Dog Rant


‘I need a hypo-allergenic one’ people say, shamelessly. As if dogs were jeans – skinny one year, boot cut the next. Like the now ubiquitous gluten-free products, there are oodles of Oodles being produced and sold on that their USP, being hypo-allergenic. Am not saying that some people don’t need to go gluten-free or to go oodle, it’s just that it’s all become a bit much, hasn’t it?

When I was growing up, we were one of the few families in my area that had a dog. At nine years old, Tess – a tiny ball of monochrome fluff – was all mine, the fruits of a six year nagging campaign. At five weeks old she was of course far too young to be away from her working sheepdog mum but already sadly, irrevocably was, so we whisked her away to warmth, a ticking clock, coddling. She’d survived the culling of her siblings by hiding in the hay, the method of their death so classic it was a cliché: drowning. A stout corgy/collie cross, the sole survivor of an unplanned pregnancy, I was devoted to her – we roamed the woods every day after school and did gymkhanas in our back garden. She was ill disciplined – yapped to go out then yapped to come back in – but never any real trouble. She slept on my bed and survived on a diet of Pedigree Chum, Maltesers, and Chinese takeaways. She wasn’t ill a day in her life and passed away peacefully on my parents’ bed, looking out at the enormous Magnolia tree which we humans all adored. We hadn’t realised that she too appreciated its resplendent white blooms that turned sticky and slimy when they fell but that were so well worth it. Never underestimate a dog.

So I was ever, always a committed dog lover. I always will be. And it’s strange to hear myself saying this, but I think there are too many dogs in the parks. That perhaps – just perhaps – the concentration of dogs in our society is too high. I don’t have a job, I don’t have children, and despite fastidious devotion to the task and a budget running more into the thousands than the hundreds I’m ashamed to say that I still haven’t managed to train our second (lunatic) dog, who we’ve had for three years. I can’t fathom how people with jobs and children manage it. Granted they probably don’t have a Jackson, but still.

I recently had two worrying conversations. One – a sensible, affable lady who basically liked animals had got annoyed at a dog (a cockerpoo) sniffing at her barbecue on the beach, its humans sniggering and giggling and doing bugger all to call him away. She’d been worried he was going to knock the fire over, and irritated that he might lick her sausages. Two – a friend of a friend who was going to get a dog even though she was quite open about actively disliking them. Her husband, an almost obsessive clean freak, didn’t especially like them either. But the kids wanted one, so they would be getting one – a hypoallergenic, bred puppy, of course. Made to order, reassuringly expensive. This highly intelligent, otherwise (presumably) socially intelligent person had no shame rabbiting on about all this to me – a self-confessed, vocal, vehement dog lover. She could so easily have been talking about an ipad or a coffee table.

When I was young, kids who expressed an interest in or even a burning desire to pet own usually got fish, hamsters, some sort of rodent – a cat if they were lucky. People just didn’t buy dogs for kids. To be fair they didn’t buy lots of other s*** for them either. There were far fewer dogs in the parks, people were less precious about behaviour, society in general was not so much of a pressure cooker. When an altercation did happen, it didn’t escalate into a full-on hoo-hah. I recently had a disagreement with an idiot whose 3 nasty dwarf bulldogs had packed on mine, one of them getting a ripped ear in the process. He subsequently threatened and stalked me. I – not one to give in to a bully – had to get a police intervention. Crazy days, really.

Don’t get me wrong, plenty of my friends successfully have dogs as a not especially thought through addition to their human families. The dogs and children are happy (the more playmates and chaos the better), the parents are happy. And Thomas, the joyful miniature schnauzer, will be in situ to avert the otherwise impending empty nest crisis. But let’s look at the parks. Where there used to be the odd few dogs there are now dozens of them, many with dog walkers. Anyone who knows anything knows that if you put too many dogs who are not in established packs together it can turn ugly. Incidentally, dog walkers are not necessarily these days people who understand or even particularly like dogs, so when you put your precious fur baby (how I hate that expression!) with one, make sure it’s one you have personally vetted – and shrewdly. Preferably, I’d say, spy on them – but perhaps I’m being overly neurotic.

