THEY SHOULDN'T MAKE THEM THIS SILLY
On ancestors, ancient curses, and grunty little pigdogs
My sister accused me of being in a secret throuple with her dogs. I don’t know why she has to make it sound so weird. All I said was that I sometimes have secret cuddles with one dog while the other one isn’t looking. And that’s only because when I try to cuddle them both at the same time, it ends up in a fight. And that’s only because one of them was raised by my mother, so she is extremely anxious, autistic, needy, and rubbish at human interaction, like all my mother’s children.
The other dog is rather different. I’ve come to believe she is actually an old Irish storytelling mage who has been trapped in the body of a tiny poodle mutt. Whenever I put this suggestion to her, she goes mad with excitement, so I think it’s probably true. I’ve yet to discover the key to unlocking the spell, however. (And maybe I prefer this person as a dog, anyway. Who knows what terrible things that old wizard did to deserve such a punishment?)
Considering my general difficulties in forming and maintaining friendships with human beings, I relish my popularity with dogs. My sister says they like me because they think I’m also a dog. It’s true that I seem to have a knack for knowing what a dog is trying to communicate to me, whereas with humans, I often struggle to find mutual understanding. Maybe the problem is that humans also think I’m a dog. Maybe I am a dog. I do have a tendency to hump people’s legs when over-anxious.
Prior to becoming a full time dogsitter (which by the way is not a real job in any sense of the word, so don’t get excited) my dog experience was mainly with the sensible breeds. Labradors, Collies, mongrels of indeterminate lineage. There was, however, an insane Jack Russell we had when we were kids. Taking him for a walk involved letting him off the lead in the woods, whereupon he would immediately race away and we would spend the next two hours running through the trees, shouting ‘Jasper! JASPER YOU DICKHEAD!’ until we got fed up and went home without him. This was in the days of white dog poo, which were also the days when dogs got put outside in the morning with the kids, and it wasn’t uncommon for someone’s dog to meet them at the school gates in the afternoon, or even to come into the playground – an event that would cause great excitement. “A dog in the playground!” The cry would go up and we would all rush to the window to see some kid’s huge slavering Alsation taking a poop in the sandpit. “Aww!” We would coo.
These days, dogs are a lot less independent. They’ve become our pampered little prisoners. They’ve also got a lot sillier. They probably shouldn’t make them this silly, to be honest. I recently had to take care of a French Bulldog who was probably the most absurd dog I’ve ever known. To illustrate this, let me give an example. One evening, I washed my hair and put it in a towel turban to dry, then sat on the sofa and put the telly on. Usually, the dog wedged herself in between me and the side of the sofa, which was her way of making sure I couldn’t go anywhere without her knowing. But this time, she sat apart from me, nervously chewing her paws. After about an hour, I took off the turban and let my hair down. The dog looked up at me, did a dramatic double take, then raced round the room with joy and excitement that I had returned at last. You see what I mean. Ridiculous.
On the plus side, she looked and sounded like a tiny little piggy. So much so that I couldn’t help wondering if my ancestors would even have recognised her as a dog at all. Her ancestors surely would not have done. Even her contemporaries weren’t quite sure. I’d seen other, more sensible dogs approaching her in the park with trepidation, clearly wondering what the hell she was. The idea that if you went back a few generations, her great great great (etc) grandmother would have been an actual wolf is basically incomprehensible.
But then, the idea that my great great great (etc) grandmother is actually my progenitor is also somewhat incomprehensible. I picture her sitting by a blazing fire, throwing scraps of mammoth meat to the wolf-dogs who hang around for warmth, food, and mutual protection, and I’m pretty sure she would wonder what the hell I was supposed to be. They really shouldn’t make them this silly, she would say to herself. Okay, yes, I can make a fire (if you give me some matches). But I can’t tell the difference between a herb that will flavour the mammoth meat and something that’s going to send everyone into profound psychedelic derangement before melting their insides to sludge. I don’t even know how to joint a mammoth, or a rabbit for that matter. I can barely remember my own phone number, let alone several centuries worth of knowledge passed down from mother to daughter. In short, I am to that cavewoman as Piggy is to a wolf. Practically a different species.
The only consolation here is that at least we’ve co-evolved. Dogs and humans are on the same page. Me cuddling on a sofa with Piggy is not the same thing as my ancestor sleeping on the ground with a wolf that’s twice her size, that’s true. But then my cavewoman nana didn’t have to deal with a tiny little Chihuahua’s aggressive demands to be seated on a velvet cushion and be spoon fed expensive dog food that hadn’t even been invented yet. With spoons that also hadn’t been invented.
What I’m trying to say is, maybe everything worked out for the best. As our civilisation declines and hurtles towards its inevitable collapse and oblivion, we can take comfort in the fact that even though we are a useless, soft, ignorant, unskilled, empty-headed, unnatural, sick, depressed, broken and anxious people, half of whom can’t even manage to eat dinner without going into anaphylactic shock, we are still necessary to dogs. And dogs, despite being pampered, dependent, tame and grunty little piggies, are still one of the best things ever to happen to us. Even if we do have to cuddle them in secret because of all the personality disorders and/or ancient unbroken spells.
This was terrific! Our dogs have zero relationship to their wolf ancestors. The sleep in our bed and make sure we put pumpkin in their food for the alleged health benefits (I have my doubts). But they love us and we love them. They are always so excited when we get home from work - my children have never been that excited to see me ever much less on a random Tuesday evening. I know my dog would die for me, he is that loyal and protective. That is unmatched love to be treasured.
Brilliant piece Georgina. 👍🏼
You just reminded me of a dog called Jip, he looked like a border collie who’d been cut off at the knees (very weird!)
He lived in the street behind my house when I was a kid and he spent all day chasing cars and trying to bite their tyres!
Of course this was the early ‘70’s so not many cars about, the poor sod would drop dead of exhaustion these days! 😂