man like dog
If I were a man and you a dog, I’d throw a stick for you / If I were dog and you a man, I’d throw a fit for you (Deerhoof, Kidz Are So Small)
Have you ever stared into the eyes of a dog? Like, really bore into the depths of their pupils, until you were touching souls?
Never mind how fiercely they bark or growl or flash their teeth, my next door neighbour claims that a dog’s true nature lies in their eyes. Pete claims to have seen it in all the breeds he’s come across at close quarters. Some, like bull terriers, are more nervous than their outward appearance might suggest. Others, like greyhounds, are exactly as nervous as their outward appearance might suggest. Some are playfully happy but easily distracted; border collies, obviously, mastiffs… less so. Some of the most imposing canines have looked most lost; Pete’s never seen a doberman at peace with itself. Then again, Pete swears the pitbull that bit him on the arm during a Duke of Edinburgh walking trip in Malvern Tarn when he was 13 years old had a tear stream down its right eye as it did so, lamenting ‘I am not a dog, I am only what my master commands of me, nothing more… miserere mei, miserere mei, miserere canis pauperis’, woe unto me, boohoo, diddums, and other such Esperanto.
An unbelievable tale, like plenty Pete has harangued me with on my driveway while about to leave for or return from work. But he insists they all have something in common: no matter how they act, all dogs look at you like they need your attention in some way. Quite different from cats. Staring into a cat’s eyes is like standing on the edge of an abyss of indifference, with a casual hint of menace that could tip you over at any moment. ‘They give the impression that they’ve never wanted to be our friends, and frankly I don’t trust it,’ he once ranted. And I suppose I’d be inclined to agree with him, if I’d cared for it on a busy weekday afternoon at the white collar office, several white collar associates walking past my white collar desk eyeballing me with the suspicion that I might be stealing white collar company time.
But on and on did my neighbour deliver his treatise, a los ojos de criaturas, replete with factoids. For example, all birds’ eyes exhibit an air of surveillance, apparently. ‘They’re constantly scanning their environment, so you can never keep their gaze for long’. Goldfish, on the other hand, have nothing going on behind theirs. ‘It’s closer to ignorance than the innocence of rodent species such as hamsters, guinea pigs and the like. But a dog? Well, I — even you — can work out any dog’s personality just from looking at them.’ I struggled to see how, but Pete does love to explain things and I knew he would get to it if I let him continue.
‘You see, when canines first came into contact with us homo sapiens during the Neolithic period,’ Pete intoned with a television presenter’s cadence, ‘both species’ roaming routes began to merge. By the 1300s, we’d aligned 95% of all our migratory patterns. The 5% difference belongs to non-domesticated beasts of the same gene pool, like wolves and coyotes.’
I had reservations about Pete’s potted history, but I reserved them, on account of my feeling the heat of white collar stares on me. I said something to try to shake them off.
‘What can I do you for?’
‘Well, I’m in a spot of trouble.’ Of course. Pete always is when he wants to talk to me.
‘Do you care to tell me exactly what sort of trouble you’re in?’
‘It’s a bit embarrassing.’
‘Embarrassing or not, I can only help you if you tell me what it is’, I insisted with professional impatience.
‘Okay. Well, you know my dog Sade?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, the authorities have confiscated her.’
‘And how did that happen, may I ask?’
‘Why are you being so formal about this?’ Pete protested. ‘It’s my dog, Sade! You know her. She’s my dog.’
I left an awkwardly long pause before exhaling a sigh at Pete’s protestations, loud enough both to hint to him that I was in a compromising position, and to signal to the white collars buzzing around me that I was at least trying to progress this call along productively, it was the bothersome client on the other end of the line who was holding me up.
‘Oh, I see,’ Pete said, once he’d tuned onto my wavelength. And with that cue, I permitted myself some latitude, emotionally speaking. ‘Sorry to hear that. And how did that happen, may I ask?’
‘Well, you know she’d been poorly for a while, but I delayed taking her to the vet because it was too expensive, until one day when she started coughing involuntarily. The sound of it was unbearable — like nothing I’d ever heard before — and every few minutes she’d emit flecks of blood. So I was forced to take her. The morning we went, as we were crossing the heath on the way there, Sade stopped against a memorial bench, dedicated to all those who’d fallen in This Centuries’ Wars. At that moment, I began to wonder how many of those lives could fit on that bench — ’
‘Unnecessary detail.’ I interrupted.
