Wild Boar Wars in Mijas: When a Quiet Dog Walk Became the Costa del Sol Grand Prix

Wild Boar Wars in Mijas: When a Quiet Dog Walk Became the Costa del Sol Grand Prix

After another week of hospitals and high drama, Michel Euesden wanted nothing more than a peaceful Friday-night walk with her Pomeranians. One enormous wild boar, four fleeing friends and several flying furballs later, tranquillity had officially left the urbanisation.

As you have probably guessed, the week that was had been somewhat fraught—to say the very least.

By Friday night, after returning from the hospital yet again and having played Florence Nightingale without the uniform, the lamp or even the courtesy of a police escort home, I was exhausted.

A gentle walk around our Mijas urbanisation with Teddy and Gracie, my two furry friends, was just about all I could muster. I declined several invitations to dinner and decided to spend the evening quietly. No restaurants, no crowds and, most importantly, no drama. Just Michel doing life solo for a few peaceful hours.

Of course, Michel without drama is like Punch without Judy, strawberries without cream or Spain without paperwork. The two simply refuse to exist independently. Three Pomeranians and Four Adopted Family Members

Somewhat naively, I ventured outside—and almost immediately bumped into my fabulous friend of more than three decades, who was walking her adopted Pomeranian with her sister and brother-in-law.

After so many extraordinary years together, we have all adopted one another as family. At this point, nobody can remember who originally belonged to whom—and frankly, nobody cares. A quick Spanish-style “Hola, kiss-kiss” was completely out of the question.

Four Marias and three Pomeranians gathered together on a street corner were never going to exchange a polite greeting and continue calmly on their way. There were stories to tell, lives to dissect and several days’ worth of adventures requiring immediate analysis.

The Poms settled obediently at our feet, apparently realising that this could take some time, while we regaled one another with the latest events.

We laughed at ourselves and at each other, as only truly good friends can, until a sudden movement nearby—and most definitely not far away enough—caused all three Pomeranians to erupt in outrage. They barked in perfect unison. We turned to investigate the cause of their consternation. And there it was.

An Enormous Wild Boar in the Street

The biggest brown wild boar imaginable was nudging and snuffling its way between the parked cars. And it was coming in our direction.

Now, having lived in Spain for long enough, we all know that wild boars must be treated with considerable respect. You do not approach them, attempt to stroke them or ask whether they have recently moved into the area. Nor do you try to reason with them. A wild boar does not care that you are tired, recovering from another visit to hospital or wearing completely unsuitable footwear. You move.

¡Vamos! ¡Corre!

Darling Sean—the man of our particular pack—scooped up Lucy, the little black Pomeranian, and ran like the wind, albeit a terral wind at that.

Whoosh! He was gone—leaving nothing behind but a faint breeze, three startled Poms and the rest of us attempting to locate our survival instincts.

I followed in my flip-flops, giving my very best impression of the Green Goddess for those among us still old enough to remember her. Unfortunately, I possessed neither her flexibility nor the Lycra unitard. On balance, this was probably fortunate for everyone concerned. Behind me came Teddy and Gracie, two flying Pomeranians whose tiny legs were moving so quickly they appeared to have abandoned the ground altogether.

Jen Demands Further Evidence Jen, however, remained standing on the street corner, staring back at the beast. Jen has always required definitive proof of everything. She should have been a forensic accountant—or possibly a pathologist. Merely seeing an enormous wild boar lumbering between the cars was apparently insufficient evidence. She wanted confirmation.

Perhaps she expected it to produce identification, pose for a photograph and sign a statement confirming that it was indeed a wild boar and that its intentions were less than honourable. Her baby sister began shouting expletives which, loosely translated, meant: “Move yourself immediately before we get charged, you stupid old fool!” Eventually, all four two-legged members of the party were running with everything we had down the parallel street towards safety. It was not elegant. There was no dignity, no glamour and absolutely no opportunity to stop and refresh my lipstick.

We looked like a troupe of demented, flip-flop-wearing whirling dervishes, pursued through the streets of Mijas by a creature that had clearly not received the memo about my peaceful, drama-free evening.

