For review purposes - as well as sheer open-faced amusement and joy - I’m reading Christoper Hitchens’ memoir Hitch-22. In it, he refers to being in Belfast at the very dawn of what became known as The Troubles in 1968. Oddly enough, so was I, at the age of 10 and on a Cook’s Tour with my Mom. I didn’t witness any explosions but Hitchens did. A pub was blown up and out of the wreckage came a strapping huge Belfast fireman weeping terribly because the little mangled body in his arms was a dog. And yes, that is precisely the reaction one would have. I know I would. I love dogs as I suspect you do - I don’t think cat people read much about dogs, much to their loss. But when you think about it, it really is a rather odd thing to do, now isn’t it? We live in shelters with walls and doors and roofs to keep out, among other things, the wildlife. And then we invite in a representative as a permanent invited guest. It’s like an experimental re-conceptualizing of The Man Who Came to Dinner only this time Monty Woolley wears his last name on his paws and tail.
And dogs are like Sheridan Whiteside. If you don’t know the play by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart, you’re missing a treat. Whiteside is a literary radio pundit who slips and falls on the doorstep of a nice suburban family. The sort of family that might well have a dog. Whiteside can’t leave - he’s injured. He takes over the house and invites in all his louche and absurd friends. He’s a busybody who’s into everything the family does and he’s prickly about what he eats. He is a dog.
Our house had a perfectly respectable living room before Stella, our just turned one year old Border Collie arrived last August. There were five qualities we wanted in a dog: no more than knee height (we got that one), an ability to catch flying things (excels at it), was obedient (we’ll get to that), didn’t bite (does nibbling count) and didn’t shed. We’ll cdeal with the last point first.
I fight a losing battle against enough hair to keep a Perrsian rug maker in business for a year, provided there was a hot trade in rugs colored black, chocolate brown and white. I find curly tumbleweeds of fur bouncing over my foot as they travel across the kitchen floor, my chair is an itchy sweater and the rugs now look like the rugs of that family on the next block that you didn’t want the children to ever walk on. ‘No no, tell Bobby to play over here. We’ll go out and have ice cream.’
The technology has failed. The hair and certain trace elements of substances we don’t choose to think about at this time managed to not just tangle the power head of the vacuum (which is child’s play to clean) or stuff the hose (annoying, but doable). It managed to transform itself into a sort of bomb proof concrete that neatly mortared itself into the one hard plastic elbow that you just can’t get at with pliers and the stuff could stop tanks, so what’s a poor coat hangar to do?
And I do by the way sincerely thank you for allowing me to entertain with tales of my wounded vacuum cleaner. Business will pick up shortly.
To come back to the oddity of inviting these rumoured domesticated animals into your or my home, how on Earth did this ever get started? Anthropologists have fairly firmly settled that humans and wolves started to get along when the wolves would approach the camp or village and not eat the children. Domestication followed, they were handy for hunting companions, etc.
But one thought has always troubled me about that theory. Wouldn’t any other animal that stupidly wandered close to the caveman condominium have been killed and eaten? I’ve never eaten dog nor do I suspect I would, but there are cultures that do so it can’t even taste all that bad. So what was the dog offering that trumped the caveman appetite?
It can’t just be cuteness. And a wolf can wear the garment of many fine adjectives - proud, strong, powerful, majestic,steely, wise, et al - but cute would have trouble making the list. And squirrels are cute, but I don’t know anyone who has a squirrel for a pet.
No I have my own, shall we say, pet theory. It would be cool, it would be plausible, it may have already been the recipient of $50 million in research grants for all I know. Two words: telepathic abilities. Yes they know when we’re happy, sad, furt, tired, sick or just plain pissed off. They read us like they’re crack card players at a World Series of Poker final table staring down Phil Ivey while keeping their tails perfectly still. Beware the dreaded tail tell.
Well we know that one. That’s a principle joy of owning a dog. The dog cares. So we’ve been satisfied with that and haven’t looked further. But if we did I suspect that dogs have perfected the ability of Star Trek Vulcans. They do mind melds. They manipulate our feelings. They make us love them.
Cat people, on the other hand, have a flaw in their DNA that makes them impervious to the canine spell. I pity them. Be seeingyou.
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