What kind of dog owner will I be?

The fact that the dog will poo on the ground, and I'll be the one to pick it up. Don't imagine the kids will do it, they say, it will be YOU.

It's a wider bugbear, in fact. A recent post on the Canberra Noticeboard on Facebook bemoaned the fact that so many dog owners in Canberra were happy to bag their dog's business, then leave the bag on the ground. The creator of the post photographed themselves holding up one such bag to make a point. A flurry of responses pointed out that they themselves sometimes left the bag on the ground while on a walk, intending to pick it up on the way back. Didn't the poster know this, they ask? But why would they? Who can assume that people are manifestly good and not bad about these things?

We had dogs growing up; Rufus was an orange mutt and lived until he was too old to stand up, and would skid across the wood floors, unable to find purchase. Mum and Dad decided on a Friday that on Monday they'd take him to the vet to be put to sleep. The next morning he disappeared. Someone called later that day; he had run several suburbs away. When Dad brought him home, he bolted out of the car again. Dad took him to the vet that same day.

Fergus just appeared in the front garden one day, a sleek, well-kept black kelpie cross that no one else seemed to miss or want. The minute Dad said we could keep him, the dog went berserk and stayed that way until he died 10 years later. It was a love-hate thing, with Fergus and Dad, the dog practically bowling over the man at the door each evening, frantic with love. He would round us up on family walks, and wore a figure eight into the backyard as he waited for us all to get home each day.

Our dog-tolerant home-life growing up came to mind when I read an essay by the writer Claire Messud a few years ago, I Hate My Dogs (I Love My Dogs), describing her two elderly canines, both troublesome in their own loveable ways.

Towards the end, she writes: "To recap: we have the obstreperous, incessantly barking, stinky old deaf and blind dog who can't really stand up; and the completely blind pisser".

And, she says, people have opinions. Many disapprove, think she and her family are ridiculous or mad to hold onto these burdensome creatures. Others, though, encourage them. "They see it as hilarious, part of life's wondrous absurdity," she writes.

I wonder if that's the place I've got to, lately. I freely admit that, until fairly recently, I would have been one of the ones who disapproved. No knitted doggy sweaters or fur on the bed for me.

Until, again quite recently, I began to develop this yearning for an extra spirit in the house - a little warm being to nestle beside me on the couch.

Hell, even just a creature who's unconditionally pleased to see me when I get home each day.

Like a broody woman, I suddenly notice dogs everywhere we go. I'm reminded of those distant days, deep in the middle of one of the lockdowns, when the kids and I would walk to the park at the same time every day, and observe all the dogs and their owners performing the same, gentle ritual as us, and how deeply comforting it felt in those stage times.

And besides, I've yet to encounter a dog owner - including almost every one of my friends and a good proportion of this newsroom - who regrets their dog ownership, beyond some wistful bemoaning of a chewed up piece of mid-century furniture, or the persistent need to keep shoes out of reach.

And lo, we are soon to become dog owners ourselves, and who knows what kind I'll be? Or rather, what kind of dog owners WE will be; getting a puppy has without a doubt been a joint decision, the result of a long-running campaign that has finally worn us all down to the point of driving, on a whim, to the home of a breeder of miniature schnauzers and laying claim to the last one of the litter.

His arrival in our home is now a couple of weeks away. He'll be good for the kids - some extra responsibility, another living creature with needs they can fulfil.

But ultimately, I hope our puppy understands that I'm the boss in the house, even if it means me picking up the poo.