‘Okay, okay,’ Pete said, ‘no need to be so stern about it!’
‘Sorry. Please do tell me what happened next’, I asked in a more conciliatory tone, and Pete skipped to the next scene in his tale.
’So, Sade had wandered over to the bench, sniffed one of the legs, and then went to perform the customary dog action of, erm, marking its territory. Now, I didn’t think anything of it until I noticed Sade looking at me intently while she was doing so, like she needed me to pay attention. I looked around her eyes for clues of distress, but found nothing until I met her gaze. That’s when her eyes seemed to call to me:
I am a light fading into darkness Do not forget me in your mind and in your heart…
All without breaking eye contact. That’s the way of Afadors, often prone to moments of poignancy and reflection when you least expect it. The thing is, when Sade proceeded to perform the customary clean-up ritual dogs do with their genitals, something began to stir within me, something that compelled my spirit to connect with Sade’s, to be at one with her, to be more like her, to become her. Be more Sade, be more dog.’
My ears honed in on Pete’s words at this point, because I could sense in his tone a twist yet to come. ‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean you don’t know?’
‘I don’t know! It was unlike any sensation I’d ever felt before. I cannot explain it.’
‘So what did you do in the end?’
‘I copied Sade.’
‘Huh? Copied? Copied how?’
‘Well, I… you know… c’mon man!’
‘No, I most definitely do not know!’ I said, befuddled by the possibilities of what Pete was asking me to imagine.
‘I started to lick myself! Okay!?’ he hollered down the line at me, frustrated. ‘There! I said it! Are you happy now?’
I was stunned, and a little repelled, not happy. ‘But… erm… how could you –’
‘Really?’ he screeched.
I sensed I’d pushed Pete too hard. ‘Actually, no,’ I interjected. ‘No no no no no, that’s enough detail for now, thank you.’
‘Uniformed park guards found us,’ he said, ‘arrested me for public indecency, and impounded Sade.’
‘Blimey.’ I paused to reflect on all I’d heard, leaving a silence long enough to panic Pete. The pendulum of impatience had very much swung to his domain, propelled by a sense of shame. ‘You still there?’
‘Oh, yes. Sorry’, I said.
‘Thank goodness.’ Pete wasted no time in coming to the point now. ‘Well, I need your help to get her back from the dog pound, please. Can you do that for me?’
‘Well –’
‘C’mon lad,’ Pete implored. ‘You’d be doing me a huge favour.’
‘Fine.’
‘Sweet, I told the authorities you’d be there by 6pm closing. I gave them your address already.’
‘Really?’
‘You’re the only one I could think of who could vouch for me.’
So I find myself swinging by the local dog pound to pick my neighbour’s mutt on my way from work. Serves me right for making an effort to befriend Pete when I first moved in next door to him all those years ago.
It’s raining when I pick Sade up. We’re two streets closer to the comfort of my home when Sade clumsily walks into a puddle on the same street corner where I get my daily stresslesspresso from my local indie coffee-and-electric-bike store, E-Coff.
I look down. My trousers below the knee are soaked with the brunt of the splash, and a bit extra when Sade shakes excess rain off herself. I try to disguise my annoyance with a tug of the leash that says ‘move along now!’
But she resists, instead staring at me in a misty-eyed fashion… or maybe it was the fog and rain giving off a hazy effect. Either way, Sade certainly looked like she wanted something from me… perhaps a chance. To connect. With a human. Forging that special canine-sapien bond. Always present, always in harmony. Together once more, in the spirit of –
‘Woof!’ One terse bark from my lips jolts Sade back into attention and a twice tug of her collar resumes the walk home.
‘Your owner might fall for that puppy dog eyes crap, but I don’t’, I grumble menacingly. ‘I’m on a tight leash too! What do you think this white collar is for?’ I point at my crisply ironed neck. Sade whimpers.
The collar starts to make a whirring sound, thanks to the two motors secreted in the fold, and after a few seconds I receive a short sharp jolt, straightening my back. I continue walking, posture more upright than before.
‘Rather your boss than mine,’ I said.
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