I come out of my ayurvedic massage in Kerala all oily. I look like one of those sad birds you see sometimes after a tanker spill, feathers weighed down and shiny with gunk.

Then I look at my phone. The point of my trip to India is to look at my phone less. The ayurvedic doctor has already told me that my doshas are out of balance and suggested that I should become less of a ‘go, go, go’ person. But I look at my phone anyway because I am a hopeless addict.

I have five messages and four missed calls from the dog sitter. ‘Dennis found a sock and, before I could take it from him, he swallowed it whole. It looked small and he’s acting normal but I called the vet so they could tell me which emergency clinic I can bring him to.’

The next few messages tell me the sitter and Dennis are in an Uber to an emergency vet in Clapham, and the vet needs my permission for any treatment to go ahead. My doshas suddenly feel very out of balance indeed.

I text back that I don’t think it’s a huge problem, that Dennis eats socks (and knickers) from time to time

I text back that I don’t think it’s a huge problem, that he eats socks (and knickers) from time to time, but they always reappear later without much drama.

‘Sorry, we just thought it was better not to risk it,’ replies the sitter. ‘If you prefer for Dennis not to get checked, we can bring him home.’

I put my phone down, wipe the oil trickling into my eyes and blink in the spa mirror. It is Sunday, so the vet fee is likely to be hundreds, plus the Uber cost, but I can hardly tell the dog sitter to go home and wait for the sock to come out. What if this is the one time a sock does get lodged and Dennis needs a more serious operation? That would absolutely ruin my Kerala trip.

Don’t worry, I tell the sitter, if you’re at the vet then go ahead with treatment.

I pull some clothes on and march down the Keralan beach in fury, mostly directed towards Dennis for his undergarment fetish. The sun is setting in India and the sky is hibiscus pink. A group of young boys are playing football on the sand and shouting at one another in Malayalam, makeshift goals rigged up from spindly pieces of wood. Young couples stroll past them holding hands. A few men are still fishing, single lines trailing into the waves in the hope of a mackerel or sardine. A few stray dogs potter between them. I bet nobody fusses when they eat a sock, I think darkly.

It’s one of those rare moments when I wonder if getting a dog was a mistake. Do people with children ever wonder the same?

By the time I return from my walk, there’s another message. Dennis has been given an injection and thrown up the sock. Total bill: £430. The sitter has also sent a photo of Dennis post-vomit, standing in the vet reception, looking perfectly perky. ‘All good now, back to tail wagging.’ I text my thanks, transfer the money, then get in the shower to shed the sand that has now become glued to my oily legs. So much for being less on my phone in India; so much for soothing ayurveda.

Going away is the one thing I haven’t cracked when it comes to Dennis. I thought I had found a solution when a few months ago, a woman called Michelle from Trusted Housesitters came to stay with her poodle, but there were several pee stains from her dog on my bedroom carpet afterwards, which rather put me off.

I recently interviewed the Fifty Shades of Grey author E.L. James and brought Dennis along because we were meeting in a dog-friendly hotel, and I knew she was a doggy sort from her Instagram profile. This meant we began our chat not by talking about nipple clamps or handcuffs, but about where we send our dogs when we go away. She has two small dogs who go to a nice lady called Natalie in Surrey. ‘The trouble is they’re all so expensive,’ I murmured to the woman worth a reported £100 million.

My friend India had texted me details of another woman in Forest Hill who’s ‘only’ £35 a day. The names of such people are passed around the dog community furtively, like drug dealers.

The grandest of all is the Dog House in Wales, which has a helipad for those who need to drop Fido off quickly before hopping on the Gulfstream to Mustique. Alternatively, there’s a minibus that offers daily pick-ups from west London to cart the dogs along the M4 to Carmarthenshire, a bit like those shuttle buses that certain boarding schools put on. I haven’t enquired about the price because the helipad suggests it’ll be more than £35 a day.

Still, I’ve got a trip to Italy looming, so does anyone want a terrier in October? You’d just have to keep your unmentionables locked away.