AFTER spending a week with her mum and dad while we were away in Scotland, our spaniel puppy Moss is back home. Millie and Fizz, our Jack Russell and sheepdog were less than thrilled by her return.

Fizz was especially hostile before we left, circling Moss in an openly aggressive manner.

Curling her lip in a wolf like snarl. Snapping at Moss if the puppy tried to play with her. Growling whenever she came close.

Throughout all this clear indication to Moss not to push the relationship, she remained sublimely indifferent, apparently totally unaware that Fizz could not stand the sight of her.

Millie too haughtily kept her distance, but if Moss did get too close, the terrier lip curled to rival anything Elvis Presley might aspire to.

But things have changed. Moss has grown.

From a four kilogram poppet, she has in just about a month become an eight kilogram force to be reckoned with, and bigger than Millie to

boot.

The balance of power has subtly shifted. A week with her mum, dad and auntie has taught her how to utilise family and pack strategies to get what you want. No longer cowering if challenge, her hackles are up and she is standing her ground....all four paws planted firmly on it.

This game of family politics was clearly described to us at the after dinner speeches we listened to when celebrating the wedding of the son of a very dear friend.

The groom, Hamish, could not wait to describe the cataclysmic impact his arrival into the family circle upon the presumed, by his elder brother George, idyllic lifestyle.

George, he claimed, assumed an undisputed claim on the family riches, the undivided attention of doting family, the best bedroom and first pick at the Lego pieces.

It was George’s turn now. He began to address the assembled guests, all rather shocked at how poor Hamish had even managed to achieve anything seeing as he had clearly had to scrabble for any scraps of love or possessions that his elder brother discarded.

But wait. Could it be true? Was this the same brother he was telling us about?

Surely, the young thug who ate everything in sight, whose chubby little legs powered him to interfere in every game his peaceful siblings were engaged in, and whose nappy exuded such awful odours that he is still called Stinky by the family.

Families were ever thus. Be they canine or human. Ready to defend each other’s back against outsiders, but enjoying a quick scrap and a gentle prod or two within the safety and love of the domestic circle. Even at weddings.