Why Laura Craik finally gave in to her daughters' demands for a dog

It’s fair to say that Violet is the reason we got the dog. There are many nuanced motives I could attribute to our eventual acquiescence, but it’s best expressed as ‘finally giving in’. Have you ever lived with a child who wants a dog? It’s like having a fly in the room, only instead of buzzing it goes ‘pleasecanwegetadogpleasepleaseIpromise

I’llwalkitpleeeeeeeeeese’ all day long.

That whole ‘you don’t choose the dog — it chooses you’ stuff? LOL. You choose the dog before you’ve even met it, via a short video in which it is barely indistinguishable from its littermates (‘Which one? Purple collar? Okay. Have all my money’). That is, if you’re lucky enough to be approved. One breeder wanted to FaceTime me while I walked through my house, to ensure the premises were good enough for her fur baby.

Stevie puked twice in the car home from Clacton-on-Sea, which is where her lovely breeder, Emma, lives. Nobody minded that she puked. Three months on, nobody minds that she has weed and pooed all over the kitchen, chewed the furniture, wrecked the sofa, knackered the rugs, turned the garden into a mud bath, savaged clothing on the washing line and barked through crucial dialogue on TV. ‘Oh, Stevie,’ we say.

Stevie is running things. She is also huge. ‘A puppy? Really? How old?’ asks everyone we ever meet in the park, ever. ‘Oh. She’s going to be big, isn’t she!’ What are you supposed to say? Big compared to what? A hamster? Dog-walking isn’t a pastime for introverts. Dog-walking is making idle conversation with total strangers on the whim of your dog and which bums it fancies sniffing, while you stand there nonchalantly, praying it doesn’t jump up and soil anyone’s jacket with its muddy paws. Some dog walkers are eccentric. ‘Can I smell her?’ one asked, pressing her face in Stevie’s muzzle. ‘Aaaaah,’ she sighed. ‘Puppy breath.’ All dog-walkers ask each other the same four questions. ‘Stevie. Five months. Goldendoodle. Girl. Yes, gigantic.’

As with babies, it doesn’t take long to realise that there’s a right way and a wrong way to raise your dog, and that other dog owners — usually strangers — won’t hesitate to tell you that you’re doing it wrong, unless they think you’re doing it right. Crates are evil, unless they’re safe havens that help with house training and stop your puppy defecating throughout the house. Puppy-training classes are essential, unless they’re a bloody waste of time and money. Commercial dog food is the devil’s spawn, unless it’s Lily’s Kitchen. Home-cooked raw food is best, unless you’re the vet arguing that millions of pounds have been spent ensuring commercial dog food is perfectly tailored to your dog’s needs.

Your friends who have dogs, on the other hand, are heart-meltingly helpful, answering your pathetic questions with saintly fortitude. Soon, you realise that you have joined a club — or possibly a cult — and that it’s the nicest club you’ve ever belonged to, full of the kindest people with whom you feel a deep affinity, regardless of their politics, which you never discuss anyway, because all you ever talk about is dogs.

And dog accoutrements, for you have entered a whole new level of consumerism that makes the baby industry seem remiss. Thanks to Paul, I discovered Mungo & Maud, the Céline of dog accessories. Thanks to Jess, I discovered Pets at Home, its more affordable counterpart. Thanks to Hannah, I discovered Lily’s Kitchen, Fetch & Follow and a badass video device called Furbo, which (besides being brilliant for spying on your family) allows you to watch, talk to and even throw treats to your dog when you’re not at home. Other things I never thought I’d be daft enough to own: a K-Way dog cagoule, a monogrammed Pets Pyjamas squeaky bone toy, a Lily’s Kitchen book of bedtime stories, a packet of paw wipes and a £27 Mungo & Maud dog shampoo. I won’t go on.

Dogs make soppy muppets of us all. They also make us better people. Or at least they make us think we’re better people. Their unquestioning loyalty makes you feel like a queen, even if your life is serf-like in its drudgery. Unlike your husband, your dog will never give you a Look when you rearrange the plates in the dishwasher for optimal cleaning efficiency. Unlike your children, your dog will never think you are an asshat. Your dog isn’t manipulative. Its needs are simple. All it asks of you is food, exercise and love.

Okay, so those are three gigantic asks, and when you are standing disconsolately in the rain at 11pm waiting for it to do its evening poo, there will be times when you question just what the f*** you’ve done. But it’s too late now. You have a dog. You are responsible for its needs, and you will delicately fold those needs into your routine like eggs into flour, however complex and unwieldy the souffle of your domestic and professional life may be. You will just have less sleep. It’s fine! Who needed six hours and 45 minutes anyway?

The best thing about Stevie is her fur. And when she greets you in the morning. And when she runs towards you in the park, as delighted as though you are a giant sausage. No: the best thing is that you can tell her your secrets. And she will keep them, because she is loyal — and can’t talk. When a bad thing happened to me last month, I confided in her alone, checking quickly that the Furbo was turned off first. ‘Rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb,’ I whispered in her soft apricot-but-definitely-not-ginger ear. When a hot tear plopped onto her paw, she licked my face. She stank of liver treats. It didn’t matter. ‘Oh, Stevie,’ I said.

Actually, the best-best thing is what she adds to the family. Dogs don’t judge, take sides or remonstrate. They are stand-up comedians and nurses; superfans and diplomats who are dependably neutral unless someone offers them a massive treat, or even a tiny one, for when it comes to food they are rapacious. How better to diffuse a family argument about which sister hates the other more than via the spectacle of a dog balancing on two legs, head cocked, tongue out, trying in vain to eat the chicken from the counter? Stevie doesn’t bring the sunshine. She is the sunshine; the white-hot goodness at our family’s heart.

But God, is it a ball-ache having to walk her every day.

Photographs by Ed Miles