IN defence of Lloydy, who's not Boydy.
And before we go any further, let the record show that Boydy is the kelpie whose loyalty to his elderly injured owner Herbert Schutz this week probably saved Mr Schutz's life.
It also put Boydy ahead of Julia Gillard, Tony Abbott and Black Caviar in the polls as preferred prime minister. Only Adam Scott was in with a chance.
And let the record also show that Lloyd, aka Lloydy, my fluffy Jack Russell bits-of-everything, would leave me for dead at the mere whiff of a barbecued chicken if I was the one pinned under a car in freezing conditions for four days.
I wouldn't be a chance against a splash of spaghetti bolognese either. Or a piece of raw steak; a two-day old hamburger; a discarded kebab wrapper, minus the kebab; a mouldy abandoned kid's lunch from 2009, or a dried-up old piece of roadkill - species unclear.
But is loyalty everything in a dog, I ask you?
Sure, that photo of Boydy got me in, too. He was calm. Upright. Eyes clear and looking at the horizon despite the excited clamour around him when Mr Schutz was finally rescued. No need for small talk or accolades from Boydy after a job well done.
Let's face it. He has most attributes Australians want in a leader, plus a shiny coat and a catchy name. But Boydy isn't Lloydy, despite his exceptional loyalty to Mr Schutz.
We didn't have dogs when I was growing up.
We had a succession of cats called Puddy or Puss, who died with monotonous regularity when they answered the siren call of greener pastures across the road, and came off second best in run-ins with cars.
We had guinea pigs that disappeared, along with rabbits. Goldfish lasted only as long as it took for their bowls to turn green. Budgerigars were freed to be eaten by hawks when we got bored with them. Chickens had limited lifespans that ended on our dinner plates.
Dogs were noisy, scary, and kept by other people.
Lloyd arrived as a pup 10 years ago, found on a beach with a piece of rope around his neck. He was happy, yappy, and decided to adore the one person in the room who couldn't stand dogs.
And he's lived with me ever since.
Lloyd has helped me meet new people. There was the man who caught him after Lloyd stopped traffic on a major roundabout when he smashed through a screen door about a week after moving in, and the screen door repair man who pocketed $300 for a security door a day later.
There's the vet who, as we speak, is on an overseas holiday, part paid for by my regular contributions to his practice.
Lloyd has helped me learn new ways of coping with embarrassing situations: how to retrieve a dog from your adult son's first grade soccer match after the dog's stopped the match at a vital point by running on the field; how to make amends when your dog's cocked a leg on a reclining sunbather/fisherman's leg/your neighbour's foot; how to stop your dog humping every other dog within a five-kilometre radius.
He has taught me you really can't get the smell of a rotting fish out of your car after a dog's roll of joy on both fish and car back seat.
Lloyd has helped me realise most of life's problems can be eased by a walk outside. At the end of every day there he stands, tense with anticipation, waiting for the magic word "Walk" so he can run through the house hysterically as if we've never been for a walk before.
He was there on Tuesday evening, waiting, while in Boston the death toll from an inhuman act shifted from two to three, and a little boy's smiling face defined a tragedy.
Which is why Boydy's vigil with Mr Schutz touched a common chord, and Lloydy's familiar presence on the walk around my neighbourhood was soothing after shocking scenes of carnage.
One by one my 10 siblings and I have ended up with dogs, much to our bemusement. After decades of thinking we were a no-dog family, we've found ourselves with a yappy horde of little pooches, with names like Harry, Ralph and Fonzie, George and Lloyd and Belle.
Most shocking is our father's adoption of a small mutt called Ben after years of disdain for man's best friend. They sit together for long periods on a hill behind my parent's house, under a shady tree - my father in his 80s with limited sight, and the elderly dog who hardly leaves his side.
A month ago Lloyd had surgery for cancer. Since then he's developed a spinal cord condition which has a poor prognosis.
A week-and-a-half ago all looked lost but he rallied. Hard drugs and barbecued chicken kept him going to piddle on a stranger's leg another day.
Boydy and Lloydy.
In a week when humans acted like animals, a couple of dogs came to the rescue.