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One sharp brake at the roundabout. A scramble of claws behind you. Then silence, and you look back to find them between the seats, shaking. After a few times, they start expecting it too.
Every roundabout, you glance back. Every junction, you brace with them. Even a short drive feels longer when half your attention is behind you.
Head up. Legs locked. Panting before you've reached the end of the road. It isn't nerves. A dog won't lie down on ground they don't trust.
The snapped buckle. The torn seam. The “reinforced” cover sagging into the same gap. You're on your third hammock, and you can already guess how the fourth ends.
A blanket to stop the sliding. Another to stop the first one moving. A storage box wedged into the footwell. Then there's the clean-up afterwards: fur in the seams, mud on the carpets, and half the evening undoing the trip you just took.
The pause at the car door. The extra care they need getting comfortable. You start wondering how many more walks by the sea are left, and whether the journey is becoming harder than the day out is worth.
They never chose the car, the seat or the setup. They just jump in because you're there. What you've been looking for isn't a seat cover. It's knowing that, wherever you're heading, the one who trusts you completely is safe, comfortable and glad to be there.