A dog is for life, not just for Christmas. Indeed, we’re all finally clear on that. A dog is also not for every Tom Dick and Harry (change names as appropriate) whose parents decides a dog might look good on their Instagram feed, or who can’t seem to entertain the notion that dear little Tybalt can actually be said no to. And I do wish people would stop thinking that spending a lot on a dog will guarantee it grows up into a romping, adorable Timmy from the Famous Five. Some things just can’t – and maybe shouldn’t – be bought.

Lost Dog

I just read – and loved – the book ‘Lost Dog (A Love Story)’ by Kate Spicer. It made me wonder why I’ve never written about us losing Jackson. Probably I didn’t want to relive the trauma. It was roughly 3 years ago now, and we’d picked Jackson (was Isak) up from a small place outside Belgrade called Jagodina. We’d met one of his chief rescuers and guardian angels, Inda, at a grooming salon, and when we came in there he was, sitting proud and handsome and good as gold up on a high table, being finished off. I’ll never forget how he looked at us, his paws gently moving up and down one by one on the table, as if he were kneading bread. I’ve never seen him do that since I don’t think. He was eager – so eager – to get down, cuddle us and start his new life. You’d have to have an extremely cold heart for it not to melt. So far, so good. This could work, I thought to myself, despite having had my reservations. 

I’d known – in an abstract way – that it was a bad idea getting an adolescent pointer hot on the heels of our first one. Not a sensible idea. Pointers are notoriously energetic and demanding dogs, and their puppyhood lasts longer than other dogs, til 3 or beyond. Stevie was only 1 year and 8 months old and although brilliantly behaved and socialised, a naturally easy dog with all the advantages of having a charmed life from puppyhood, she was by no means not full on. And my life was complete, with her in it. But I’d made the mistake of taking my husband (perhaps an even more ardent dog lover than me) with me when I went to assess / photograph Isak-to-be-Jackson (in order to post him on the pointer network and find him a home). Isak had seemed docile enough, letting another dog in the place lead him around on a lead, laying down and falling asleep in the sunshine (when I posted some photos on Facebook I remember someone being horrified, thinking he was dead before reading the text!). In retrospect, he was probably just bored stiff and shutting down. He was able to run around and was exponentially better off than in the kill pound from which he’d been extracted, Dusan who was looking after him was a lovely kind man, but money and resources were tight and his freedom was contained to one yard only, and social interaction to 6 other dogs, none of whom he had an overly fulfilling rapport with.  

We should have got an inkling that the calm exterior we’d seem thus far had hidden depths when he lunged across the car every time we passed a dog on our drive back to Belgrade. My husband and I exchanged looks. Strange, we thought, naively… We checked his collar was on tight, and exited the car for our first walk once we got to our local park (ten minutes from home). I don’t remember who was holding him, but I do remember it happened in a flash. Isak-now-Jackson fixated on a dog he’d seen on the other side of the park, wrenched his head around a few times like an irritated lion and that was that, we stood there like a couple of lemons with a closed circle of a collar dangling forlornly from the end of the lead. “I checked it was on tight!” I undoubtedly squeaked. I knew I had, my husband had checked too, at my request. We probably stood momentarily staring at the edge of the park and a slope down which he’d hurtled. At the foot of it, a busy, busy road. We probably then sprinted over to that place and screamed and shouted our hearts out. I don’t remember. Probably it was traumatic, probably my mind blanked it out. I only remember going back to the place we’d last seen him a hundred times in the next 32 hours, adding clothes that smelt of us, even though he’d barely had time to learn our smell. He wasn’t even used to coming to his name, how oh how could we have been so stupid not to have a slip lead on him?? A million other thoughts certainly beat us up simultaneously, and in my stomach there was – I remember that – a dark, terrifying, terrified feeling. How would we survive this guilt, this pain? We’d only just got back on our feet, even though we didn’t realise we’d been off them, after a gruelling ivf process (in retrospect I’m not sure why I ever did it as I always, always preferred dogs to humans, puppies to babies). 

It was interesting how we reacted differently. Sasa galvanised his team at work to print up posters and threw himself into the physical search. Between us we put up hundreds of posters and must have walked tens of miles. I remember tapping every poster as I left it, tapping things is a funny little OCD trait that seems to hit me when I get stressed out. I tapped Jackson’s face on the poster, wished him luck, willed him to be alive. Sasa insisted that if we just kept looking, kept pounding the streets, put in the hard graft, we would find him. Sasa is an optimist. I am more of a pessimist. I just felt like we alone were looking for a needle in a haystack.

