PET TALK

“Sooooooo cute” are words that follow me down the street. Having long since become invisible to wolf-whistling workmen, don’t imagine for a second that these words are directed at me. No, they are uttered by any one of my three children whenever they spot a small pooch or pup. The pressure to get a dog is hotting up here as we draw towards the autumn. This is because I uttered the foolish words ‘we’ll see’ when pressed and when pushed said ‘maybe after the summer’.

I think I want a dog too, only I’m not sure. What worries me is that if you love dogs you can’t live without one, or so I am led to believe, and so far I’ve managed just fine. The Father of the Children is dead against the whole idea.

“I’m not picking up dog turds,” he says defiantly.

This from a man who has a photograph on his desk of a pet beagle he had when he was a boy.

I have a theory that the Father of the Children is suppressing his need for man’s best friend and that once he hasd his heart, torrents of canine love will flow. We have to trick him into an admission and the children and I are doing this by pointing out each different breed of dog to him and gauging his preferences by a process of elimination. We know that he absolutely doesn’t want a large dog. It mustn’t be a smelly dog. He’s not that against schnauzers but wouldn’t even consider a dachshund. He doesn’t mind if we get a scruffy dog from a Dog’s Home but it must at least be pretty.

In fact, the likes and dislikes of the whole family are confusing the issue daily. Flo wants a small dog because she doesn’t like it when they jump up. Max, bizarrely, fancies the idea of a pug, and is slightly obsessed with being able to hold it in his hand when it is a puppy. Bobby just wants dozens of puppies running around being adorable like in 101 Dalmations and doesn’t care what breed they are.

I, on the other hand, am slightly nervous that I don’t want a dog at all. When I say it will be good for me to take it for walks, that it will be company for me when I am alone in the house all day, what I mean is that I secretly want something new to mother and that thing possibly isn’t a puppy.

Later that night I talk to the Father of the Children about my dilemma, starting with the children.

“You know they’re terribly keen to get a dog,” I say, nervously.

“Hurrumph,” he replies.

“I was thinking...” I falter. “Perhaps what I want though is another baby.”

The Father of the Children looks up from his paper, his eyes wide in horror. He looks at me as if my head is spinning around and I am spurting green gunge.

So I took that as a ‘no’. I realise it was rather a good ruse. Offering him the option of dog versus baby, a dog seemed like a lot less trouble.

We are currently continuing our research into the whole doggy world; Flo is keeping notes. When we’ve read the books about how to choose it, how to prepare for it, what to tell the cat etc., we’ll make our choice. My decision is to be silently and secretly prepared and to bring one home - a fait accompli. Don’t worry I won’t become miraculously pregnant too. No, what we need is a dog. Hurray for the canine breed!

Life in the Slow Lane is written by Clare Kent. She has three children - Max is eleven, Flo is eight and Bobby is nearly seven - and lives in Wiltshire.

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