Last night I had a dream. I dreamt I had a perfect dog. A dog that always came the instant it was called and not one that only obliged when it had nothing more pressing to attend to. A dog that never got sick or misbehaved. A dog that never felt the urge to vomit up something unspeakable onto the new living room carpet or furtively leave a hard little turd in the hallway.

It was a dog that never barked inappropriately or growled or snarled or ever thought of nipping even the postman. A dog that you could trust to take a toddler for a walk across Parramatta Road and back.

This dog never ate cat poo or possum poo nor was attracted to patches of vomit leftover from wild Saturday nights. It never felt the urge to rub itself in dead animals or unknown substances in the long grass.

This perfect dog never complained when left alone all day and used its time at home to complete my tax return and do the ironing.

I awoke screaming and shuddering with a cold sweat. Who would want a freakish dog like that?