Why I’ll Never Hire a Dog Sitter Again: My vacation was ruined when I learned the truth about the “friendly” pet lover I left behind in my childhood home. This was the message that made me shake…

We all love our dogs. But do we love them enough to take them on a two-week family summer holiday to Brittany?

This is the question I ask myself every August. I have succumbed several times to the ridiculous bureaucracy of the post-Brexit animal health certificate, the multi-page legal document without which my labradoodles, Otto and Goose, cannot leave the country.

This is a double whammy of time and effort, let alone the high cost and the rabies shots they require before you can even apply.

What’s more, pet-friendly cabins on the ever-popular Portsmouth to Caen route are sold out in April. I’ve missed the boat several times, pardon the pun, and wondered if the dogs would be able to fit in the boot of the Land Rover for the six-hour crossing. We tried this once. They weren’t.

So this year I felt guilty, “Let’s just leave them at home.” Of course, this only works if you can find a reliable dog sitter, but I’ve always had luck in the past. There is a fantastic Facebook group called House and Pet Sitters UK, as well as the website Trusted Housesitter, where you can advertise. Often there’s a kind of unspoken understanding that if you’re lucky enough to live in a desirable location – we’re in the center of Chichester with West Wittering and Goodwood on your doorstep – people will be happy to look after your dogs in return for free accommodation.

This summer I started my search early and was immediately swamped. I soon ended up with Peter*, a recently divorced man who had sold his family home and was waiting to buy his own.

We had mutual friends on Facebook, which is always reassuring, and we met for a few hours so I could show him the dogs’ favorite walks and go through their admittedly long list of requirements. The week before our family holiday I left for America on business, relaxed in the knowledge that everything was arranged.

But while I was away, Peter messaged me to say he’d been offered a paying job he couldn’t refuse. With less than seven days to go before our vacation, I had no one to take care of Otto and Goose. I couldn’t even decide at the last minute to take them to France because their rabies vaccinations were not up to date.

In a panic, I reread the article and almost immediately received a friendly response from a woman in her mid-thirties, Zoe*. She seemed nice via WhatsApp and tolerated my numerous ballots in which I frantically tried to cram in every detail about Goose and Otto’s routine and quirks. “Please say as much as you want about them!” she said. ‘Dogs are like family.’

This reassured me enormously. Zoe also agreed to fly in the night before we were due to leave so she could spend the evening with us and the dogs and I could meet her in person.

Stupidly, because I was super busy traveling and working, I didn’t check her references. My reasoning was that all her messages to me were reassuring. Then, the day before she was supposed to arrive, she said she had changed her flight to Saturday morning and that she might not be able to reach our house until after we left.

“But don’t worry!” she wrote. “You can just leave the key.”

Um, no. There was no way I was going to go abroad and leave the dogs – and my home – with someone I hadn’t met in person. At that point I was seriously considering staying home with Goose and Otto, but then Zoe switched gears again and said that, as it turned out, she could arrive in Chichester just an hour before we had to leave for the ferry.

I wasn’t happy with it either, but it was better than nothing. First impressions were OK. She seemed like a bit of a hippie, but then it occurred to me that any woman in her mid-30s who wandered around the world living in other people’s houses was probably a little anti-establishment.

As we drove away to the ferry, my eldest daughter, Flo, 27, told me she had been getting “bad vibes” from Zoe. “She’s fine,” I snapped, not wanting to entertain the alternative.

But over the next few hours my unease grew. I know I’m the kind of pet parent (and human) who needs more information rather than less. I’d rather be bombarded with photos of the dogs and detailed information about what they ate, when they pooped, etc., especially in the first few days.

Eventually I relax and take a step back, but anyone who leaves something precious in a stranger’s care would be the same, right? Zoe did reply to my messages, but in a frustratingly vague manner. ‘Yes, I walked them. You have to trust me.’

I felt fullness. When I expressed this concern to my husband Keith, he said, “She clearly doesn’t like authority. Stop being a control freak.”

But on day two things got even worse. I waited until the afternoon to send Zoe a friendly message asking where she had been walking and if the dogs were okay. She simply replied, “I’m just following your orders.” By now I was becoming more and more worried. I decided to send a friend to check if everything was okay. Mike, a neighbor who knows Goose and Otto, was happy to help.

Yes, this may sound like an exaggeration to people who don’t have dogs. But for us they are vulnerable members of the family. I know owners who watch Ring doorbell footage while on vacation and track the comings and goings down to the minute to ensure their dogs get enough exercise. We are intensely working on it. And in this case, I honestly think I was right.

When Mike arrived, Zoe opened the door but didn’t let him in. He kindly suggested that it might be good if she sent me daily updates on the dogs so I could relax during the holidays. “Well, I won’t,” she told him before closing the door. Now there was no doubt that I was dealing with someone who was openly hostile. In my worst-case scenario, Zoe had gone from a quirky free spirit to a psychopath.

In a last, desperate attempt to get her to see things my way, I sent a gentle but firm message imploring her to communicate more. She turned off her phone. For 48 hours. I tried calling but it went to voicemail. I sent a message. Nothing.

I couldn’t sleep. All I could think of was that there was a lunatic in my house who was neglecting my dogs – or worse.

I called Mike and begged him to go to our house and throw Zoe out. One of Flo’s friends had kindly said she could intervene, so I booked Zoe into a room for one night at a local hotel and promised Mike a case of wine if he could evict her.

It’s no surprise that she reacted terribly. “This is really awkward for me,” she ranted. She then told Mike to leave and come back once she packed her bags.

“DO NOT leave the house,” I begged him. By now Zoë was sobbing and calling me every possible name under the sun. Fortunately, the dogs were absolutely fine. Over the next two hours, Mike managed to get Zoe out of our house and deliver her to the hotel. Did I just pick an unreliable dog sitter? Or was she actually a dog lover – even though she wanted everything on her terms?

Either way, I’ll secure that pet-friendly ferry cabin months in advance next year.