To be continued… 

A life without…

A comment a (vague) friend had made about me at a recent gathering slipped into my knowledge the other day, cooling my heart temporarily into a little block of ice. A lot of peoples’ lives revolve around their children and a life without children may well be unthinkable to them, I get that, it’s perfectly normal. But there are other normals too. And that someone should pass such judgement about something of which they know less than nothing? It wouldn’t have occurred to me to think it strange or laughable that adults should want to willingly share their homes with babies, children, teenagers, young adults – yet frankly, when I think about it, there could be seen to be plenty of ‘strange’ in it. The reservations (let’s call them reservations) some people have about dogs – presumably things like dirt, dog hair, the risk of barking, non human-ness – seem trivial by comparison, quite honestly. 

This friend has no concept of the joy my dogs both bring to me, how much I enjoy their company, a joy that billions of dogs bring to billions of people around the world. That this friend does not ‘get’ it reflects more on her and on people like her than on those billions, in my opinion. This friend is irritated by the ‘doggie mums’ at the school gates – the easy friendship between them, a clique of which she is not a part. This friend is convinced of the superiority of humans over all other species. This friend does not like how much I love dogs, it unnerves her, she cannot relate to it, so ( / and?) she mocks it. I guess I find it strange, sad that one person should find another’s love laughable. But then in 2019 we all like to judge, don’t we. 

My strength of feeling on the subject seems to be necessitating recently that I psychologically divorce myself from people who feel too differently on the subject, or at least from those who aren’t smart enough to deftly avoid discussion about it. I feel a growing estrangement for anyone who doesn’t get the point of dogs, and of animals in general. I can’t help it. The older I get the more I am drawn to a different tribe, one I was always part of. Small children who are in turns enraptured and instinctively devastated when taken to a zoo, mothers of babies and pitbulls, metal working carers of injured opossums (@hollywoof that’s you), beautiful Pakistani film stars who have compassion for every living being that inhabits the earth (@hirahussain, that’s you), brave young people advocating for (even large! imagine!) canines’ rights and quality of life in London (@thelondog and @wolfdog_of_london in particular), celebrities who are not scared to wear their love for their dogs on their sleeves and even write books about them (@spicerlife springs to mind because I read her book recently), people who foster children and animals in their homes and change the paths of their lives irrevocably – people who like to give back, people who pick up the pieces and look to help those outside their own blood (@carolinehartleybrown).

I guess I never was that conventional and not being blessed with children has only exacerbated that, not that am sorry. I could have been mother of humans, goats and mongrels, but in the absence of human offspring springs a wealth of love and dedication I might not otherwise have had the energy or resources to tap. I am grateful. 

PS Barack Obama loves dogs. Trump is the first President in 100 years to not have a dog resident at the White House. I can’t help feeling that this is somehow relevant.

Life’s better with dogs

Your dog knows you in a funny way better than anyone else. They see you at your finest (singing along with the radio at the top of your voice, days where you tackle life with focus and gusto) but also at your lowest ebb (having no motivation to work or learn or create, days where you feel lacklustre and devoid of inspiration). They see you dressed up in your finest – perfumed and coiffed, and they see you slouching around spotty and pale in grubby tracksuit bottoms. And they probably prefer you in the latter. The point is, whatever your mood, dogs adapt and act accordingly, and always, always make you feel better. If you decide to have a sneaky daytime siesta when you’re supposed to be working from home, they’ll hop up on the bed and snooze along with you (which somehow makes the whole thing lean to feeling indulgent rather than sad) and they won’t grass you up afterwards. You can be neurotic, bad-tempered, lazy, egotistical, moody, hyper – whatever – they’ll still love you. What more could you ask for in a companion? 

I’ve always loved walking but now, I have to say, it feels a bit lonely without dogs. If I don’t have mine with me I’ll gravitate towards other peoples, and usually they understand because as dog owners they’re likely to do the same, the world over. Like any love, language is no barrier, love unites, and you can bend down to pet a dog in Delhi or Dachau or Dallas and convey in one exchange of looks with the owner how you feel about this species, and in that look find a common bond, a sweet moment of connection. Dogs just make everything better. They are company without pressure, a positive, supportive presence, they don’t judge, or try to suggest rational, logical solutions for your problems, they’re just there, with you. Canine Vladimirs and Estragons – just less complicated. 

