A smuggler's life for me?

Ho Ho Ho and a bottle of Spanish port, dogport.

Everyone is at the beach, at least everyone I know in Seville, which is five people at the moment because in August this place is deserted.

The dilema is, shall I risk smuggling my dog, Pepa, a Westie, on the bus this Thursday? If I don't then I'll be stuck at home all weekend while my lady and her family sun it up, and I'll be left here socrching in the Sevillian heat. I have a special doggy carrier bag that I'm going to disguise with my t-shirt.

I've never tried it before, never had to, but what if I get caught?

Here's my worst case scenario.

I make it on the bus. Pepa has kept still and I've managed to get past the driver and have a free seat next to me, I relax. But half way through the journey a chubby Spanish grandmother, who is petrified of dogs, especially Westies because when she was seven a Westie attacked her favourite doll, has to sit on the only free seat, next to me.

She squeezes up, making me shift over, and peers down between my legs.

Then she screams.

'HAY UNA PERRA, HAY UNA PERRA, ME VA A MORDER - it's going to bite me.'

'Shit,' I mutter. The driver storms over.

'You have to put it underneath,' he says, pointing towards the door.

'I can't, it's over 40 degrees, it'll die.'

'Well you have to get off the bus.'

'But we're in the middle of an abandoned village, how will I get back?'

'Me va a morder,' says the abuela.

'You have to get off the bus,' says the driver. Everyone else starts to tut and moan, and they force me off the
bus.

Then I have to pay 100 euros for a taxi to the beach.

That's my worst case scenerio, my best is that I'll get away with it, either way, log in next week to find out what happened.