I used to roll my eyes at besotted dog-owners, now I’m one of them

When our son was still a baby, friends of ours adopted a puppy. They would speak earnestly and at length of their harrowing dog-related challenges. My husband and I not-so-silently rolled our eyes while they complained about toilet training, off-leash anxiety and long nights of endless howling. The thought we shared through our smug exchange was this: that having a dog is nothing, nothing like having a baby.

Fast-forward five years and our family of three were standing patiently in a far-flung airport hangar, waiting to meet our tiny, furry, fourth member. We’d opted for a border collie-poodle cross – the elegantly and not at all absurdly named bordoodle.

We watched our puppy’s brothers and sisters emerge one by one from their travelling crate. Itty-bitty, black-and-white balls of fluff. Then our puppy emerged: blond and more than double the size of his siblings. My husband, in an expression of both awe and mild alarm, scooped the monstrous animal into his arms and whispered, “Is it possible he has eaten one of the others?”

And so began our first stage of dog life: overwhelming joy. The puppy was showered with affection from the beginning; upon returning home it was triumphantly held in the air, like Simba in The Lion King. We voted unanimously to call him Sonny. My human son, aged five at the time and not the most proficient of spellers, claims we named Sonny for the colour of his fur. For my husband and me it was a nod to the much-dreamed-of second child we couldn’t have.

The second stage, anxious regret, hit us hard and fast. We soon learnt that we owed those dog-owning mates of half a decade ago one hell of an apology. You see, Sonny did not like being alone. He cried with a combination of fragile desperation and boundless stamina. My husband took to lying with him in his crate, moving a half-metre farther away, night by night.

The puppy was showered with affection from the beginning; upon returning home it was triumphantly held in the air, like Simba in The Lion King.

JAMILA RIZVI

Our son oscillated between obsessive love and hysterical fear of being bitten. He stood dripping and shivering on the bathmat one evening, scared of the tiny, fluffy shark attack that awaited him outside. After that, we established the mandatory donning of “puppy armour” while at home. This consisted of double-knee track pants, ugg boots and roller-blading gloves.

While we had early success teaching him to go to the toilet outside, when Sonny was excited, he couldn’t control himself. Our puppy and kid would chase one another around the living room, with urine flying out behind Sonny, covering floor and walls in crop circles of wee.

By the third stage, public judgment, we’d accepted there was no going back. I recall taking Sonny on a particularly long run and, when he got too tired, he simply lay down on the ground, refusing to get up again. I carried our by then 15-kilo half-sheep, half-puppy for over a kilometre while passers-by stifled their laughter. When visitors came to the front door, Sonny barked like our home was northern France on D-Day and the Allies were approaching.