Alice Coster: Do you love your pet enough to claim them in a prenup?

There are two types of people in this world: animal people and those who are not — and you can tell a lot from a person by the way they treat their pets.

While the world might be in an identity crisis, in reality we all boil down to just two types of people.

Animal people, or not.

You can tell a lot from a person by the way they treat their pets. Equally so for those who are repelled by our furry friends.

Just recently at a cocktail party I found myself talking to a well-known sporting hero bemoaning picking up all the dog poo in his backyard. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he whinged.

But the recent burglary spate around Melbourne’s inner city meant Victoria police had advised the family to get a guard dog to ward off would be intruders, youth crime and all.

So poo it was.

But it didn’t take far into the conversation to establish he was an outside dog person.

You know the ones, the OCD-clean house, the leave-your-shoes at the front door, the put-the-water-glass-straight-in-the-dishwasher, the colour coded bookshelves, the anal retentive types.

But one thing usually missed in their Dyson-vacuumed home is the telltale nose smear on the backdoor window pane. A sign of the outside family pet’s snout pushed up hard, ever hopeful for a look inside and to be part of the pack.

Some pet owners don’t like picking up dog poo.

To be honest, I’ve always looked down my own nose at outside pet owners and consider it a clear indicative you are a bit of an a-hole. Harsh but true.

As a child I considered it downright barbaric that a neighbour had declawed her cat. She did it, she said, because it was scratching the kids.

But we all knew it was because the poor puddy was scratching her “good” furniture.

The outside pet people theory also doesn’t factor in those in the country who use their dogs to actually work, not like the little inner city hounds and French Bulldogs, who have more allergies and dietary concerns than the average north-side child.

Our own cat jumps up nonchalantly on to the kitchen counter for a casual sniff and leaves a bottom imprint like she owns the place, which of course she does, I will concede there can be extremes the other way.

A girlfriend who has recently returned to the single scene, which is no mean feat in your 40s when navigating online dating apps, has just discovered the term “throuple” in between her bedsheets.

Not from another person suggested to be added into the mix from a dirty dog Tinder swipe keen to explore “poly”, I hasten to add.

Scouty is her own dirty dog fox terrier, and is allowed on the bed at night and is immediately enamoured of any male suitor who comes calling.

Scouty promptly sidles and smooches up for attention. This has ended in some rather alarming results in between the sheets for my friend.

Scouty not only takes the spooning position, but gives the odd lick in unfortunate places in rather inopportune times.

Cats are choosier pets than dogs, often picking a favourite human.

“At least big dogs just sit by the bed and watch anxiously,” my friend bemoaned. “Scouty just hops right in between.”

This is something I can relate to as the “spare” in our household. The aforementioned female rescue cat was initially Jenny from the pound, but is such a diva we renamed her JLO.

She shows little to no interest in me, far preferring male attention.

I’m right down the pack pecking order, given I have to ration her food. She has grown more vast than Garfield and likes lasagne too.

While I might be the one to clean up her litter, clip her nails and dote on her with embarrassing nicknames such as Chairman Meow, Missy Meow and Pretty Kitty, I am mostly treated with contempt.

Her main man on the other hand, provides food whenever she looks at him, treated as leader of the pack, rubbed coquettishly against, fawned upon and given those special kitty eyes. Honestly, it makes me, well, jealous.

Of course the empaths can take things too far. Travelling to Asia with my bestie back in the day was a disaster. She would stop and feed all the mutts. We ended up like the Pied Pipers of strays, with a pack of disease-ridden lumpy dogs and mangy kittens trailing our every move.

Back to the inner city where a popular dog trainer tells me young upwardly-mobile couples are now treating their “fur babies” as a way to decide if their partner is up to it when it comes to parenting.

More often than not the trainer finds the highly-bred fur baby ending up in a custody battle, with pet prenups now a barking mad trend.

Alice Coster is a Herald Sun columnist