At least my spoiled dog can’t grow up to a be a sociopath | Matt Welch

Have you ever heard a colleague talk about their life at home with kids? So have I and we both know how it goes, writes Matt Welch.

Bonds are thicker than blood.

I hear the low drone of a 1980s keyboard in my head as I step out of my car after a long day at work.

My weary state developed throughout the day causes this drone effect, but it begins to lift as I reach for the front door.

I give the knob a twist (pause) and the Mike and the Mechanics 1985 hit, All I Need is a Miracle hits me right between the eyes as my thick lensed, nerd like glasses focus on my daughter, Wilbury the Boxer doing the curved banana dance at 10.40pm having just witnessing my prescience.

Are dogs considered your children?

You’re damn right.

Coming home to his dog Wilbury is the highlight of Matt’s day. Picture: Matt Welch

Dogs deserve to be celebrated too. Picture: Matt Welch

I recently read that a dog’s death isn’t seen in the same light as a humans, according to columnist Angela Mollard.

As a man that takes regular baths (ultimate relaxation and creative booster, another topic, another day), and been brought to tears by the thorough thought of the eventual death of his dog, I very much beg to differ.

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Ain’t it funny? In two minutes of love making you can become a parent.

You’ve just created another outstanding product of the human race that doesn’t pull up into the middle of the intersection to only let themself through on a right turning arrow, which in turn proceeds to tear every ligament in my pointer finger as smash it into the windscreen and use every word under the sun to describe your top tear self, or you’ve just created another yappy screaming kid on the plane that’s tantrum filled feet feel like they’re trying to recreate the drum opening to Van Halen’s Hot For Teacher on my lower back.

Wonderful stuff!

You’ve done it. You’ve created another life that society now has to endure and respect due to its human stature.

But hey, my four legged, obedient pup who waits on the edge of the pathway to let people by, has never destroyed a single bit of furniture or shoe and always drops her head onto my shoulder which I can feel the appreciation and love through when being cuddled isn’t considered my “real” daughter?

Blood lines are overrated. Taming a wild beast is much more of an accomplishment. Your caveman/woman brain knows it.

Have you ever seen a friend or colleague talk about their lives with kids at home?

That thumb and pointer finger with the rest of the fingers curled up as a shield goes over their eyes suddenly and hits their sweaty eyebrow so you can’t see that Jaws-like eye roll and dead gaze which will give away their agitation immediately.

Who could say no to Wilbury? Picture: Matt Welch

Is the Saints scarf too much? No, no and no. Picture: Matt Welch

And as their vocal range goes up an octave and they say “oh it’s great having kids” you just know they’re saying what they have to.

In reality, when you hit back with – you’re taking your dog out for a walk on the beach, at low tide with a bag full of beers, Eagles blasting in the headphones, and the cool weekend night air hitting your face – you can almost hear the scream of Quint in Jaws as he’s devoured and dragged into a sea of red through their eyes.

Now look, if I ever became a parent, I’d love to have a daughter. Immediate child abuse as I’d make her a mandatory Saints and Knicks fan, but I would love to see her kick a footy, shoot a basketball and bond with friends and teammates, but also have the brains to do whatever she pleases in life – like the strong women in my family that rule the roost already do.

But to diminish a dog owner’s love is silly.

If you’re met with an untrained dog and that’s all you see, I can understand the annoyance. But let’s be real, a spoiled dog is a million times better than a spoiled child.

At least a spoiled dog can’t grow up to be a sociopath, unlike the spoiled child.

As I ran my dog on the beach today (they need two walks or runs a day people), the light hit her little peanut like head as she ran the ball back to me.

One of my favourite artist’s Donna Summer’s hit ‘This Time I Know It’s for Real’ played through my headphones and I knew, which I’ve always known when I picked her up from the litter, when I had the choice of several other puppies to pick from.

I knew my love for her was real and it always will be.

Matt Welch is a dog-loving homepage editor at The Advertiser.