'For someone who has lost their home, their income, their family, a dog might be all they have'

There’s a photograph I’ve carried since 1978 of a dog called Rowdy.

His full name was Sultan of the Moonlight Mountains, which tells you everything about the gap between paperwork and reality, because Rowdy was a working animal – 65 kilos of German Shepherd, donated to the RAF from somewhere in Middle Wallop, matched to an 18-year-old police dog handler at the RAF Police Dog School, RAF Newton, in 1978.

For eight weeks we trained together. Basic obedience, obstacles, wind scenting, attacking, attacking
under gunfire. 

I learned as much as he did in those weeks – not just patrol techniques and dog health, but something harder to name. Trust. Companionship. The particular calm of a big, confident dog that has decided you’re his person.

The chief trainer, a Mr McCaffey, came across one morning in the early weeks and nodded at something I hadn’t noticed. Rowdy was leaning against my leg. You two are going to do well, he said. He was right. 

Five years on, night patrols along the East German border. Dark forests, signals units, sleeping in tents or next to fallen trees through hot summers and hard winters.

When I went back to the UK the rabies laws meant Rowdy had to stay. I met his new handler before I left. They seemed fine. I told myself that was enough.

In the years between Rowdy and now, there have been other dogs. A collie cross called Ben. A big loyal animal called Barney. Jeb. Charlie came later – a small dachshund having the adventure of his life along a forest track in Latvia, no owner in sight. Nobody knew him. Then Charlie ran off, moving like he had somewhere to be, somewhere familiar. I assumed he was heading home, wherever that was. 

He didn’t go home. He went away to assess the alternatives, got into a few scraps, got thinner. A few days later I was walking back to camp with 60 litres of water and heard something moving fast behind me. Big shadow. I turned. Small dachshund. Tail going like a propeller. 

He came to camp, introduced himself to Jeb, barked authoritatively at the goats and bull calves, and got into my bed. Three days later the temperature dropped to minus 15. He’d known.

In January 2025 I walked out of Latvia with a sleeping bag, a Kelly Kettle, and two dogs. Eleven days. Lithuania, Poland, Germany, Netherlands. A ferry. A beach at Harwich. I had no ID. I’d been out of the country for nearly two decades. I had no address, no documents, nothing that the systems require in order to recognise that you exist.

I went to the Jobcentre. I was told I couldn’t claim benefits – too long out of the country, no ID, no way in. I walked out into the street and my phone rang. It was the council. They told me to get rid of the dogs and they’d see what they could do.

I am not a person who breaks easily. But standing on that pavement outside the Jobcentre with those words in my ear – “get rid of the dogs” – something gave way. 

Not because I didn’t understand the policy. Not because I expected special treatment. But because Jeb and Charlie were not a complication to be managed. They were the reason I had kept moving. 

I tried the homeless charities too. Same answer. Dogs are a problem. Find them new homes.

I read recently that Big Issue vendors took their dogs to parliament. They were pushing for an end to no-pet policies in temporary accommodation, working with a charity called Street Paws. 

The founder [Michelle Southern] made a point that I recognised immediately: “These are often some of the best-loved, best-cared-for dogs around, with their owners 24 hours a day.” 

And that for someone who has lost their home, their income, sometimes their family – that dog might be the only constant left. The only thing that still makes sense.

She also said this: “For them to take that brave step and ask for help, and for someone to say we can help you if you give up your dog – it’s just cruel.”

That’s the word. Not misguided. Not bureaucratically understandable. Cruel.

Read more:

• Meet the very good dogs saving lives by donating blood: ‘Dogs are so special, they give us so much’
• ‘It’s their family’: How homeless people with dogs got through the pandemic
• ‘I’m so lucky’: How one man went from drinking himself to death to rescuing thousands of stray dogs

One vendor said that if it comes to housing or the dog, 90% of the people he knows would stay on the street. I believe him. I was one of them.

Jeb sleeps on the kitchen tiles now – an old dog who knows what he needs. Charlie sleeps on Jeb, or on me, or on whatever warm surface presents itself, with the absolute confidence of a dog who once did a full survey of the available options and concluded that this was the best of them.

They are nearly 13 and seven respectively. Jeb still pulls me towards things worth investigating. Charlie still barks at things that need barking at. Forty-eight years since Mr McCaffey noticed Rowdy leaning against my leg. 

The policy needs to change. Not because dog owners deserve special treatment. Because the bond between a person and their dog is not a lifestyle choice that can be surrendered at a desk. 

It is, for many people, the last coherent thing in an incoherent situation. Ask Jeb. He’s been keeping me pointed in the right direction for nearly 13 years. He doesn’t lean against my leg so much these days. But he’s still there.

Read more from The Nomad at The Drifter Chronicles

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