Where There Is One Boar, There May Be More Most people living in rural and residential areas of Spain know that wild boars are not necessarily solo adventurers. They often travel in groups, and where there is one, there could be an entire family nearby.

Michel Euesden’s peaceful dog walk in Mijas becomes a wild Costa del Sol adventure involving an enormous boar, four fleeing friends and three Pomeranians.

Mamá, papá, los niños, los primos… toda la familia.

At the crossroads, we delivered the two ladies and dearest Lucy safely to their house. This left Sean, Teddy, Gracie and me to venture back through the streets towards Casa Euesden. Every corner was approached with utter trepidation.

Wild boars do not come equipped with satnav, Google Maps or any apparent regard for one-way systems. Ours could have turned around at any moment—or we could have encountered the stragglers of the family party.

Teddy puffed himself up to approximately the size of a sliced loaf. Gracie marched alongside us with the confidence of a dog who has never once considered the possibility that she might lose a fight.

I crept around each bend with my heart in my mouth, wondering whether flip-flops could ever qualify as emergency survival equipment. Finally, the gates of Casa Euesden opened and we flew inside. Teddy and Gracie were safe, I was still upright and poor Sean was left to make his way home alone—presumably in urgent need of a stiff brandy or two.

Wild Boars in Residential Areas of Mijas Once safely ensconced inside, the fear subsided and my anger began to rise.

Our residential streets should be safe to walk. That was one of the things I loved most when I first moved to Spain all those years ago. The streets felt like the safest places known to mankind. Children played outside, neighbours chatted on corners and people walked their dogs without first conducting a full military reconnaissance operation. Having to race through the streets searching for safety is, as we British would say, simply not cricket. Or, to give it the Spanish treatment: ¡Esto no es normal, ni justo, ni aceptable! I do not want to see a mass culling of wild boars. I understand that they were here before us. We built houses, roads and urbanisations across what had once been their natural habitat—and then acted surprised when the former residents appeared among the recycling bins looking for dinner.

But understanding the problem does not mean that residents, pets and wild animals should simply be left to fend for themselves. Mijas Needs a Humane Wild Boar Strategy

I want the relevant town halls and authorities to accept responsibility and introduce a properly managed, humane strategy for dealing with wild boars in residential areas.

Years ago, food and water were reportedly provided in designated areas higher in the mountains. The intention was to help keep the animals within their natural environment rather than forcing them down into residential streets to forage among cars, bins, dogs and people.

Perhaps circumstances and expert advice have changed. If so, tell us what the modern solution is. What matters is that the authorities act—humanely, responsibly and before someone is seriously injured.

We need a practical plan that protects the wild boars while also allowing residents to walk through their own neighbourhoods without practising sprint starts and hurdling parked cars.

Dog Walking With Military Precision Until then, dog walking in Mijas must be planned with military precision.

We go out early enough for the sun to have appeared, but before the pavements become scorching hot beneath little paws. In the evening, we walk before the sun has completely packed its bags and retired for the night. I now conduct a complete risk assessment before leaving the house.

Dogs? Check.

Leads? Check.

Telephone? Check.

Suitable footwear for outrunning several hundred kilos of determined Spanish wildlife? Still working on that one. Sometimes I sit and wonder: when did life become so complicated? I wanted nothing more than a quiet Friday-night stroll with Teddy and Gracie. I nstead, I found myself hurtling through the streets of Mijas in flip-flops, accompanied by airborne Pomeranians, a forensic-minded friend demanding further evidence and an enormous wild boar intent on turning our peaceful walk into the Costa del Sol Grand Prix.

But this is Spain, where even taking the dogs around the block can become an Olympic event—and where the evening’s entertainment sometimes arrives uninvited, unannounced and covered in brown bristles.

So, until the authorities introduce a humane and effective solution, my advice is simple: keep your dogs close, your eyes open and your running shoes beside the front door. Because when someone in Mijas shouts “¡Jabalí!”, you do not pause to debate the evidence.

You gather your Pomeranians, abandon your dignity and run like the Spanish wind.

Porque aquí en España, hasta el paseo más tranquilo puede convertirse en una aventura salvaje. ¡Viva España—and somebody please pass Sean the brandy!