Bonjour mes amis! Cydney spaniel ici, en France! Well, the Eurotunnel was very nice, although the dog departure lounge could have been grassier. I’m not a fan of AstroTurf. Doesn’t hold a scent very well. No one checked my passport either. Mummy passed it through the window with hers and his as we went through, but the French police laughed and said they didn’t want it. What a cheek. Mummy was cross because it cost over a hundred pounds. Hopefully they will check it on the way back so we can get our money’s worth.
The other passengers were friendly. There were a few dachshunds and a Hungarian vizsla in the dog-agility area, stretching their legs before departure. No sarcastic growls about Brexit. Apart from an Italian spinone who wouldn’t take no for an answer, everyone was perfectly civil.
What a relief to get away from the backbiting in south London, where everyone seems to be perfectly hysterical. The Greek rescue dogs on Tooting Common keep asking whether they are going to be sent back where they came from. I told one of them to give it a rest the other day. Of course he will be allowed to stay. But he said: ‘You don’t understand. I don’t want to stay. I want to be sent back. I was only minding my own business, tied up outside a supermarket in Crete, waiting for my owner to buy some washing powder, when this British lady comes along and says, “Oh, you poor dear thing! Abandoned by your owner, another casualty of the eurozone crisis!” And she unties me and takes me away and before I know what’s happening I’m on a boat, then I’m in England walking in this blasted, miserable park in the cold and rain three times a day.