I haven’t got a favourite child.
The very idea is repugnant to me, but I don’t know if that’s the reason I don’t have a preference, or whether it’s just a lucky coincidence. On the other hand, there’s no question who is the most popular dog in the family. And sorry, Goofy, it’s not you.
The favourite family dog in the last twenty years would have to be this one:
It’s Poppy, the remaining schnoodle. Imagine my horror then last Monday, when there was a message on the family chat to say that Poppy appeared to be in terrible distress. The joy of adult children meant that the troops were mobilized, vet appointments made, cars borrowed, and the wee pooch arrived home about the same time as I got back from work. Not some terrible abdominal malaise requiring immediate surgery but rather acute back pain necessitating strong painkillers and plenty of rest. We were all so relieved we were able to make fun of her drugged up state with light hearts, and by the following day she was almost back to normal. It’s a sad reminder, though, that she’s not as young as she used to be and we need to be more gentle with her, including protecting her from the more robust attentions of the overgrown cockerpoo puppy. Yes, little dogs live longer, but they’re also more fragile.