When people ask me if I have kids, my standard answer is, “I have a dog.” My husband and I are the first to admit that we tend to treat our pup like a “real” child. He eats organic food. Our apartment is littered with ripped plush toys. We talk to him in stupid high-pitched voices. He spends almost all of his time with us, including sleeping and vacations. When he’s not with us he’s at a daycare center down the street — and I spend much of that time worrying about whether he’s OK. It’s probably not a full-blown separation anxiety disorder, but when we’re separate, I’m anxious.

On an intellectual level I understand that having a dog is not