Two summers ago, when Dennis was a puppy, I went to the vet to get the 793 bits of paper (one-time entry only) now required to take a dog to Europe.

‘That’ll be £265, please,’ the receptionist told me.

‘What?’ I cried. ‘He could go to Eton for less!’

This didn’t seem to elicit much of a response from the receptionist (more of a Harrow woman, perhaps?), so I duly paid up and left.

My friend Jen had whispered the dogsitter’s details as if he were a drug dealer: ‘Dead cheap, just £20 a day’

A week or so after this educational trip to the vet, loitering in the ‘walkies’ area at the Eurotunnel check-in terminal in Folkestone, I started talking to a woman with a cocker spaniel called Coconut who told me furtively about a place in Lewisham which did the paperwork for a mere £100. She fished out her phone and let me take a picture of the website.

To get back into the UK at the end of this trip, I had to visit a Spanish vet and spend a further £80 on a tapeworm treatment and another sheaf of paperwork.

All in all, I decided, after driving the length of France to Catalonia and back, I’d probably leave Dennis at home next time. (I appreciate it’s not top of the government’s to-do list, but a new prime minister could curry favour with millions of dog-owners by reintroducing pet passports. Just a thought.)

Where does one put one’s dog while on holiday? My mother has been a generous and benevolent landlady in the past. She didn’t even make a fuss when Dennis nobbled a chicken. But two months ago, while I was in Seville for the weekend, there was a more dramatic incident involving a field of sheep. No harm done, just a quick chase, but the Berkshire farmer was understandably miffed, Mum lost her phone in the process of galloping after him like a hound, and I fear I can no longer trespass on her hospitality.

I once fell back on a chap called Reggie who runs a kennels just outside London. My friend Jen had whispered his details to me as if he were a drug dealer: ‘Dead cheap, just £20 a day.’ Suspiciously cheap, considering that boarding around my parts of south London usually hovers around the £50-a-day mark. If you’re away for a couple of weeks, that eats up a considerable chunk from the holiday budget. Are you one of the many graduates who hasn’t secured a lucrative traineeship with Goldman Sachs? You might consider a career in pet-sitting.

Reggie operated only via WhatsApp, no website, and was a man of few words. There came a simple ‘yes’ when I texted to ask if he had space, and another ‘yes’ when I asked if Dennis could be dropped back on a specific date.

Slightly anxious about this stranger, I went on to Google and up popped a local newspaper story about a chap called Reggie, who’d recently been charged with noise pollution and fined for having dozens of dogs barking in his back garden.

‘Is this him?’ I texted Jen.

‘Yes, but it’s just one nuisance neighbour making a fuss,’ she replied airily.

Having already booked a slot with Reggie, I felt too cowed to back out. After all, I told myself, Jen is as deranged about Isla, her cockerpoo, as I am about Dennis, so it could hardly be borstal. Reggie’s wife came to collect him in a battered transit, Dennis was shut in a cage in the back and I wept the whole way to Gatwick. Then, absolute silence for a week, until Dennis was dropped off again, seemingly happy, but stinking and with kennel cough. Reggie was out.

You need to give Trusted Housesitters a whirl, insisted someone else. As the name suggests, this is a website where you can find upstanding sorts to come and stay in your home and pet-sit while away. Pay a £119 annual membership, pop in your dates, and users on the site apply to come and stay. Everyone has profiles, as with Airbnb, so you can peruse their ratings and reviews.

I uploaded my dates for a forthcoming trip to Italy, and by the time I woke up the next morning, there were multiple applicants. A couple of  ‘remote engineers’ from Argentina; a German student; an Australian air-conditioning mechanic. I liked the sound of a lady called Michelle, a 53-year-old ‘spiritual writer’ who wanted to come and stay with her toy poodle, Leo. She had 20 glowing reviews so presumably wouldn’t burgle my house, although my mother then warned me against the idea. ‘Clarissa had a terrible experience with that website. The pet-sitters went out all day, leaving the dog, and when she got home there was wee all over the curtains.’

From the dog or the sitter? This wasn’t clear. Still, Michelle is booked and arrives next week. So here’s hoping my curtains – and Dennis – emerge unscathed. Otherwise perhaps I’ll never go abroad again. Instead, I’ll travel only to places like Bournemouth or Torquay like a lady Victorian, accompanied by my small furry companion.