Dogs are the new children

I’ve come to this conclusion after watching a woman spoon-feed her poodle in a Mosman café.

She was even wearing a bib (the dog, not the woman).

There’s been a hullabaloo about whether owners should be allowed to bring their dogs within ten metres of outdoor tables.

What Mosman Council doesn’t realise is that the horse has already bolted (chased by a dog, I suspect).

Sydney is in a dogfight with Paris for the title of four-legged capital of the world.

At the Tails R Wagging doggy day care centre in Rozelle, you can watch your precious pooch play via webcam.

Why not shout your best friend a nice cold DB (Dog Beer) at Paws Point Pet deli?

(I can see the ad now: You can get it walkin’. You can get it stalkin’. You can get it chasin’ a cow. Matter-of-fact I got it now).

How about a session with the famed Dog Whisperer, Cesar Millan?

My best friend has a bichon frise called Pernod, who sits at a desk in her swish inner-city office.

She paid $100 for a gold ticket to see the Dog Whisperer but found the event strangely evangelical.

There were a few too many stickers declaring ‘Dog is God spelled backwards’.

Tessa, our eight-year-old border collie, has been sadly neglected since we had children.

We always said we wouldn’t become like ‘those people’ who spent less time with their furry kids once the human ones came along.

Sure, we take her for a run three times a week, but she resents no longer being top dog.

As a result, she’s begun self-mutilating – repeatedly licking a wound on her paw.

The vet reckons she’s comforted by the pain, like people who cut their arms as a form of self-abuse.

Crikey.

I must admit I’m not very good with animals.

As a child I fainted while watching the cat lick afterbirth from her kittens.

My next cat Kramer was put on anti-depressants after moving house too many times.

And Grace woke on the morning of her third birthday to find all five goldfish dead in the tank.

Determined the same fate would not befall our Tessa, we began a pampering program.

Our first purchase was a doggie version of the Westin’s Heavenly Bed.

I figured if Tessa didn’t like it I could always give it to Jason for when he’s in the doghouse.

We then tried daily liver treats, but she devoured an entire packet leaving a most unpleasant mess in the backyard.

I guess we should have paid more attention when we brought the babies home from hospital.

But I kept having nightmares featuring Meryl Streep with a dreadful Aussie accent (‘a dingo’s got my bay-bee’).

So how do you strike a balance between dogs and kids?

Well, you know you’ve gone too far when you become like Katie Jones from San Francisco.

“My maltese terrier is called Barney,” she writes in her blog, “but I just call him son”.