We walked, we gambolled, we breathed deeply of fresh sea air, we completed a jigsaw (a picture of pupsters, would you believe), went to a car boot sale and sampled the delights of country pubs. We ate good home cooking and drank fine French wines. We read the newspapers, sipped coffee and enjoyed long breakfasts. We read good books and enjoyed aperitifs. We got caught in the tide and had to stuff our shoes with newspaper to dry.
The pupster sniffed a lot of bottoms and ran about on the sand. He adventured in the Badger Avenue garden and rustled through dewy undergrowth. He rode in the car (wearing his seat belt) and slept in his Jet Set Dog Bag.
We were with my parents, in a familiar and slightly run down English seaside town, and slept in twin beds, but it was still a holiday. And now I’m back at work. The pupster is shut up in a tiny apartment and, when allowed out, shackled by a short lead. It feels like a prison sentence.