Doggy December - Day 23 - Mum?
I'm forty one years old. I have reasonable qualifications, a not-too-shabby CV, a decent house, great friends, fantastic family, a fair share of brain cells and a ten year old daughter that I gave birth to.
Despite this, I call myself our dog's 'Mum'.
I know that Milly is a dog and I'm a human. She was six months old when we found her and yet she's part of my family now.
I feed her, walk her, bath her, clean up her doo-doos and let her out for one last whizzer before bed time which is pretty much what a parent does for a child, isn't it?
She gets sung to, asked if she'd like to come inside and help me work despite the study only being 2 metres wide and already filled with bookshelves and a piano and her bed (the red beanbag) is washed every time she is.
She comes with me as often as is permissable (if they have Guide Dogs for the sight-impaired and Hearing Dogs for the deaf, couldn't I have a 'Sanity Dog' that can ride the tram, walk into Coles and the noodle bar), her dishes are placed next to ours in the dishwasher and she's on the same formula for arthritis (fish oil and glucosamine) as my father.
I pick the sticky black eye boogers out of her eyes for goodness sake!
But I know that it's daggy, lame and utterly stupid for me to whisper into her velvety orange ear, "Mummy loves you."
Not that it stops me.