Published in The Clifton Courier, March 15, 2016

Life is one big cost-benefit comparison.

Last Sunday, my flatmate brought her dog home from her mum’s house to trial living her here for a week. The dog, a tiny Jack Russel crossed with something hairy, had been living in a backyard at the Blue Mountains. Our  humble abode is a compact two-bedroom apartment with a paved balcony on the ground floor of a nine-floor complex.*

*I never hear the sound of rain on the roof and it hurts my soul a little bit. I don’t care what anyone says, a noisemaker app is no substitute for big ole fat rain splattering on corrugated iron. I also miss hearing possums. There was what must have been a dog-sized possum that would clamber all over the roof of my Brisbane sharehouse and for some reason I found it oddly comforting to hear it heaving it’s obese body around. I miss that. 

Now, I’ve never been an indoor dog kind of person.*

* Dogs are great, but they stink. I’m sorry, but they do. 

But I’ve heard so much evidence sugesting that having a dog makes you a happier, healthier person. While I consider myself healthy thanks to my habit of eating carrots while I drink beer*, I could always be healthier.

*A stubbie in one hand and a carrot in the other is my idea of balance. They practically cancel each other out. 

And apparently my sarcastic tone and general dislike of most things in Sydney denotes a need to be happier. So I went with it.

Dogs can be a hassle but there are so many benefits, I told myself.

I actually went into the trial with an optimistic mindset, despite my life motto: keep your expectations low because if things turn out better you’ll be pleasantly surprised and if things are as rotten as predicted at least you get to savour the satisfaction that comes with knowing you were right.*

* Knowing I was right is an excellent substitute for happiness. Sure you may be bitter and miserable, but goddamn it you were right! 

On Day One I found that having a dog cuddle you on the couch can make your jumper smell like dog, but the benefit was not watching Midsomer Murders alone.The benefit probably outweighed the hassle there, considering I have a functioning washing machine.

Another plus with having a dog that you get you talk to yourself without actually “talking to yourself” – because there is a dog “listening”.

You also enjoy completely unwarranted adoration – dogs tend to love you even if you don’t deserve it. You could be the kind of person who cuts people off in traffic, doesn’t recycle and agrees with every point made by Donald Trump and the dog would love you regardless.

But through the week I learned that these benefits absolutely come at a price.

For example, the cost of all this undeserved admiration is being a slave to the bowel movements of a dog. As with all living creature, dogs have pressing business matters to attend to. So inside dogs have to be “let out” morning and night.If you don’t have a yard, your dog’s business becomes your business and you have to physically empty their proverbial out-tray or you could face fines from your local council.

This idea shocks me, because growing up my dogs have always had enough room in the yard for a “home office”, so to speak, where they took care of business independently without you ever having to get involved. I’ve been a shit kicker before*, but never a shit picker-upper and I don’t intend on getting into it any time soon.

* Otherwise known as “onion packer and grader” and without going into details, it really helped me on my gag reflex. I held down so many spews that my abs got a serious work out. Would recommend. 

Call me selfish, but I can’t imagine loving anyone enough to physically handle their crap without getting something out of it myself. I mean, I’ll change my future children’s nappies, but that’s only because I expect them to do the same for me when I’m too old to care of myself.

But a dog is never going to repay you.

And even when you religiously let a dog out for waste disposal purposes, doesn’t mean they’ll respect the system. I learned this after taking the dog out for a walk one Friday afternoon.

After taking her home, I ducked out to grab some groceries and returned to a little gift on the floor. My father would call it a “barker’s nests*” but I called it a “steaming puddle of brown misery”.

* My father was bloody chuffed I used this term in print. I think Dad has a few sayings and slang terms that he just made up and hoped they would catch on. One such saying is “cludey poots”, which is something you say when you’ve done something but it’s a bit shit. Like the time I taped my bumper back to my car. It was fixed, but it wasn’t. That’s when “cludey poots” applied. Try using it in a conversation today, it’ll make Macca happy.

In case you’re wondering, there are much better ways to kick off the weekend than scrubbing watery poo out of carpet. *

* Like staring silently into a blank wall, which is what I could have been doing if I wasn’t picking shit. 

The benefit from this? It inspired my new sassy life motto: deal with shit then light a scented candle. But was it worth the cost?

I can’t say for sure, but I will say that the dog has been returned to her yard.