I’m just going to say it: dogs aren’t that great.

Dogs have this god-like status largely due to people exaggeratedly fawning over them online (something I admittedly contribute to) and their tendency to attract bulk likes on Instagram. But they’re kind of like Jennifer Lawrence. There are a lot of great things about them, however, this “yaaass qween” bullshit hysteria idolises them to the point of abstraction. You focus on all their fantastic tendencies and forget the crappy things about them.

For J-Law it was that whole scratching her butt on the sacred Hawaiian rock formation thing. For dogs, it’s the poo situation, the smell and the fact that you have to think about someone other than yourself. They’re cute, but dogs aren’t as great as the internet would have you believe.

Now before you start writing me angry letters (please do write me a letter though – I’d love to show off to my flatmate about how popular I am with all my non-bill-related mail), I am a dog person.

At my parents’ place, I have a blue heeler, appropriately called Lady, who is just fabulous. She is emotionally distant, doesn’t need too much attention and her presence scares off potential bad guys. She’s pretty much everything I want in a life partner.

My cousins tried to get her to perform tricks when they visited recently, and she wasn’t having a bar of it. That’s just not what she’s about. She doesn’t care about impressing you, and she’s not about to go wasting her energy or looking like a twit by following your pointless commands when your affection is the only reward for such behaviour.

Instead of adhering to you silly expectations, she’ll look at you with a bored, judgemental expression conveying her distain for your lame enthusiasm. She is,in my opinion, the perfect dog.

Sure, she’ll wag her tail and go in for a cuddle when you first see her, but she isn’t demanding your affection all day long. You’ll give her a pat and hold her paw for a bit, but eventually she tires of all that emotional crap and will walk off, carrying on with her day like the independent woman that she is.

She has a sarcastic dignity about her, which I admire.

I’m writing about my dog because for my column in The Clifton Courier this week, I recounted a trial run with my flatmate’s dog living with us in our two-bedroom apartment.

You can imagine how it went. Don’t worry, you’ll read about it eventually.

But because there is a word limit I have to adhere to, there were a couple of thoughts about having an inside dog and general dog ownership that I couldn’t commit to print. So I’ve decided to air them here, because I feel they’re important – as are all of my thoughts, obviously.

I’m just going to come out with it: think there’s too much adoration that comes with having a dog around you all the time. You are heaped with all this love that you really don’t deserve and did nothing to earn. Surely that would give you an unbalanced opinion of yourself. And there’s already enough in this world that makes people think they are better than they actually are.

But it’s more than that. Like, when you’re living under the same roof as a dog their whole happiness is dependant on you. That is a lot of pressure. It’s hard enough to keep myself hovering a satisfactory level above crushing depression, and now I’m expected to make this dog’s life happy too?

That sounds exhausting. I can’t be that person. I’m only capable of producing so much pep, and I’m not going to waste it on some hairball who licks their own butt and can’t even buy me flowers as a thank you gift.

And they’re all wrapped up in you; it’s infuriating. I love being idolised, but I want my dog to have it’s own life going on, you know? Like, don’t you have your own dreams think about? Haven’t you got anything else going on in your pathetic life?! I mean, I want to be viewed as a god, but I don’t want to be pestered. Sometimes you just  want to be left to hate the world in peace, you know?

Having a creature follow you around all the time isn’t considered “company” to me. I didn’t find the constant “companionship” of the inside dog comforting. I found it to be a suffocating invasion of my space, my privacy and my precious, precious solitude.

Look, I’m not saying I’m a paranoid hermit who shuns the company of others and keeps the curtains drawn to avoid the gaze of humanity, but I need my time alone. It’s nice, even for a few minutes, to forget that there are other living creatures in the world.

And I don’t want to be made to feel guilty for that.

I feel guilty enough for practically every other aspect of my life (that pen I pocketed after finding it on the ground, buying my veggies at a major supermarket instead of an independent grocer and generally for just existing as a female person). But when you have some sad, cute little creature pawing at your door whose only wish is to bask in your presence, you feel like some kind of cruel monster for wanting to be alone. I don’t understand why anyone would willingly sign up for that.

And let’s not forget that dogs smell. I’m sorry, but they do. They stink. This makes them useful as someone to blame your farts on, but if you’re willing to put up with the stench and responsibility of having a dog in the house just to cover up for your farts you might need to see a doctor. Dogs also slobber on things – especially you. They just love licking you. Sure, that may be how they show love but it’s gross. Being loved is not worth being coated in a film of saliva (this is also applicable to bad kissers, might I add). Have some ducking self respect. 

Sure, dogs are cute. But don’t let those silly, happy faces blind you to the fact that they are clingy, codependent creatures who eat up all your attention, never pay rent and occasionally shit on your carpet.