Dog Days

When I was about 13, following years of sustained, systematic nagging, whining, grousing, griping, begging, groaning and, er, suggesting, my parents bought me a dog. We drove to a farm on the outskirts of our hometown and picked up our pup. He was a border collie. I called him Alfie.

I remember hugging him on the drive home. As we arrived, though, he puked down the front of my shirt.

He was adorable. But he was also a border collie. Collies are black and white fireballs of energy, who love to run and jump and weren’t made for life in the city. Soon, little Alfie was terrorising my younger’s brother’s feet. At some point little bro stopped leaving his room.

In truth, we weren’t the best family to have a dog. We were natural worriers, who were on the verge of a collective heart attack when Alfie picked up stones with his mouth. Having nagged, whined, groused, griped, begged and groaned for years, I was also not entirely overjoyed about the prospect of scooping up his shit.

So, after three days our puppy went back to the farm. He was still very young and very cute so I’m sure he found a different family. Hopefully, one less prone to stress. And with a bigger garden.

Young Ben was very sad, though. Not resentful (I would have to have been a real brat not to notice that the mood in our house had begun to resemble that which might be found in wartime). But sad.

Cut to my mid-twenties. When I met my other half I became a sort-of stepdad to her middle-aged German Shepherd. Inexperienced, I thought that German Shepherds were a rather fearsome breed of dog. Our dog can be fearsome - if you have the misfortune to be another dog. Humans, though, she loves - to the point that when a priest arrived for his annual visit she apparently leapt up and planted a big smacker on his lips.

Learning how to look after a dog is easier when they are middle-aged of course. They don’t have as much energy. They have learned not to bite. They have learned not to shit in the house. Not often at least. I hope I am good at looking after ours. Certainly, she has lots of attention. I would never want a living being to become part of the furniture.

Our dog is an especially good dog. She only barks if someone has the monstrous audacity to ring the bell. She has natural charm if they are welcome guests. She has an inexhaustible supply of love, treating daily arrivals home from work as if we have returned from a long tour of duty in the Middle East.

She loves her squeaky toys (the pig, the bear, the monkey…) and she loves her treats. Once, she understood that she should do some kind of trick to earn a treat. Now, she stands by the drawer that contains them and smiles as if she earned treats by the mere fact of her existence. Of course, she has.

Living with an old dog can be poignant. They slow down. They are in pain. Death lurks at the door just at the age where humans come into themselves. It is quite unfair.

Of course, I am not the kind of person who equates having pets with having children. Cats and dogs have tastes, and memories, and attachments but they do not have the rich internal lives of human beings. Frankly, that is part of what makes them so loveable. As an often bleak human being, prone to overthinking, it is good to have someone around who is absolutely joyful if they have a crunchy snack and a squeaky toy. That should not replace the more complicated aspects of human life, of course. But it reminds one to appreciate the simpler things.

It reminds us to keep our hearts as pure as possible as well. If a dog can have instinctive love and loyalty, what excuse do we have for our cynicism? We know how often people do not deserve them, of course. But otherwise we have no excuse for selfishness.

Happy birthday, sweet old dog. I wish you could understand how cheering it is to unlock the door and hear the patter of excited feet.