IT’S a question that has echoed down the years in our house: “Can we get a dog?”

The boys have begged for a puppy for Christmas and for birthdays, they have promised they would do all the work, pointed out that all their friends have one and, on one occasion, even argued that not having a canine in our home amounted to child neglect.

They have put post-it notes on our bedroom pillows, inside the fridge and on the TV screen, pleading for us to reconsider. They have printed off photographs of cute puppies and pasted them around the house.

Over the course of 20 years, their dad and I have resisted the onslaught, which has been easier for him than me: “I’d love a dog, boys. But it’s your mother, you know how she is. She just won’t have one in the house.”

So, while he’s busy playing Good Cop, I am left to explain. Attacked and bitten by a dog as a child, and not helped by those around me flapping and panicking, it was a trauma that has affected me all my life.

And so, I have found myself cast as the most heinous of Bad Cops whenever the dog question arises. “You know it’s not me, boys. It’s your Mum…” says my husband, nodding regretfully in my direction.

No-one, least of all me, expected the situation to change. But, a few years ago, I bonded with my sister’s English Spaniel pup and slowly began to warm to the idea.

Now that our older boys have left home, the house is so much quieter. I long for a bit more noise and chaos, and the joy I have discovered a dog can bring to long walks in the country and family days on the beach.

And so, this Bad Cop has begun to soften: “I think perhaps I could cope with a spaniel, just like my sister’s,” I told 12-year-old Albert and 16-year-old Roscoe one day.

The boys were ecstatic. They started searching for puppies on the internet.

“We’re only looking, there’s nothing definite,” I told them, when we found a litter, just born, locally that we could go and view. They were as cute as you would expect.

The mother was calm, with a lovely temperament. The father, more lively, was full of character.

In the car on the way home I stressed that, since these were the first pups we’d seen, it was something we’d have to think very carefully about.

But suddenly, the man previously masquerading as Good Cop seemed to be backing off: “I don’t know about having a dog in the house. They smell, don’t they? And then there are dog hairs everywhere.”

We brushed off his concerns. But there was a rising panic in his voice: “Where would we keep it? Having a dog in the kitchen doesn’t seem very hygienic. I’m not sure about this.”

The boys looked to me for help: “Well, I’m quite happy to have a dog, it’s just your Dad you have to work on now,” I said, nodding in his direction. Bad, bad cop…

MY friend Chris, who had been told she was adopted from when she was a small child, was happy to tell all her friends about it at primary school. Unfortunately, though, she got her words mixed up: “I was doctored as a baby,” she said.

IT is probably best that the husband who packed his wife’s hospital overnight bag in a rush when she went into labour earlier than expected should remain anonymous. You can imagine her delight when she rummaged about in her case for a clean pair of knickers to wear the next day and pulled out … a thong.

IT is hard to work out who was more embarrassed when my husband shouted out from the bedroom window to 12-year-old Albert when he saw that his new freestanding hammock, which normally sits on the edge of the garden, had blown over in the wind.

Since the hammock, which holds up to three people, is called a Fat Boy (apparently the designer is a Fat Boy Slim fan), he called out: “Albert, what’s that Fat Boy doing in the middle of the garden?” It was only when a small voice piped up: “Is he talking about me?” that he realised Albert was out there playing football with a friend.

We hastily showed him the label on the hammock, reassuring the boy that he wasn’t in the slightest bit overweight. But I think it’s probably best we refer to it as ‘the big hammock’ from now on.