Mason: Spots, Chaos, and Passports

The (Reluctant) Birth of a Travel Legend, told by Beth (his slightly exhausted owner)

Puppyhood Pandemonium

It started in the quiet, leafy streets of Sudborough—well, quiet until Mason arrived, anyway. Jude begged for a puppy. I envisioned calm country strolls and cuddles by the fire, not 3 a.m. arguments about whose sock Mason had regurgitated onto the IKEA rug. We named him Mason, after my favourite brand of gin—a fitting choice because I needed plenty of it once he arrived.

I was expecting some training hiccups. What I got was a Dalmatian who could pick the lock on the baby gate by three months. He chewed through seven pairs of Calvin Kleins, Jude’s entire maths homework, and my dignity—mostly by performing indecent acts on visiting PTA committee members’ handbags.

"Isn’t he charming?" Jude would smile. Charming? He'd just destroyed a £120 pair of trainers and traumatised Mrs Cartwright from number 23. Mason didn’t just cross boundaries; he ate them.

The Great Garden Breakout

I thought the garden was puppy-proof. Jude swore he'd checked. Yet Mason, equipped only with spots, determination, and a pair of suspiciously strong front paws, dug a tunnel under the fence like he was auditioning for a canine remake of "The Great Escape".

It wasn't a graceful exit—more muddy bulldozer than Shawshank Redemption. He popped up like a filthy, spotted mole in my home office, showering dirt across my travel brochures and interrupting a Zoom call with a family planning their dream safari.

“I see your assistant’s arrived!” the client joked, clearly oblivious to the horror unfolding under my desk as Mason methodically shredded their meticulously planned itinerary into festive confetti. It was the fastest sale I’d ever made. Apparently, nothing says “book now” quite like a crazed Dalmatian chewing the glossy images of lions.

Employee of the Month (Sort of)

As Mason grew, his escapades got bolder. Jude adored him. Of course, he did—Jude wasn’t the one scraping peanut butter off the curtains or pulling half-eaten takeaway leaflets from the printer. The final straw came when Mason, during an overly enthusiastic belly rub, danced across my keyboard and inadvertently booked us all onto a flight to Mauritius.

“He clearly wants to travel!” Jude laughed, pointing at Mason, who now looked insufferably smug. “It's destiny!”

I sighed deeply, poured another Mason's-worth of gin, and resigned myself to it. “Fine. Mason’s coming on holiday. But if he so much as sniffs anyone in business class, he’s being left in Mauritius.”

Spoiler alert: He did. He wasn't.

First-Class Infamy

Our debut at Heathrow’s Aspire Lounge began promisingly. For about eight seconds. Then Mason spotted the smoked salmon.

Chaos descended in slow motion. Mason vaulted elegantly over three handbags, one briefcase, and an astonished toddler named Toby to get to the buffet. He barked triumphantly at a platter of terrified-looking salmon slices and promptly initiated a mass evacuation of businessmen clutching their neck pillows.

“Madam, is this dog trained?” gasped an Aspire manager clutching his clipboard defensively.

“Oh yes,” I said sweetly. “Trained extensively to humiliate me at every opportunity.”

Mason simply wagged his tail, knocking over a cappuccino. The Aspire Lounge promptly revoked his membership—first dog ever, apparently. Typical Mason: always a trendsetter.

Mason’s Global Takeover (Whether the World Wanted it or Not)

Despite that rocky start, Mason became a seasoned traveller. By age two, he had:

• Nearly toppled out of a gondola in Venice (Jude took selfies while Mason barked at passing boats).

• Chased pigeons around the Eiffel Tower until we were politely asked to leave by the French police (which, admittedly, felt stylishly European).

• Lounged in sunglasses at a Maldivian resort, attracting more likes on Instagram than any of my carefully curated travel posts.

• Sulked in Val d’Isère after discovering snow could reach places snow really shouldn’t.

  
  

He’d seen more countries in two years than most people see in a lifetime. He'd also annoyed hotel staff in three different continents. But to my surprise—and mild irritation—clients adored him. Mason became a brand, a slightly obnoxious, spotted brand that overshadowed my carefully honed travel agent reputation.

Luxury Spots by Mason

Eventually, I gave in entirely. Mason’s Instagram handle—#LuxurySpotsByMason—was born on a beach in Mauritius as he lounged in sunglasses and an expensive straw hat I'd intended for myself.

Followers soared. Likes rolled in. Mason’s inbox (well, my inbox, Mason hasn’t quite mastered Gmail yet) filled with hotel invitations and luxury brand partnerships. The world loved Mason.

“Beth,” Jude said earnestly one evening, “you’re not bitter, are you?”

“Bitter? Why would I be bitter?” I smiled tightly, sipping my gin and tonic. “I just spent 15 years building my career so our Dalmatian could become more famous in a fortnight.”

Mason looked up smugly from his specially prepared grilled chicken dinner, wagged his tail, and burped politely.

Epilogue: It’s a Dog’s Life (And Mason Knows It)

Today, Mason is a fully-fledged travel influencer. Jude is his official photographer, and I’m his long-suffering manager. Mason lounges around five-star hotels, chews luxury slippers, and occasionally books family holidays by sitting on my laptop.

He remains entirely unapologetic, outrageously spoiled, and relentlessly charming.

And as much as I complain, I wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s family—spots, scandal, and all. Plus, gin helps.

Mason’s Final Word (because he insists):"I’m Mason, the travelling Dalmatian. Spotted. Spoiled. Sassy. Join my adventures at #LuxurySpotsByMason—because every dog deserves his day in first class."

(And please book your holidays through Beth at Dream.Fly.Chill, because apparently I’m expensive.)