“She can understand everything you’re saying, you know,” my father says, motioning to Annie, the large black dog that’s watching us, sentry-like, at the kitchen table. I’m back in Derry for the weekend, and reacquainting myself with the fact that, despite having 11 kids, and 20 grandkids, my father’s favourite children are his dogs. These are Annie and Dougie, two giant and adorable labradors who basically run my old home. We’ve always had dogs, but for most of my childhood these were your standard, rural “outside dogs”, who slept in kennels, roamed free all day, and were only allowed in the house on very rare occasions, like thunderstorms or bomb scares. To those dogs, my father was very much the God of the Old Testament; affectionate to a point, but quick to dispense a rapid “Git!!” any time they, say, coveted oxen, or disobeyed their one true father (him). By the time I was in my teens, he’d mellowed slightly, and would allow Elmo, our sweet-natured collie, occasional access to the kitchen, where she’d sit under the table and sleep over the warmth of some underfloor pipes.If Elmo enjoyed the protection of a slightly more New Testament deity, Annie and Dougie now rejoice in the light of a God from one of those trendy churches where all the preachers have long hair, sandals and guitars. They roam free throughout the house, sleep wherever they want, and eat whatever they like. And I do mean anything; not just their regular allocation of dried and wet dog foods and specially packaged meaty bones, but buns and sandwiches and all manner of plated leftovers gifted to them the second my Dad finishes eating.He tires of me asking whether dogs should eat quite so much human food, and wholeheartedly rejects any accusation that he’s gone soft over the years. “I’m not spoiling them!” says he, massaging Dougie’s neck with essential oils, and placing an entire coq au vin with all the trimmings into his doggy bowl.To be clear, I love Annie and Dougie. It’s impossible not to. Annie is the older of the two, with a sleek black coat and a quiet, dignified demeanour. Dougie, on the other hand, is chocolate brown, and a good deal bulkier, with an adorably guileless face that betrays the fact he has the IQ of a chicken fillet roll. I should say I’m wary of criticising the intelligence of my father’s dogs, as this has caused problems in the past. I have published long and detailed accounts of the most traumatic moments of my family’s life, and there are entire chapters of my memoir which are little more than a catalogue of all the most ridiculous things my Dad has said and done. To each of these dire betrayals of father-son confidence, he has replied with grace, good humour and encouragement.The only time he’s ever taken umbrage at anything I’ve written was six years ago, when I implied that his previous dog Sally was unintelligent. He was so incensed, in fact, that he immediately responded in the family group chat with an image of Sally looking sad while reading a copy of the column in question. [ I can blame a lot on my children but the YouTube algorithm doesn’t lieOpens in new window ]I took this with a pinch of salt – I know for a fact that Sally didn’t read the weekend papers – but things got worse when my sister Caoimhe began engaging the offended pooch in a series of IQ tests which, they were delighted to report, Sally passed with flying colours. I had qualms with their methodology – not least the degree to which they were, or were not, unbiased observers – but, like any ethical journalist, I published their findings shortly afterwards, only to discover that every single one of my readers was much more on Sally’s side than my own. And if my father believes that dogs are at least as smart as people, who am I to dissuade him? Judging by the delight with which he talks to Annie and Dougie all day, it’s apparent he finds their conversation more pleasing than mine, perhaps because they’re not in the habit of typing up these conversations for print. And I must concede that it takes a dog a certain intelligence to convince my father they can speak perfect English, but choose not to. Or that they do, in fact, deserve an entire Viennetta between them. Or that, with their unspeaking affection, and stoical demeanour, they’re twice the child I’ll ever be. I just hope that when they read this, they agree.