Dog Sitter Savings: £3k Holiday Fund Over Kennel Costs

The Great Doggy Day Care Dilemma: Why I’m Choosing Flights Over Fido’s Fun

For many, the decision to send their beloved canine companion to day care is a no-brainer. It’s about ensuring their furry friend is stimulated, socialised, and cared for while they’re busy with life’s demands. But for me, a proud owner of a seven-month-old Patterdale terrier cross named Sunny, the thought of shelling out for professional doggy day care simply doesn’t compute.

And it’s not for the reasons you might expect. My adoration for Sunny is, frankly, off the charts. He’s become my shadow, my confidant, and the furry face that greets me with boundless enthusiasm after a long day. However, my reluctance to embrace doggy day care stems from a far more personal, and perhaps a tad selfish, place: my priorities when it comes to spending my hard-earned cash.

When it comes to travel, I’m a serial offender. I can book a £1,000 flight to a far-flung destination without a second thought. Splashing out on a lavish meal with friends? That’s a regular occurrence. But paying £50 a day for someone else to offer Sunny a day filled with cuddles and playtime? That’s where I draw the line.

My perspective on spending has undergone a significant shift, particularly since a bout of serious illness at the start of 2025. It was the kind of illness that forces a recalibration of life, emptying calendars and shrinking the world to the confines of hospital appointments and quiet days at home. Holidays were cancelled, birthdays missed, and those spontaneous weekends away – the very essence of being 25 – were put on hold.

As I slowly navigated the path to recovery, Sunny entered my life. He was a furry beacon of comfort during those slow, recuperative months. We spent countless hours curled up on the sofa, interspersed with gentle strolls around my South East London neighbourhood. He provided a much-needed focus, a distraction from my own health concerns, and a reason to engage with the world again.

With my strength returning, so did my yearning for the experiences I’d been forced to forgo. Last September, a planned trip to Sydney to visit my best friend was scuppered by my ill health. So, when my consultant finally gave me the all-clear in January, rebooking was an immediate, almost instinctive, decision. Price was no object; the only thought was “confirm.”

“I deserve this,” I told myself, and I truly did. This sentiment, however, began to morph into a broader financial philosophy. Since then, my travel itinerary has expanded rapidly. I’ve booked a trip to New York for a friend’s wedding in April, a journey to Los Angeles to see another friend who’s relocated abroad, and a late-summer escape to the south of France. Even a short Easter break involved flights costing around £500, and long-haul returns are, to put it mildly, eye-watering.

Add to this a penchant for weekend getaways – including two consecutive trips to the picturesque Cotswolds recently – and my annual “trip fund” is rapidly approaching a figure I’d rather not dissect too closely, but it’s certainly hovering around the £3,000 mark.

Yet, when I explored options for a dog sitter during my 10-day absence in Australia in January, the £500 price tag felt utterly outrageous. £50 a day to look after the creature I profess to adore above all else? Absolutely not.

The Village Mentality: Leveraging My Support Network

My reasoning is simple: why deprive myself of enriching experiences when I have a readily available network of friends and family who are more than happy to step in? As the saying goes, it takes a village, and I’ve certainly been leveraging mine to its fullest.

During my recent trip to Australia, Sunny stayed with my two housemates. They are incredibly generous and patient individuals, but the entire trip was tinged with a sense of worry – both for Sunny’s well-being and the underlying guilt of essentially turning them into unpaid dog sitters. This feeling resurfaces even when I leave him at home to go to work, but the financial implications of three-times-a-week doggy day care are simply too daunting to contemplate.

The cost of dog care varies significantly across the UK, but in London, where I’m based, prices are among the highest. Day care sessions can range from £50 to £60 per day, with overnight boarding potentially reaching £70. This is a considerable sum, especially when compared to the £35 return flights to Italy I was recently considering for a weekend trip. And with what some are dubbing “dog-flation,” these prices are only expected to climb.

A Practical, If Slightly Selfish, Solution

Recently, I made a rather practical, albeit tinged with selfishness, decision. Sunny now resides at my parents’ home in Bedfordshire. Following the heartbreaking loss of our family dog, Reggie, on Christmas Eve, my parents were more than willing to welcome Sunny into their lives. They relish the company, and I find immense comfort in knowing he is safe, loved, and well looked after. Crucially, they do this for free.

This arrangement grants me the luxury of seeing Sunny on my own terms – during evenings and weekends – while my parents manage the day-to-day realities of dog ownership.

I won’t pretend I don’t feel a twinge of guilt about effectively prioritising flights and personal freedom over Sunny’s constant presence. However, I simply cannot reconcile myself to handing over my hard-earned money for a job that, at its core, involves cuddling dogs all day.

Emotionally, Sunny is priceless. Financially, however, he currently occupies a firm spot in the “avoidable expense” column.

The New Financial Philosophy: Experiences Over Accumulation

My illness fundamentally reshaped my relationship with money. When your freedom is curtailed, experiences suddenly take on an urgent significance. The warmth of the sun on your skin, the invigorating sea air, the simple act of moving through the world – these transform from mere Instagram-worthy moments into tangible proof of life. Money ceased to be a resource to be hoarded for a distant future and became a tool to be actively used in the present.

Yet, this period of recovery has also fostered a streak of financial denial. The mantra of “you only live once” echoes constantly. Money is there to be spent, I tell myself, and at 25, unattached and with the world at my feet, I should be exploring it. While these sentiments hold true, I’m also quietly making sacrifices at home to fuel this pursuit of freedom.

I admit to a degree of apprehension about my long-term financial trajectory. But for now, I’d much rather invest thousands in chasing sunsets across different time zones than hundreds in paying someone to do a job my parents are more than happy to undertake without charge.

Perhaps this makes me financially inconsistent. Or perhaps it’s simply a reflection of my age. Or, more profoundly, it might be the natural consequence of an illness that starkly reminded me of life’s fragility. Suddenly, flights feel essential, while almost everything else becomes negotiable.

Sunny will always be mine. I continue to cover his veterinary bills and insurance, even though he lives elsewhere. But for the foreseeable future, my discretionary spending will continue to fund boarding passes, not boarding kennels. My hope is that when I look back on this chapter of my life, the memories of experiences will far outweigh any perceived financial compromises.