1. There’s no such thing as getting away from it all. 
”All” is what makes life easy and keeps you warm, dry and well-nourished. “All” is what makes a decent cup of coffee, retards the decay of foodstuffs and keeps your belongings stored in some kind of order. “All” is also what keeps you fresh-smelling, entertained and in communication with the folks back home. It’s not until you begin packing that you realise how much “all” there is to get away from, and how much “all” you must take with you to ensure your comfort in every eventuality: flood, drought, heat wave or cold snap.


2. Do Not Adjust Your Set
You should expect the disruption or suspension of all normal laws of physics on the day of your departure. Time stands still and the force of gravity increases. These changes are so powerful that you despair of ever achieving escape velocity. Objective indicators of an altered time/space continuum include endless rewriting of packing lists and five trips to the supermarket for last-minute essentials. 

This morning the back yard is moody and sullen and so am I. 

A dense grey mist presses itself against the windows, attempting to insinuate itself into my little flat. The washing I hung out days ago is still on the line drooping and disconsolate. What passes for a lawn is almost as high as an elephant’s eye. It’s certainly higher than a Fox Terrier’s eye. 

The dog, who hates wet weather as much as I do, has made just one expedition outside, driven by an irresistibly full bladder. The long grass closed over his head immediately and the only evidence of his passage across the yard was the twitching of green stems in his wake. 

We’ve all seen enough portly old gents and with arthritic, rheumy-eyed spaniels, or whip-thin joggers with greyhounds to suggest there’s some truth to the cliché that dogs look like their owners. Or that owners look like their dogs.

​When in my fifties, I got my first dog - an unusually-coloured grey and white Fox Terrier - I feared that I had become a doggy cliché myself: the dog and I both had grey hair and rather long noses. 

Ironically, I had hoped that owning a Fox Terrier might help me avoid becoming another kind of cliché – a woman of a certain age with a small, white, curly-haired dog with a composite-breed name like LackaNoodle or YuckyPoo.  
What I really wanted was a dog whose temperament would complement mine. I went so far as to complete a questionnaire which purported to assist in the matching process.

Some of the questions – allergies, activity levels, sociability – were predictable enough. Other questions were rather more left-field: What kind of amusement park ride best describes the energy in your home? (Carousel/Ferris Wheel/Log Ride/Roller Coaster); How do you react on the road when another driver cuts you off? (Slow down to give him some space/Lean on the horn/Accelerate and try to cut him off); Does drooling bother you much? (Not a bit/Not my favourite thing/I really don't like it)
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The results suggested that I’d be happiest with a Fox Terrier, a breed known for being “intelligent, outgoing, active, inquisitive and quite stylish (when groomed properly)” That sounded like me. And so it came to pass that I lived very happily with my Fox Terrier, Pete, until liver cancer and the ministrations of a compassionate vet delivered him to the Great Bone Yard in the Sky.

Now that I have a new home, my Fox Terrier Pete is living with me again and I’ve been relearning what it is to share your life with a dog. I’m being reminded that dogs are sentient beings with dreams and longings, needs and instincts who lack the opposable thumbs or the EFTPOS card which would allow them an independent life. You are therefore their gaoler, dietitian, personal trainer and significant other and it’s a lot of responsibility to shoulder. 
It requires compassion but nerves of steel withstand the mutely eloquent pleas for a snack from the dinner table, the ears which prick hopefully at the jangle of car keys, and the howls of disappointment and the Prisoner of Zenda looks if you leave home without them. It takes a hard heart to ignore the bedtime pleading to be allowed up onto the bed even when a perfectly comfortable basket and 100% wool blanket has been provided.