Angela Mollard: ‘I’m dognostic, but you pooch people are barking mad’

Angela Mollard insists she’s “dognostic”, but suspects dog people are “barking mad”? At risk of being hounded, she says the increasing elevation of pets to human status is nuts.

It’s a dog, not a human, says Angela Mollard.

“It’s with deep sadness,” read the Facebook post, “that I wish to inform you that my son Baxter has died.”

I’d not known Deb for long but, still, she’d never mentioned she had a child. How heartbreaking. Immediately my thoughts turned to how her son might’ve died and how I might best support her.

“My beautiful boy passed away unexpectedly in my arms,” continued the post. I stopped reading and scrolled down. And there he was – her “sweet, courageous, loyal Baxter” – captured in a series of loving photographs.

Baxter, it turned out, was Deb’s dog.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen a dog anthropomorphised in recent months.

Was Colin From Accounts happy to be saved? Really? Picture: Supplied

A relative expecting her first baby published a list of instructions to friends and family ahead of her daughter’s arrival.

Among them was a request not to turn up unannounced. “Message first just in case she is sleeping or her big brother barks and gets too excited.”

Cripes, I was related to someone who could birth a dog AND a baby!

Is it just me or are dog people barking mad? I don’t want to be hounded by aggrieved pooch lovers but the elevation of canines to human status is certifiably nuts.

And not only are they referring to their pets as humans – she’s a “bitch” not your “daughter” – but the growing level of indulgence is insane.

Only this week, Dolce & Gabbana launched their first dog scent, a $160 perfume with “warm notes” of ylang, ylang, musk and sandalwood.

“I am delicate, authentic, charismatic …” begins the advertisement featuring a coiffed and fluffed bichon frisé, dachshund and chihuahua.

“Cause I’m not just a dog, I’m Fefé.”

“Actually, you are a dog,” I said out loud to the pooches who, of course, could not understand me because they are dogs. Incidentally, Fefé is not pronounced Fifi as in “Box” but fifay as in … “stupid poseur”.

For the record, I am dognostic.

I do not hate your dog and I will enjoy patting it if we bump into each other at the park.

Fefe: Dolce and Gabbana perfume for dogs.

I also like seeing you out on walks together because I’ve experienced that joy when a dog thinks it’s the smartest thing on legs when it fetches a ball (although it can be irksome when you say “clever dog” when he’s done it 400,000 times and picking up a ball with your mouth isn’t that difficult).

I concur that a wagging tail is among the cutest sights in the world.

But (and here is where I considered writing under a pseudonym) this is what I don’t like.

I don’t like when you pick up your dog’s warm poo with one of those tiny plastic bags and then you shake my hand.

Dig treats are big business. Picture: AAP

I don’t like when you bring your (uninvited) dog to my house for lunch and it licks the plates stacked in the dishwasher and you laugh and say, “Haha, you’re getting a double clean today”.

I don’t like it when your dog eats the truffled brie off our shared cheeseboard and you say: “I hope he doesn’t get an upset tummy” and then you give him some quince paste to “settle” it. Especially when it’s the Maggie Beer one and not the home brand.

I don’t like it when you drive with your dog on your lap (dangerous) or when your dog lies across the entrance to a café and you don’t make him move and instead expect me to squeeze around him.

Mostly, I don’t like it when you say witheringly that I am not a “dog person” when I quite like dogs, just not your demented, gushing humanising of your pet.

As for those of you who have sex in front of your dog, it must pain you that there’s no Medicare rebate for $400-an-hour pet psychologists. Sucks to be you.

French Bulldog Bailey takes a spin. Picture: Sam Ruttyn

Also, am I the only one who, while watching Colin From Accounts, wondered whether Colin the dog was entirely happy having his injured back legs replaced with wheels? If his barks were translated, might he actually be saying, “Oh FFS, shoot me now?”

Recently we dog sat for a week. Rufus is an adorable dog and very handsome though possibly suffering an identity crisis because his owner refuses to acknowledge he’s a groodle. Since Rufus is bigger than most groodles and his hair isn’t curly, his adoring park-frequenting fan base have been told he is a Canadian retriever. This caused some discomfort, and a rapid park switch, when someone asked for a contact number for his breeder.

Anyway, Rufus was with us because when his owners last went on holiday he was housed at a sprawling dog resort which cost the equivalent of a return flight to Europe.

His stay in a “shared suite” included “enriched playtime”, daily linen service, bath and blow dry and postcards to his owners. But not, I note, a spritz of Fefé.

We loved having him, succumbed to buying pet popsicles (18 natural vitamins and minerals) and sent a reassuring text to his Mum and Dad, sorry, owners: “Still alive. Shitting A LOT.”