I wonder if having a dog is a little bit of an insight into what kind of parent you would be. If it is, it’s more than evident that I would be an awful one.
My Chihuahua, Chiel (I didn’t name him, before you ask), is the light of my life. I’ve never had a dog before because, you know, I shun anything that seems like it might have some responsibility attached to it. But Chiel was a pup in need and I am a sucker for a silly face (plus we weren’t really given a choice) so...
If Chiel was a baby, I would be raising a manipulative little monster.
It breaks my heart when he cries when I leave the house without him and so, often, I change my plans to involve him or just stay at home. If he plays up (usually this means taking a poo right in the middle of a busy café, despite the fact we’ve just been for a walk) when we’re out in public, I often cut short my plans and take him home.
I would be a mollycoddling, overprotective mother who’d let my child dominate my decisions. I’d also be one of those mothers who uses irritating voices to speak to their child. I do that with Chiel all the time and it irritates even me, so I dread to think about the shudder it must send down my boyfriend’s spine.
I’ve also learnt I would be a really irritating naggy wife. I know this because I remind my boyfriend on a daily basis to make sure he changes Chiel’s water, is sparing with treats (but doesn’t forget them entirely), open the curtains — but not too much — so Chiel has sunlight when we’re not there, but doesn’t overheat, that he remembers to look out for the condo’s huge dog who likes to jump on our poor 2kg dog when we leave the house and to not be too rough with him when they’re playing. My boyfriend rolls his eyes and nods, much like a broken man would.
Conversely, my boyfriend would be the “fun dad”. He’d be the one the kids would love spending time with; he plays really fun games with the dog which include lasers, pulling him around when Chiel’s got his teeth sunk into a toy and playing hide and seek. He really does that. Most nights you’ll find my boyfriend contorting himself into a cupboard to keep the puppy entertained. I, on the other hand, will be sewing up one of his toys or scrubbing one of his bowls. It’s not that my boyfriend doesn’t pull his weight when it comes to taking care of the dog—– he does; it’s just that he has a style of dog-parenting that’s fun while strict. Mine style appears to be a bit simpering.
When we’re out with the dog and my boyfriend leaves the room, Chiel stares at the door and wriggles about impatiently until he’s back. I haven’t heard any reports that he does the same when I am gone. In fact, if I was ever in any doubt about how much he respects my authority, I soon found out when I woke up one morning a few months ago covered in dog poo. Yes, my little angel had left me a stinking gift — on my side of the bed, of course, and I’d spent all night coating myself in it. It’s probably one of the worst things you could ever wake up to — and I’ve woken up to a huntsman spider dropping from the ceiling on my bed. I would sooner have that happen again than “Poogate”.
I think it’s all quite compelling evidence to attest to the fact I am not really cut out to look after anyone other than myself. While it may be okay to raise a little diva of a Chihuahua (let’s face it, Chihuahuas are meant to be divas), it’s less adorable when it’s a horrid little child running riot and disobeying everything you’ve ever taught him. Having Chiel has, quite frankly, confirmed everything I ever knew about whether or not I should ever be a mum. Basically: no.