Jen and I have a house-guest over Christmas: Jen's mum's old-but-spritely cocker spaniel, the seasonally named Holly.
Holly likes visiting our place: there are nice new walks to go on, there are cats to chase in the garden, there are interesting smells to explore (sorry about that, it must be all the apricot stuffing), there are turkey leftovers, and the fat bearded man's idea of what constitutes two handfuls of dog food supplement is considerably more generous than the usual waiter's.
Oh, yes, and if you whimper like a poor, lost puppy, the people here give you lots of attention.
The only thing Holly doesn't like about staying here is the plate glass patio door, which she sometimes thinks is open when it's shut, and tries to leap through to great comic effect.
It's good having a dog around the house, but, with the amount of time Jen and I are away from home, there is no prospect of our having a dog of our own until we win the Big One on the lottery.
In our house, a dog is just for Christmas.