We prefer our pets to partners

Instead of contending with a grumpy man in my bed, in the mornings I wake up next to a fat chocolate labrador, rolling around acting as if the mere fact of being alive is the best thing that had ever happened, joyfully heaving all 26kg of himself onto my head.

Bear is the happiest, friendliest, most laid-back character you’ve ever met. Unlike the men I’ve lived with, he is never snappy, in a bad mood or stressed about work. He thinks we live the best life — and in a way he’s right, we do. He adapts to my schedule, so we wake up at ten and then go for a long walk, and he never complains about me staying up writing all night. Unlike the men I’ve lived with, he never tells me off for smoking when I said I’d given up, or complains I’m too emotional or have left the thermostat on.

With Bear I didn’t have to pretend to be into hiking or niche Japanese films when we first met — he just took me as I was. For the first six months of our relationship I didn’t even bother wearing make-up. But Bear always thinks I’m beautiful.

He thinks I am good at everything: driving, making fires, opening doors. He thinks I am a brilliant cook, although I have only one recipe, which is to take some chicken and boil it — no garlic, no onion, no salt — with rice. Presented with this watery chicken stew he acts as if he has been invited to the chef’s table at a Michelin restaurant. No man has ever looked as excited by any dish I’ve presented them with.

What I love about living with Bear is that he’s always up for an adventure. And he always wants to do what I am doing. A trip to the beach? Three hours charity shopping? A long lunch with the girls? Bring it on! Bear never plays hard to get — he is always consistently, ecstatically happy to see me, and always upbeat.

Bear and I never argue about politics or Trump or who paid for the car insurance or who did the washing up (although I wouldn’t mind if the household chores were more evenly split). He doesn’t complain about my friends or how pink the house is. He doesn’t have a view on what kind of car I buy or if I’ve spent too much at the farm shop or I’m overusing the hand brake or whether I should pair my socks.

Instead he loves me unconditionally. Even if I’ve put on weight or I’m crabby, even if I can’t be bothered to go for a walk and I’m sitting in bed binge-watching The White Lotus, he acts like I’m the best person ever. He wouldn’t care if I didn’t wash for a week — because anyway he likes me better when I smell.

He’s accepting. I like that we have no expectations of each other, so we’re never disappointed. He’s fiercely loyal and very protective. He literally guards the house — but I don’t have to worry about him starting a fight. Like all partners, he can be a bit needy: he whines if he wants a snuggle.

He can be quite emotionally manipulative when I want to go out and he makes puppy eyes. I do worry sometimes it’s an abusive relationship. He’s demanding, he expects me to organise all of our social life and holidays, do all the housework and pay all the bills — of which he is the biggest. He is stubborn and won’t do anything unless a treat is involved, although I know friends with husbands like that.

Sure, there are some things I miss about living with a partner, like having someone to open jars. And the sex. I often say I’d like to meet a man just like Bear — loyal, happy, loving, reliable — but I don’t know if they exist.

I think ultimately the reason living with Bear brings me so much joy is because he loves me completely for just being me. There is no judgment, just love. Isn’t that what everyone wants from the person they share their life with, not to mention their bed?

I can’t imagine any live-in partner could make me as happy as Bear does. Does that make me a bit sad? I guess I’m just grateful that I’m a dog lover and not a mad cat lady yet.

Yes, I love my cat more than my husband

I see him and my insides melt. His physical perfection stuns me. I itch to hold him close, sigh mmmm, you’re so gorgeous an’ amazing and smother him with elaborate kisses. I’m talking, of course, of my cat. No offence to my husband who probably qualifies as a silver fox — but my reaction to the sight of him is more muted.

It’s no surprise to me that a new study suggests a pet makes you happier than a husband or wife. “There is substantial evidence from psychology and medicine that pets are associated with better health and higher life satisfaction of their human companions,” say the authors. They conclude, “the causal impact of pets on life-satisfaction is positive and of meaningful magnitude”.

So positive. Such meaningful magnitude. (The researchers reckon a pet is worth up to £70,000 a year in terms of contentment and wellbeing.) Whereas most of us are irritated by our partner at least once a day.

Maxted: “Cats find fault but that’s because they deserve perfection”

“Stop biting your nail!” I barked at my husband this morning — unable to stand the nibbling noises. And yesterday, when he dared wonder aloud at the state of the stock market, I snapped, “I just want to not worry for five minutes!” In terms of life satisfaction — deduct ten quid.

He’s actually an excellent husband. Yet who finds anything, let alone everything annoying that their spouse does, delightful and amusing and forgives them immediately?

If your spouse breathed in your face and it stank of old fish, you’d be revolted. If you were sitting there reading and your spouse was asleep, making snuffling snoring noises, you’d prod them sharply with your toe.

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If you’d lovingly presented your spouse with a meal that they’d devoured the previous day and licked their lips — but suddenly today indicated that they thought it was literal shit, and stalked off, you’d be upset. If you were watching a Val Kilmer film to honour his memory and your spouse purposely sat directly in front of the TV, his surprisingly large head and body blocking your view, you wouldn’t look kindly on it.

Heathcliff does all these things — also, regularly biting me on the arm almost to the bone as he gets over-excited after receiving affection (just let my husband try that one) — and I am entertained and admiring, even while screaming as his fangs make contact with my tendons.

I love him more. No one likes a suck-up. There’s something irresistible about the way my cat, an archetypal feline, is bloody-minded, unrepentant, rude, ungrateful and independent. Being likeable is overrated, at least in cats. For humans, meanwhile, the bar is high.

Really, I’m a sincere fan of my spouse. But men are challenging. When they’ve asked you to call the plumber three times because the soil pipe is cracked and leaking, they criticise you. They really don’t like it when you’re terse for reasons entirely unrelated to them, and expect an apology — making you feel bad. They act like shutting any door would complete a circuit of 12,000 volts and kill them.

Cats find fault but that’s because they deserve perfection — it’s never personal. I know this, because even as I dab my bloody arm with TCP, my cat brushes against me, hello friend, or honours me with a slow blink, I trust you. And when he sits on me, heavy and warm, his purr is a meditation, and in that blessed moment all is well.

Whereas my husband is too hot for proximity, as in, my God, are you about to spontaneously combust? Fact is, Heathcliff can do no wrong. Even when he brings me a dead mouse, I’m deeply touched, as I understand that the food he loved yesterday is an insult today, and feedback is a gift. In life satisfaction terms that’s 70 grand, easy.

Meanwhile, a few Christmases ago, my husband bought me Bose earbuds. I sulked for a year. Yes of course now I use them every day. Regarding his contribution to my contentment, I’ll allow that he’s in the high 50s. Anna Maxted