I was raised Catholic; more than that, I attended Catholic schools for eleven years, from my earliest education until I escaped to university. The result of all this is, of course, that I am forever haunted by guilt. I feel guilty over everything. About things which are my fault, certainly, but also about things which are not so much my fault as they are accidents. Even about things that have nothing to do with me. The nuns who dogged my childhood and teen years would be delighted.

I’m usually pretty good about keeping the guilt at bay. My life pretty much revolves around my husband and my children. Okay, and books and the Internet. But I’m what you’d call a family girl. I’m always at home, or if out and about, I’m either earning money or doing things with my husband and kids.

But then there are the Basenjis.

I really don’t have time for them, and they are the major source of guilt in my life. They spend most of their time in the backyard, for the simple reason that they need extremely close supervision indoors lest they leap up and eat your dinner, or chew up your $400 purse. (There is really no excuse for having a $400 purse, so I guess I should thank Rudy for chewing up mine.) But they are masters of the guilt trip, and they play on the sneaky aspect of my Catholic conscience that constantly whispers There is misery afoot, and it’s all your fault.

Anytime I enter the kitchen, which features a large window overlooking the backyard, Rudy jumps up on the wrought-iron patio table to fix me with a baleful stare and commence Baroooooooooing fit to wake the dead. I can go outside and pet him and Dollie, and feed them treats, and replenish their food and water, but the next time I appear at the window Rudy will again Barooooooo. Again and again and again.

After ten minutes of this, I’m irritated; I’m cooking dinner or doing dishes, and I don’t have time for quality Rudy time. The truth is, I frequently don’t have time for quality Rudy time. Make that hardly ever. So that dog, and his furrowed brow and his reproachful Barooooo, have become a sort of constant reminder of all the ways I’m failing to be Supermom.

So how do I handle this? By saying Shut the hell up, Rudy a lot and going upstairs where he can’t see me through the window. Because if I go into the living room, he will peek through the blinds at the patio door and scratch on the glass with his paws. Did I mention he knows how to operate the kitchen doorknob? I’ve seen, from the inside, the knob turning as he manipulates it from outside. It’s only his lack of opposable thumbs that prevents him from marching inside and telling me what’s what.

I suppose I should be grateful, though. My mother has passed on, and my kids aren’t even Catholic. And a girl raised Catholic needs a source of constant guilt in her life. Rudy fills that need admirably.