“And who does your dog love the most?” my friend laughingly asks my youngest child as she fusses over Odie, our cavoodle.

The dog is delighted by the attention and the prospect of yet another person succumbing to puppy love and furnishing a treat. The child, though, has some thinking to do.

It’s a bit like being asked by a well-meaning adult, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”, a question that calls for balancing the wings of hope against the burden of reality.

“Oh, that’s easy,” my son smiles, bless his heart. “Odie loves my mum the most.”

His explanation is both reason and excuse.

“Because we got him as a baby when she was on a sabbatical. She fed him three times a day and when she studied, he sat under her desk. She took him everywhere in a shoebox.”

Then the key piece of intelligence, “She also takes him for the most walks.”

My boy forgets to add that I am the person most likely to throw Odie into the laundry sink for a wash and seize the opportunity to scrub his teeth despite his protests.

“Well, that makes sense,” says my friend before persevering. “Then who does he love after that?”

My ears prick up.

“Probably my sister.”

A growl ensues from the kitchen and it’s not the dog.

“He used to love me,” corrects my daughter emphatically, “but now he prefers my older brother. I don’t even know why.”

There is wry truth in........

© The Guardian