When I get home from the Dogs’ Refuge every weekday, my 2 dogs, Scruffy and Shelagh, come running towards me for a sniff fest. I don’t just smell like a dog, I smell like a dozen different dogs. They look at me as if I was a whore. And I suppose I am, because I spend the better part of my day petting dogs and taking hundreds of photos of them.
And do you know what? I don’t care if I smell of dogs. In fact, I love the smell of dogs. This is me. I share my bed with Shelagh; Scruffy sleeps in my son Jack’s bedroom. I wear combat pants or jeans and a t-shirt to work. I happen to like wearing loud, colourful trainers. I don’t wear makeup. I don’t wear dresses or skirts. My furniture is covered with dog hairs. I don’t do housework unless it’s a matter or life or death. I have no time for a romantic relationship. If someone likes me the way I am, good. If not, it doesn’t really matter. I’m happy.