We all love our dogs. But do we love them enough to take them on a fortnight’s family summer holiday to Brittany?This is the question I ask myself every August. I have, several times, succumbed to the ridiculous bureaucracy of the post-Brexit animal health certificate, the multi-page legal document without which my labradoodles, Otto and Goose, cannot leave the country.This is a double whammy of time and effort, never mind the eye-watering cost and the rabies jabs they need before you can even apply.Besides, pet-friendly cabins on the ever-popular Portsmouth to Caen route get sold out by April. I’ve missed the boat, excuse the pun, on several occasions and then agonised over whether the dogs would be OK in the boot of the Land Rover for the six-hour crossing. We tried this once. They weren’t.So this year, with a pang of guilt, I thought: ‘Let’s just leave them at home.’ Of course, this only works if you can find a reliable dogsitter but I’ve always been lucky in the past. There’s a fantastic Facebook group called House and Pet Sitters UK, as well as the website Trusted Housesitter, where you can advertise. Often there’s a kind of unspoken agreement that if you are fortunate enough to live in a desirable location – we’re in central Chichester with West Wittering and Goodwood on our doorstep – then people will be happy to look after your dogs in exchange for free accommodation.This summer I started my search early and was immediately inundated. Quite quickly I settled on Peter*, a recent divorcee who had sold his family home and was waiting to buy his own place. Shona Sibary and her beloved labradoodles, Otto and Goose. This year she decided not to take them on the family holiday and relied on a dogsitter instead Zoe* seemed lovely over WhatsApp, tolerating my numerous voice notes in which I frantically tried to cram every detail about Goose and Otto’s routine and quirks, says ShonaWe had mutual friends on Facebook, which is always reassuring, and we met up for a couple of hours so I could show him the dogs’ favourite walks and go through their, admittedly lengthy, list of requirements. I headed off to America on a business trip the week before our family holiday, relaxed in the knowledge everything was sorted.But while I was away Peter messaged me to say he’d been offered a paid job he couldn’t turn down. With less than seven days to go before our holiday, I had no one to look after Otto and Goose. I couldn’t even make a last-minute decision to take them with us to France because their rabies jabs weren’t up to date.In a panic, I readvertised and almost immediately got a friendly response from a woman in her mid-30s called Zoe*. She seemed lovely over WhatsApp, tolerating my numerous voice notes in which I frantically tried to cram every detail about Goose and Otto’s routine and quirks. ‘Please say as much as you like about them!’ she said. ‘Dogs are like family.’This comforted me enormously. Zoe also agreed to fly in the night before we were due to leave so she could spend the evening with us and the dogs and I could meet her in person.Stupidly, because I was furiously busy with travel and work, I didn’t check her references. My rationale was that all her messages to me were reassuring. Then, the day before she was due to arrive, she said she’d changed her flight to the Saturday morning and might not be able to get to our house until after we’d left.‘But don’t worry!’ she wrote. ‘You can just leave the key.’Er, no. There was no way I was going to head abroad, leaving the dogs – and my house – with someone I hadn’t met in person. At this point I was seriously considering staying at home with Goose and Otto, but then Zoe switched gear again and said she could, as it turned out, arrive in Chichester just an hour before we had to leave for the ferry.I wasn’t happy with this either, but it was better than nothing. First impressions were OK. She seemed a bit of a hippy, but then I figured that any woman in her mid-thirties bumming around the world living in other people’s houses was probably a tad anti-establishment.As we drove away for the ferry, my eldest daughter, Flo, 27, told me she’d got ‘a bad vibe’ from Zoe. ‘She’s fine,’ I snapped, not wanting to entertain the alternative.But over the next few hours my uneasiness grew. I know I’m the kind of pet parent (and human one) who needs more information rather than less. I’d rather be bombarded with photos of the dogs and detailed info on what they’ve eaten, when they’ve pooed and so on, especially in the first few days.I do eventually relax and step back, but surely anyone leaving something precious in the care of a stranger would be the same? Zoe did answer my messages but in a frustratingly vague way. ‘Yes I’ve walked them. You need to trust me.’I was sensing bolshiness. When I expressed this concern to my husband Keith, he said: ‘She clearly doesn’t like authority. Stop being a control freak.’But on day two things got worse. I left it until the afternoon to send a friendly message to Zoe asking where she’d walked and if the dogs were OK. She replied only to say: ‘I’m just following your orders.’ By now I was getting increasingly anxious. I decided to send a friend over just to check everything was OK. Mike, a neighbour who knows Goose and Otto, was happy to oblige.Yes, this might sound excessive to people who don’t have dogs. But for us, they’re vulnerable members of the family. I know owners who hunch over their Ring doorbell footage while on holiday, timing to the minute the comings and goings to ensure their dogs are getting enough exercise. We’re intense about it. And in this case, I honestly think I was right to be.When Mike arrived, Zoe opened the door but didn’t let him in. He gently suggested it might be good if she could send me daily updates on the dogs so I could relax on holiday. ‘Well, I’m not doing that,’ she told him, before shutting the door. Now there was no question that I was dealing with someone who was openly hostile. In my worst-case-scenario mindset, Zoe had veered from quirky free spirit to psychopath.In a last, desperate, attempt to get her to see things my way I sent a friendly but firm message pleading with her to communicate more. She turned off her phone. For 48 hours. I tried calling, but it switched to voicemail. I messaged. Nothing.I couldn’t sleep. All I could think was that there was a nutter in my house neglecting my dogs – or worse.I called Mike, begging him to go over to our house and throw Zoe out. One of Flo’s friends had kindly said she could step in and so I booked Zoe a room for one night at a local hotel and promised Mike a crate of wine if he could evict her.Unsurprisingly, she reacted terribly. ‘This is really inconvenient for me,’ she ranted. She then told Mike to leave and come back once she had packed her bags.‘Do NOT leave the house,’ I begged him. By now Zoe was sobbing and calling me every name under the sun. The dogs were, thankfully, absolutely fine. Over the next two hours, Mike managed to extract Zoe from our home and deliver her to the hotel. Did I just pick a dodgy dogsitter? Or was she actually a dog lover – albeit one who just wanted everything on her terms?Either way, I’ll be securing that pet-friendly ferry cabin months in advance next year.Names have been changed