My Italian grandmother had a dog called Bindi. A doe-eyed beagle with soft, warm, caramel-coloured ears, Bindi would always enjoy a quiet breakfast with my grandma before most of the household was up. As she enjoyed her own coffee, grandma would tip a weak, warm caffe latte into Bindi’s bowl. Bindi would eagerly lap it up. Then the dog would be shooed outside and spend her day wandering the huge, fruit tree-filled garden and lying in the sun. Italians don’t mollycoddle their dogs: they may be loved, but they are just animals.
As a child I adored that dog, and one day Bindi was gifted to us, becoming a much-loved member of my family until that saddest of days. She was, until recently, the only dog I have ever had.
I have always been nervous about combining a dog and a baby: horror stories in the news of jealous canines and fits of animal rage easily draw my eye and have persuaded me that these two creatures are not a wise fit – at least not until a child was of a certain age. I once ran into a nervous grandfather who confided to me that his pregnant daughter shared an apartment with two great Danes that had been treated as children themselves. He was terrified at what would happen when the baby came. I didn’t even know his daughter, but at the end of the conversation, so was I.
However, my grandmother’s genes must be strong within me. Bunk, the chocolate lab, has been a family member for three years now, and while he is adored in this household, he’s no baby. He sleeps outside, he is not fed from the table (except by evil friends who can’t resist), and he is not allowed upstairs nor in the lounge room. OK, so he’s started leaping on the TV-room couch for a snooze whenever we’re not around, and I am a little ashamed to admit that I just don’t have the heart to shoo him off when I catch him.
Like most labs, our dog is wonderful with children: infinitely patient, and able to discreetly remove himself from the action when it all gets a bit much. I see my nieces with their little ball of fluff, and they say they can’t remember or imagine a time without him. It makes me so happy that my child will have a best friend from birth, of the unconditional kind.
But there is a hierarchy in this house and Bunk ain’t at the top. This hierarchy is crucial if we are to avoid chaos and unnecessary mess, and it’s one that dogs well understand: there is one top dog, and everybody else follows in order.
I often wonder if this hierarchy could provide a useful parallel for all those households I keep reading about that appear to be held hostage by the King Child: homes where everything revolves around the needs of the child; where children and parents are friends, where the views and wants of the child have equal status with mum and dad. There’s a phrase I hear so often in some households around the suicide hour that stops my heart with dread at the monster some parents are creating: “… so, what would you like for dinner?” What is this – a restaurant?
Yes, I get it: I sound just like the smug parent-to-be who thinks they know everything, and who is clearly headed for a fall. I am hoping that all my years of teen-rearing will count for something in this new adventure, but I do realise these are foreign fields I am about to enter. Like all who have gone before me, I’ll have to decide on some principles, hold to them in the tough times, and be prepared to compromise when they just don’t work. At least I will have a trusty hound at my side to help.