I have come to accept the reality of our family dynamic.

Our doggie is more important than the rest of us.

Not officially, of course. No one has called a family meeting to announce it. There was no vote. No ceremony. No transfer of power.

The evidence is overwhelming.

The dog has her own bed, despite sleeping in ours.

She eats food prepared with more care and nutritional scrutiny than most school lunches.

When the dog sneezes, three adults leap into action like a trauma team.

The dog receives enthusiastic greetings every time she enters a room, despite having left it approximately 17 seconds earlier.

Meanwhile, family members can return from a week-long trip and be greeted with, “Oh, you’re back.” Seeing Finnley after time apart is overly anticipated and joyously welcomed.

The dog’s digestive health is discussed with a level of detail usually reserved for international peace negotiations.

Her moods are monitored.

Her comfort is prioritized.

Her preferences are respected.

She has a personalized bathrobe, raincoat, winter jacket and seasonal collars selected to complement her coloring.

The TV is left on during the rare moments she is left home alone.

Our dog contributes absolutely nothing to the household economy, has no job, no savings. No retirement plan. She has never unloaded a dishwasher or paid a utility bill and her medical bills rival ours.

Her primary skills are napping, shedding, and staring at people while they eat, yet she remains the most beloved member of the family unit.

Honestly, I understand why.

She never starts political arguments.

She doesn’t send passive-aggressive texts.

She doesn’t criticize your life choices.

She is thrilled by your existence every single day which, when you think about it, is a pretty compelling business model.

So yes, the dog is more important than most family members and judging by the size of her bed, the amount of toys, the quality of her treats, and the fact that we refer to ourselves as her family and the thrill we experience when she finally decides to come and cuddle when called, I suspect she knows it.

I could use a little less Turtle Time in Central Park, but I have learned to live with her obsession.

Frankly, Finnley has earned it with her unconditional love. I do not even want to imagine life without her.