My girls are mad for a dog. They have been for almost two years. We have a menagerie of Furreal animals that bark and purr and lift up their paw on command and scare the living crap out of you when you trip over one in the middle of the night. This weekend the eldest called a family meeting to decide what type of dog to get. She watches Animal Planet ‘Dogs 101’ to stay up to date with the best breeds. Her current favourite is a Miniature Pinsher.
‘There’s no ways,’ I say ‘we have no garden.’
‘Let’s move!’ says number 2. ‘I don’t really like our house anyway.’
‘Or we can get a Chihuahua. They don’t need gardens.’ suggests Number 3.
‘Chihuahuas aren’t dogs’. I say. ‘They’re a domesticated line of rat.’
Number 3 looks horrified. ‘I’m telling Miss Ilaria. Miss Ilaria LOVES chihuahuas.’ There goes the lead part in the next class assembly.
‘What about a baby brother instead,’ I say, going for broke. None of them liked that idea. ‘Baby boys wee in your face,’ was the well thought-out reason.
The only other person who doesn’t want a dog in the household is the cleaner. ‘I don’t like dogs,’ she says to me in a severe voice, ‘I really don’t like dogs.’ They way things stand at the moment, the cleaner carries a veto vote.
I do worry that by not having pets they are missing out on a precious part of childhood. And it gets awkward when they start quizzing me about mine. ‘Three dogs,’ I have to admit, ‘And three cats and two hamsters. But not all at the same time. And we had a big garden.’
‘So let’s move!’ repeats Number 2 as if she’s dealing with a complete dullard.
A month ago I agreed to the compromise of goldfish and sent out husband and children to buy them. ‘Two at the most,’ I warned. They returned with six. Apparently they don’t survive very long, says husband. Which is true – 3 of them have already passed on to bigger waters.
A friend gave me some advice a few weeks ago. ‘You could start with the goldfish, and then the hamsters and then the cats and then the dog. Or you could just get the dog.’
2012 is supposed to be the year of the dragon. But who knows.
Rosie Rowell 