"The comparisons between my fur babies and your human babies are probably greater than the differences," writes Patrick Lenton. Photo: Stocksy
One of the greatest joys in my life is when my friends refer to my dogs as "the babies".
It's not because I actually think they are two tiny hairy human babies that I'm apparently fine with locking out in the garden - I'm not delusional. But I do talk about them like they are my anxious, bitey progeny, and think it's both a funny comparison, and in many ways, an apt one.
However, while my friends are totally on board with the dog-child comparison, other parents I've met haven't been, either deriding me for having the nerve to compare my dog to their child, or even getting angry about it.
Once in a former workplace, a boss of mine enquired as to why I looked so beat up - my eyes were red and my skin even paler then usual.
"It's the new puppy," I told her. "It's our third night of sleep training - he won't settle so we've been up all night, but we're trying to keep him from sleeping in our bed, so we have to be disciplined. You know how it goes."
"Bah," she said, flipping away my experience with one limp hand. "Just wait until you have a kid, now THAT'S sleeplessness." I have to wonder what extra quality a complete lack of sleep from a baby brings that dogs aren't able to provide.
My partner and I have always been dog creeps; our Sunday morning routine for years involved going to the local dog park and hanging around on the outskirts, drinking coffee and tempting dogs away from their owners with pockets of secret treats. We worked for years to get to the point in our lives where we felt financially secure enough to afford a dog, putting the kind of planning and expectation into it that a lot of couples would for a child.
Both my partner and myself are writers, which means we don't have the same kind of life as a lot of our friends - when they had full-time jobs and mortgages and weddings and babies, we were still doing our postgrad degrees or travelling Australia in a poetry boyband. Probably the best example of this was when my best friend invited me and another old friend of mine from uni over. We stood outside having a beer, and Bob said, "Look - I wanted to let you guys know that Danielle and I are getting married." We all congratulated him. Our other friend, Dan, said, "Actually, while we're talking about news - Jess and I are having a baby." Wow, huge news, we both congratulated him. Then they both looked at me, waiting expectantly. "I just got paid $100 to write a play about a bus?" I told them, semi-proudly.
This disconnect in our life experiences means that sometimes I'll sit around with my friends, who are exactly the same age as me, and have that feeling that I used to get when I was a teenager, listening to adults talk about tax and mortgages and other grown up things. That feeling that I'm not allowed to be a part of this conversation. This is why it's great to be able to empathise with their baby talk, by being able to offer my experiences with raising my dogs. It's not like I'm saying that dogs are the equivalent of babies, or that every discussion about teething needs to make room for my story about Ernest's rampant humping fetish - but being able to share the similarities and the corresponding frustrations and victories does help me participate politely during conversations I feel excluded from.
We own two rescue dogs with some fairly advanced anxiety issues, so we spend a lot of time and money on training, psychologists and drugs. It's easy to see why we spend a lot of time talking and worrying about them, considering they dominate our lives and wallets.
At a barbeque recently, I sat mute while a bunch of strangers talked about their children. "Oh, I get that," I piped up, when the conversation shifted to a story about how gross it was to always be covered in vomit and baby poo. "I had to chase my dog around the yard because it was scared of its own butt, because it had a strand of hair trailing out of it, and I had to pull it out." There was silence, as everyone looked at me disgustedly, and then the conversation swirled on, and I ate my potato salad in silence until it was time to go.
At my current workplace, the parents are all completely fine with the dog/child comparison discussion, and are willing to concede the similarities, which are fairly extensive.
A while back a colleague and I shared notes the morning after a traumatic night. His daughter had gone to hospital with pneumonia, while I'd taken Ernest to the emergency vet at 3am after eating a block of poison chocolate. His experience was probably more serious in the long run, but mine was more expensive. We were both terrified.
Another friend of ours was talking about people giving her unwanted advice on the street about raising her child, which is another thing we can empathise with, as it's difficult to spend time in a dog park without someone trying to lecture you on outdated 'alpha dog' theories. I recently saw a meme which said, "Four words that prove you're a parent: what's in your mouth?" Puppies don't even have hands; let me assure you that this applies equally.
The point is the comparisons between my fur babies and your human babies are probably greater than the differences. My baby will never grow up and have a goth stage either, so frankly I think I win. But, when the basic topics of conversation revolve around the fear and rewards of great responsibility, of looking after something dependant on you that you love and that has changed your life immeasurably, I feel like it's better to share experiences than to cut people out.
And it's probably all equally boring for people without babies OR dogs, so we might as well stick together.
