I've just watched The Sopranos episode where Carmela discovers that Tony's psychiatrist is a woman and she is jealous. Carmela devotes quite a bit of thought to this situation. The psychiatrist, Jennifer Melfi, is not Tony's goomah (mistress) and the treatment is helping Tony.

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Carmela gets drunk with the priest who always arrives at dinnertime, and they watch The Remains of the Day together. In the scene where Miss Kenton (Emma Thompson) pries the novel Mr Stevens (Anthony Hopkins) is reading from his hands, Carmela cries, because Mr Stevens is reading a romantic novel. The scene serves to highlight Mr Stevens' stoic nature and suppressed emotion, and Miss Kenton's attempt to penetrate it.

Carmela has also made a confession during her a-bit-too-close encounter with her opportunistic minister. She has faced herself and her life, feels remorse and shame about her husband's lifestyle and the greed in herself because she chose to ignore those things for the material rewards, the money, the schools, the new furniture and, if that weren't enough, she still loves Tony.

Finally, Carmela admits that she is jealous of Tony's psychiatrist, that she wanted to be that woman for her Tony. Carmela wants to be the one to help him and his anxiety.

I watched the episode after I had dropped Harriet, my aloof and fiendishly stubborn Scottish terrier, at the dog kennel, abandoning her for a two-week holiday. I had cuddled my dog a lot that day, taken her on an extra-long drift and drag to her park, been patient as she slowly sniffed everything thoroughly, stopped dead to see what was happening in other people's activities, pulled back on her harness and sat down the second we turned for home. She has to be carried (weight-bearing exercise for me). Then I fed her too much, groomed her, patted her every time I walked past her spot in the middle of the house.

When I lifted Harriet from the car outside the kennel she sniffed, recognised the smell of her holiday camp, and ran towards the building full of other holidaying dogs, turned circles and skipped when the receptionist spoke to her, licked her hand (I've had three hand-licks in seven years) and did not look back as she raced towards the kennels with her new best friend, Amy the receptionist, who would take her to meet her new bestest-ever cell-mate and all the other happy playing doggies.

She does not love me, clearly, I told myself, then decided to be sensible, act my age and counselled myself: she's a dog, Rosalie. But I just felt disappointed, unappreciated, miffed.

Somewhere in my mind I knew that no one else (or even a pet), can give you everything you want, fulfil you completely. Men are entirely different to us, and they can't change being male; they'll never have a female point of view, that's what our girlfriends are for. We just have to love males for being how they're born.

It was Carmela who made me see that I wanted to be a dog for Harriet, like the dogs in the kennel. But I never will be a dog, and Carmela will never be a psychiatrist - nor will Tony's goomah, his mother, sister or daughter ever be understanding, neutral and empathetic like sweet, smart and caring ("It's my job") Dr Jennifer Melfi.

And Harriet doesn't want me to be a dog; she just wants her beds where they always are, the patch of sunshine that arrives through the window in time for her morning nap, food at 7am and 6pm sharp, and a daily stroll. She's a dog. And she's not fussed who comes to the park with her but, whoever they are, they must be human, and therefore able to carry her back to her three-bedroomed, two-bathroomed kennel because there's no way she's leaving the park unless it's her decision.

I care for my dog as Carmela does her husband, the gangster, flaws and all, and like Carmela I will accept what my dog gives me. This is all sound and acceptable because, unlike Tony, my dog has never assassinated anyone, carved them into pieces and dissolved them in an acid bath. And the receptionist at the kennel could hardly be described as a goomah. So, it's a win-win for Rosalie and the dog. We have everything we need.

This is an edited extract from Look After Your Feet by Rosalie Ham (Allen & Unwin, $34.99). The collection of essays and musings, the first work of non-fiction by the author of The Dressmaker (pictured above), is out now.

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