The World is divided into those who love dogs, and those who don't. Personally, and I admit to a smidgin of bias here, the thought of living without a dog doesn't bear thinking about, if that makes sense.
Yes, they are restricting - we won't go away on holiday if it means putting them in kennels, so we don't go, or we go alone. I'm currently looking at a light covering of doghairs on the kitchen floor, which the vacuum cleaner will resolve in about 2 minutes, at least until the next moulting hair-storm, and I've just come in soaking and bedraggled from taking them for a walk in the pouring rain and foul wind. But in the words of the great Mr Billy Connolly, "There's no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes".
The simple fact is that, on average, people who own dogs live longer than those who don't. There's something uniquely pleasurable about sprawling on the floor in an evening with a good book, and finding a pooch (or, in my case two) collapsing in a heap down against you. They can be most conducive for forced relaxation and removal of stress. This, together with getting you out and about when otherwise you'd be sitting on the sofa with a bag of Cheesy Wotsits chomping your way through a re-run of The West Wing, is probably why they result in an extra couple of years.
Anyway, I love them, and it's as simple as that. I don't normally put family pictures on this blog, but herewith two shots of self and our two Flat Coat Retreivers. I think they are reminding me that feeding time is approaching.
Please, no comments about the shoes.
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