Sophia Money-Coutts

‘No dog of mine will sleep on my bed,’ I swore, before Dennis came along. People who allowed dogs on their beds were feeble, I believed, not far removed from the sort of parent you overhear in restaurants saying: ‘Persephone, if you do that again Daddy’s going to get jolly cross.’ I’d be more disciplined. My dog would sleep in the kitchen, like any self-respecting normal dog. Dennis arrived, just ten weeks old, and on his first night was duly shut in the secondhand crate I’d bought on Facebook Marketplace for £20, from a woman who owned a mastiff called Hades. This crate was in my kitchen. Might my single status and attitude towards dogs on beds be somehow correlated, I hear you muse I went to bed and tried to ignore the pitiful mewling. Guess how long I lasted?

Two summers ago, when Dennis was a puppy, I went to the vet to get the 793 bits of paper (one-time entry only) now required to take a dog to Europe. ‘That’ll be £265, please,’ the receptionist told me. ‘What?’ I cried. ‘He could go to Eton for less!’ This didn’t seem to elicit much of a response from the receptionist (more of a Harrow woman, perhaps?), so I duly paid up and left.

Back in the day, Chelsea Flower Show was regarded as the beginning of the Season. Queen Alexandra opened the festivities in 1913, when it moved from the Embankment to its current location in SW3. It must have rained that day for there’s a terrific photo of her (dressed in black, so jolly) strolling beside several gentlemen in top hats, and all are carrying umbrellas. There was considerable grumbling about Chelsea this year, however – too crowded, too many shops, and it was sponsored by that nature-friendly marque, Range Rover. May I suggest a contemporary alternative to herald the start of summer? It’s Goodwoof. This is the two-day dog festival held in the leafy grounds of Goodwood every May.