Gone to the dogs
I was sitting in my garden, looking fondly at an especially large and graceful group of ferns, when I heard the back gate open and a large black Lab bounded into the yard, wielding his tail rather like a light sabre, scything down everything in his path -- including the ferns.
I recognized the intruder, ahem, visitor. It was my friend Sarah's young, boisterous canine companion, Spot (names have been changed to protect the innocent). To my dismay, since Spot had come into her life, Sarah had been acting as if she'd had a furry baby. Her attention was entirely absorbed by his special food, his favourite toys and his visits to the vet.
Don't get me wrong: I like animals, except for reptiles, rodents, caged birds, squirrels and dogs the size of squirrels. However, I, as did Sarah, spent many years as a mother. It was likely the most important and satisfying work I will ever do, but my children, again like Sarah's, are now pretty much independent. So what I don't get is this: why would a former full-time parent assume the care, feeding and nurture of a creature, however adorable, who will never be able to chat about a book you both loved, never do the dishes and never send flowers on your birthday -- a creature, in other words, who will never, ever grow up? (If your dog does leave home, it's panic stations; you know Spot is definitely not headed for college.)
People who have young children often acquire dogs, ostensibly to teach their offspring about the responsibilities of caring, though I have never met a kid who actually delivered on heartfelt promises about daily walks and feeding without constant nagging. Meanwhile, once the kids have launched themselves as accountants or rock musicians, their parents remain caretakers of their four-legged child until it heads for doggy heaven.
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