“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 those words.
When I am around, Odie keeps me in his line of vision. He is a tripping hazard outside the bathroom. In the wardrobe, he plays a guessing game in his head – is it walk or work? (what else could there be?) If I am writing in bed, he pushes up against my laptop. And when I take a micro nap, he simply fits it into his all-day nap.
In the early days, when I left home, Odie used to bolt into my daughter’s room in the mornings and launch himself on to her before licking her face.
One reason could be that her door is ajar so he can push it open with his little paw. Her siblings make sure that their door is firmly closed against such pet invasions.
She would push him aside and he would snuggle contentedly into the crook of her knees. She said that was okay but flinging himself across her body to pin her under the blanket was not on.
Quite possibly, Odie tired of the complaining (albeit good natured) and plotted his next move with some passive-aggressive tendencies. He left my daughter for my oldest son.
He is at university, so his hours are less structured than school days. When we are gone, he is sometimes still sleeping or studying. Being tall, he has the most spacious bed of the kids. Odie has developed a distinct fondness for said bed and its occupant.
Now, in the morning, when he has calculated from my work attire that his chance of squeezing in a walk is zero, Odie pads up to my son’s door. He used to employ a short bark to be let in but now, he sits quietly and expectantly, having learnt that as penance for going to work, I will find him a new babysitter.
On my son’s bed, Odie finds any number of favourable positions: jammed between his long legs, leaning against his knees, resting on his shins, or finding his own little corner of the big bed.
Dog and human finding companionship is understandable, but what leaves us scratching our head is why Odie seeks out our eldest’s bed even when he is not home. When we have left Odie alone, we know exactly where to find him resting dolefully.
Truth be told, this is the rank favouritism that vexes us. It couldn’t be the walks or treats, we think, but out of all of us, he does have the gentlest manner with the dog. He is the most likely to greet Odie with the words, “Stay, I come in peace”: I reckon the dog appreciates peaceful co-existence.
“Odie, why don’t you love me like the others? What have I done? I take you for walks, I give you treats, why don’t you love me?”
Four nights out of seven, you will hear this slightly desperate appeal from my youngest child to the dog as he lies across my feet, opens one tired eye and grumbles at the unwarranted intrusion.
But then, as my child continues, Odie opens both eyes and licks my son on every free surface. At such times, I wonder if he is thinking, “Quit the melodrama, man. I love you just as much as the others.”
My youngest son complains that Odie never sleeps on his bed and squeals to be let out.
This much is true although Odie does love to jump into his lap to umpire endless games of Fifa.
I wonder if his dog brain still remembers being lost in my son’s bedroom when we just got him. Home alone for some time, he had wriggled out of his pen. I had shouted the house down in panic, but he didn’t yet know how to respond to his name.
What does a dog make of its owners?
Scientists say that dog’s brains are begging to be analysed. Just look around your local dog park to see why.
Apparently, canine intelligence comes in many forms.
Odie turns five today. I don’t know if his love has a pecking order and if so, what dog metrics he uses to reach the conclusion.
But how wonderful that we will never know, which leaves us all with an ongoing invitation to “being the person your dog thinks you are.”
Dear Readers,
Thank you very much for reading me and engaging with me in 2025. I wish you a restful holiday season and look forward to writing for you next year.
Ranjana Srivastava is an Australian oncologist, award-winning author and Fulbright scholar. Her latest book is called A Better Death
