Tim Dowling: is the dog about to die or does it just hate being on holiday?

Then it begins the first of a series of hysterical figure eights through both rooms, tail wagging, pausing only to drag its back paws along the floor.

It is wounding to be immediately identified as the dumbest of all creatures – a tourist “This dog is gonna die,” says the oldest.

While the dog twitches and jerks in the youngest one’s arms, the oldest one puts his phone on speaker and holds it out as it rings, making it clear he will not be doing the talking.

The voice provides another number, which is how we find ourselves haunting the dim reception area of an out-of-hours vet in a seaside town on a Saturday night, with the dog now pacing out exhausted figure eights.

When the vet is finally free we crowd into his examination room to watch the dog walk around and sniff the corners.

Later, at the pizza place, we struggle to absorb the idea that what we witnessed – which at the time a seemed clear case of demonic possession – was quite possibly a dog having a back spasm.