I feel free, unencumbered when I walk with my dogs. I am not wife, daughter, employee, friend. I have no history, no reputation precedes me, I am not bound to behaving in a certain way. I am me and I do not have to play a role. I pick and choose who I talk to, who I walk with – if the chemistry is lacking I walk another path, or I walk for hours with a stranger whose company I enjoy, but who I may never see again. It’s precious, that walk and it’s repeated a thousand different times over the course of a life with infinite variations. We forest bathe, me and my dogs. We interact with others or we are enormously antisocial. We get reenergised the way we need to depending on the moment. If there’s a truer, purer thing in life than walking with your dog, I don’t know it.  

Are dogs babies?

I want to set something straight, in response to a particular article I read lately and which upset and angered me, along with a whole raft of other people. Not pointedly / individually to the author as much (I know she is a decent, kind person who just happened to write one article not up to her usual highly socially intelligent standards) but to all those who seem to be somehow offended by puppy coddling (and honestly, am incredulous at that – aren’t there more evil things to get yourself upset about?)

The thing I want to say is this: People who have dogs do not think they are babies. Even when they are puppies. Even when they (the people) don’t have babies. Dogs are not babies. We get that. We don’t need or want them to be. They have entirely different qualities, aside from both being – a lot of the time – pretty cute. Even those of us who have not procreated not through choice do not somehow imagine that our dogs are babies. We do not need to be pitied because we love our dogs ‘too much’. Some people who have babies love their dogs just as much as we do. For a lot of us, our love for dogs predates and will outlast our desire to have babies. The idea that we think our dogs are babies is ludicrous. Yes, some people call them fur-babies, but those same people have probably given their husband / partner / best friend a silly moniker too.

Do we anthropomorphise them? Of course we do. There goes the arrogance of humans again. But we still love our dogs for exactly what they are. They are not a baby replacement. Sometimes, babies are not needed or wanted – and dogs are. Often, the reverse is true. It’s a free world. And for the record yes, we do consider them to be part of our families.

The intensity of care a human needs to show its baby in order to thrive (or even survive, to be fair) is far greater than that which is needed to bring up a puppy. Puppies do not demand heroicly wakeful nights, they do not engender the sleep deprivation and self-sacrifice induced near insanity I have seen a lot of new mothers run close to. Animal young is far, far more self-sufficient from a far earlier age than human young, who remains helpless and vulnerable for several years (one might argue, indefinitely). A 6-month old dog will happily hike miles, gloriously naked, undemanding, grinning at you all the way – and then flop down and sleep like the dead for 10 hours. A 6-month old baby, less so.

Dogs do not shower you in reflected glory when they hit milestones (riding a bike, traversing a slope on skis for the first time, playing Fur Elise on the piano), they are quite frankly more likely not to hit any noteworthy milestones whatsoever but rather to show you up in public in some goofy, well-meaning way.  Dogs (I can’t comment on babies) give their love abundantly, selflessly, consistently. They do, also, let you down in that they tend to die after all too brief a time – they will not stick around to look after you in your dotage (although to be fair there’s no guarantee that offspring will either). They never learn to speak, and unless you are Anna Breytenbach you will never really know what they’re thinking. They’ll basically never ‘grow up’ and turn into a smart little mini-you, however much training you put in – the most you can hope for is an admiring  comment from a fellow dog walker or two.

Does it really matter though that dogs can’t talk, that they will not ‘progress’ beyond their Peter Pan selves? Perhaps not. Dogs bring pure, unadulterated joy, and relatively undemanding –  we who live with them are blessed to share our lives with them. Ricky Gervais says he feels that dogs are like Air, or Land, in that they’re so essential that they belong to everyone, not to the individual. If you love dogs, you’ll get this and it will make you smile knowingly. If you don’t, you won’t, you’ll roll your eyes and maybe smile that cynical, superior smile of an anthropocentrist who thinks s/he knows better. But rest assured, you’re missing a slice of the finest pie in life.

Extreme Reactions

I recently did some therapy. It wasn’t classic therapy, but rather a technique called ‘clearing your head trash’. As part of the process (interesting, I recommend it) I had to try to ‘squeeze the power out of extreme emotions’. First you had to identify the emotions, which was an interesting process in itself. I identified that I had a lot of anger – white hot fury, if I’m honest – at humans. I consider them to be (generally speaking) malevolent, egotistical, selfish, destructive. By contrast I consider animals (yes, all, even hyenas and rats) to be in essence benevolent, gracious, decent, noble. It was only when I vocalised these feelings that I recognised how extreme they are. I won’t say wrong as I absolutely, militantly stand by them and god help anyone that sits next to me at a dinner party and dares to suggest otherwise.

