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With her big brown eyes and constant need for cuddles and kisses, Matilda makes every maternal fibre of my being swell. Every time I look at her - or even a picture of her - my heart fills with immeasurable love and the desire to hold her close, bury my face in hers, protect and cosset her - the normal, all-encompassing feelings of intense love and responsibility that a mother has towards her child. But Matilda is not my daughter. She is my four-year-old West Highland White terrier, and I freely admit that I love her as much as I love my 11-year-old son, William. In fact, on some occasions I love her more than him. And I don't feel a bit guilty about admitting that.