised of people I'd never have encountered, much less befriended, without her. Over the next 10 years, she would open up the world in all sorts of ways, a beguiling companion at home, and a perpetual liability outdoors. She'd require me first to interact with strangers, then apologise to them as and when needed, which was often. Like the time she knocked a little girl flying while in pursuit of a pigeon, her mother distinctly unimpressed, or the homeless man whose Greggs' sausage roll she daringly swiped. I'd routinely watch her waltz off with total strangers simply because they had better treats than me, and occasionally stood helpless as she darted out into oncoming traffic because it seemed a good idea at the time. Life with her has been complicated, certainly, but rarely dull. Find your tribe In the small neighbourhood park I'd previously blithely ignored, I found endless drama and incident, and fell in with people who were young and old, and from every conceivable background, each eager to connect. It was here where a graffiti artist, with a limping pug, offered me an unsolicited TED talk on the benefits of investing in bitcoin one morning, while on another I walked with a stoned martial arts enthusiast – barefoot alongside his majestic Akita – to help him look for his shoes, 'which I seem to have misplaced'. I watched arguments erupt and quickly settle, new love blossom, and offered solace to those for whom it had ended. People with dogs seem to talk more openly than those without. While our pets mooched about us, they shared their anxieties, the trials of menopause, their myriad gripes and grouches. It felt lovely to be taken into quite so many confidences, and we became a community. True, I don't think any of us ever met outside the park, and we didn't always learn each other's name quite as quickly as we did the dogs', but within here we had each other's backs. When, for example, the man with Alzheimer's continued to turn up long after his own border terrier had died, and advancements in his condition became increasingly evident, one of us always silently volunteered to walk him home again afterwards. And when we encountered an emotional woman crying into her poodle's fur, the group offered her refuge from her abusive relationship, then helped her to break free from it completely. If ever I lost faith in humanity, I need only come back here to see it restored. Train your dog to obey I would come quickly to learn that getting a dog is much like having a baby. Everyone has an opinion on how you are raising it, and are quick to tell you where you're going wrong. 'Get a firmer grip,' they said. 'Teach her to obey you.' 'Ha,' I replied. 'Good one.' One July, we went to the river to cool off, only to watch – horrified – as Missy was swept away in the water's current in pursuit of a tennis ball that hadn't been thrown for her. The further she drifted, the louder we cried. A crowd gathered. 'You want to control her,' someone chided. 'That's my dog's ball,' said another. We called out to her, but she suffers from selective hearing. Her focus was entirely on the ball. The more she tried to bite it, the further away it bobbed. You'd think she'd give up, but no. Terriers. A large cruise boat loomed into view. This was getting serious. My wife spotted a kayaker, and pleaded for his help. Cheers rose from the crowd. We'd become the afternoon's entertainment, folk abandoning their barbecues to watch. The kayaker paddled fast, grabbed her, then clamped her tight between his thighs. In this way, a life was saved. The reunion was tearful, the kayaker awkward amid the gratitude. And then the cheers turned to jeers. Missy had waded back into the water. The tennis ball was still out there, unclaimed. 'That's my ball,' the lady next to me said again. Be in the moment It's an unavoidably sad fact that our animals age much faster than we do. When Missy was a puppy, I was still clinging hard to youthful energy levels, but both of us have been through much in the intervening years – existential crises (me), clogged anal glands (her) – and it shows on both of us. We've each got grey in our muzzles, both increasingly set in our ways. And our daily walks have become a battle of wills. We don't meet with the same crew any more – some have moved on, a few have died – and Missy doesn't like the newer arrivals. There've been incidents, fights. And so now we head elsewhere. But while I turn right, she veers left. Often, in the middle of the road, she will simply stop, impervious both to the encroaching traffic and to my pulling on the lead, happy to allow her neck to extend like a giraffe's in order to exert her will. I try to stare her out, but she doesn't blink. She leads me instead to a nearby cemetery, where it's quieter. Here amongst the gravestones, I contemplate my mortality while she sniffs every blade of grass at least twice, then lies down. Time slows. At first, this tested my patience greatly – I've things to do, deadlines to meet – but now I've given into it, embraced the mindfulness of it all. Away from my desk for a blessed hour, I take in the trees and the birds, and I feel almost, almost, at peace. Of course, the moment we get home, all is forgiven between us. Her eyes brighten, her tail wags, and she smiles up at me (I swear she smiles). Truly, I'd be lost without her. She's my constant companion, my significant other.
