A Dog’s Perspective on a Digital Nomad Holiday
The first time I heard my dog howl with such deep distress was during our first trip away from home. I had no idea she could sound so upset, nor did I realize how uncomfortable being away from her familiar surroundings would be for her. After nine years of living with Missy, my first dog, I had come to know her as a calm and content border terrier who was equally happy by my side or in her own space. So when my wife and I decided to try being digital nomads for a month, working part-time and relaxing at the beach, there was no way we were leaving her behind. Have you seen how much dog sitters charge?
Like many dogs, Missy had a fairly adventurous spirit. She enjoyed new pavements, strange smells, and meeting people. We thought she’d love our trip to France and Spain just as much as we would. How wrong we were.
Our intentions were good, but the reality was quite different. We had to obtain all the necessary documents and vaccinations, which cost us a total of £340. This included an animal health certificate for £100, two vaccines from the vet (around £70 each), and a tapeworm vaccination in Spain for £40. The flat we rented in Spain also added a £60 surcharge for having a dog. Despite these costs, we set off in a car packed to the brim with everything we needed. However, Missy quickly became disoriented, as this was a much longer drive than the usual trip to the park.
She started panting uncontrollably, and by the time we reached our hotel for the first night, her confusion only grew. There was a bidet in the bathroom—where on earth were we?
The next day, after a three-hour drive further south, Missy showed little interest in the charms of Provence, where we stayed for a week. She didn’t like the Airbnb, even though it had a generous balcony. The nearby swimming pool didn’t allow dogs, so we left her alone in the flat with her favorite meaty treats. But this time, she ignored them entirely, staring up at me with sad eyes and her ears pinned back. We tried to comfort her, made a fuss, and kissed her goodbye before grabbing the sun cream and leaving.
That’s when we heard the howl. I didn’t recognize it at first, and I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. “Is that… that’s not her, is it?” my wife asked. We tiptoed back to the apartment—something we never do when on holiday—and found that it very much was. Our guilt was immediate and overwhelming. We opened the door to the most distressed pet in the world. My wife put the towels away, and I turned on the television. We weren’t going anywhere.
Missy was thrilled to have the pack reunited. We had been apart for almost three minutes.
I used to think dogs were more portable than cats. They could go anywhere, do anything. A friend once walked from London to Spain, mostly because she liked a challenge and owned a good pair of weatherproof shoes. She took her dog, and they had a great time. Clearly, ours wasn’t that kind of hound. She preferred familiarity and routine, her days structured around predictability.
A week later, we were in Calella de Palafrugell on the Costa Brava, a beautiful stretch of coastline bathed in sunshine. Here we hoped Missy would finally feel at home. Optimism is essential for keeping the holiday mood alive, but over the next few days, we became increasingly pessimistic.
She was miserable. She didn’t want to walk anywhere, no matter how early we rose to beat the heat of the day. I persisted, and in doing so, I became the weird foreigner that locals gawked at as I struggled each day to coax her forward, pulling on the lead while she sat firmly on her haunches with the stubbornness common to terriers.
To get her back to the flat, I had to pick her up and cradle her in my arms—an act that looked tender to passers-by if they didn’t catch the frustration etched into my face.
Soon, our digital nomad experiment turned into something far simpler: Work From (Not Our) Home. We were stuck indoors, so we came up with a rota: I would work most mornings while my wife went to swim in the sea, and then we’d switch over after lunch, spending most of our days apart. The only time the dog agreed to come out with us was in the evenings, and only if she got to share the ice cream we bought.
When our daughters arrived for a week, things improved slightly, if only because they tended to sleep all morning. Missy was happy with their company, no matter how comatose they were. This freed my wife and me up to do normal holiday things together. The novelty was refreshing!
But soon, the girls became worried about Missy’s now-familiar nighttime routine—padding from room to room, riddled with insomnia, whining persistently, and refusing to be comforted. We didn’t know the full extent of her suffering, only that we didn’t want her to suffer. “Siri,” I asked, “do dogs forgive their owners?”
Eventually, we returned home. Missy ran ahead of us to the house, waiting impatiently for me to find the keys. To her delight, the kitchen sofa was exactly where we’d left it. She jumped up, turned in tight concentric circles, exhaled, and promptly collapsed. The message was clear: “Never again.”
This year, we didn’t take her away with us, but instead dropped her off at a sitter. She wasn’t happy to see us go, and we weren’t happy to leave her, but what was the alternative? Besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder, no?
People Who Like Dogs Like People Who Like Dogs by Nick Duerden is out now, published by John Murray.
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