‘I don’t like them’ said a lady at the next table to me (a street cafe, a busy seaside town, summertime, Croatia). The venom flooded my body and I stared at her, unable to formulate words. I turned, in slow motion, to my husband. ‘I can’t sit here, next to that woman’ I said, loudly, thickly. I realised I was flying in the face of convention, refusing to subscribe to social etiquette, to ‘normalcy’, but unable to help it. He very sweetly backed me up, paid the bill and came and joined me on the street. No longer hungry, we defiantly, fed the street cats the rest of our dinner – unhurriedly, swaggeringly – in plain sight of her.

I don’t think I would have objected had she said ‘I’m scared of them’ and I expect I would have had more respect for her if she’d said ‘I hate them’. But this bland, non-descript tourist had pissed me off monumentally with her neutrally delivered ‘I don’t like them’. For me it just summed mankind up, she embodied everything I hated about human beings. The cats I was feeding (discreetly and under my table, not hers) weren’t hurting her, they weren’t threatening her, they hadn’t even noticed her. They lived there. But she – moon faced, uncaring, stupid, hateful she – felt fully entitled, entirely reasonable, lacking in shame to say this, to demand this, because ‘she didn’t like them’? How very arrogant. How very human.

I felt sick. Part of the Headtrash process I’d been engaged in was about clearing the opposites, squeezing the power out. If I was busy ranting (even in my head), I wouldn’t be able to channel my passion, that was the bottom line. And it was so, so true. I had so much of my energy invested in hatred of this bland, boring, feline hating lady, that it was eating me up inside. My fury had rendered me incapable of a calm, witty,  direct put down to challenge her, to make her think. My passion had handicapped me. I vowed to be smarter, cooler next time.


My brother’s not a particular animal lover, and he’s especially averse to dogs. I’m not sure why. Perhaps he’s just being contrary, provocative (it would be in character) but I don’t think so. We grew up in the same family, I have an affinity with animals (any and all) and he, with birds (any and all). Our sister loves animals too, but perhaps less vehemently than me. I don’t know how she feels about birds. There’s no accounting for taste – no rhyme, no reason. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not not glad that he loves something living as opposed to humans (he’s an anthropocentrist, a humanist – I’m very much darkly the opposite) and I love, I really love, how much he loves birds. It’s just I can’t feel it myself. I wouldn’t ever hurt one. I would help one if it was in trouble. I find them by turns appealing, fascinating, interesting, graceful, impressive (seagulls and ravens and are my favourite), it’s just that I don’t have a huge emotional connection with them.

My brother’s love for birds is as early born as mine for animals. Whilst he was in his bedroom rehabilitating fledglings that our cat had mauled, hand feeding them milk from a incongruously maternal pipette with a swooping motion, I was busy making woodlice houses or trying to bring home animals, any animals, claiming they were desperate. Often they were well cared for neighbourhood pets with collars and tags, I was more like an underage dog stealer really. I craved animal company. You know those kids you see in rapt delight at the zoo, that was me. It’s unintelligible to me that all humans don’t feel that wonder – that privilege – that lies in being near an animal. But am pleased that my brother feels it in the presence of birds.

An Unpleasant Evening


I felt a bit sick, like when you’re on the precipice of saying something irretrievable that might result ultimately in the breakdown of your relationship. I also felt adrenalin fuelled, fired up. White wine did that to me, I shouldn’t drink it. Granted, it had been a tricky year and I was overly sensitive on the issue of procuring dogs. I’d been living in Serbia where speying / neutering campaigns are not what they ought to be and litters of tiny pups are dumped with alarming regularity. I’d got a bit involved in dog rescue (never a good idea for an Empath) and understandably, I was rather anti Buying A Dog.

This particular friend – one of my best – is one of the smartest people I know, she blazes through life with ease and originality. Her spelling is utterly appalling as is her handwriting but those are literally the only two bad things I can say about her. She’s fantastic. Except that right then, eyes glittering with disgust, I didn’t find her fantastic. I found her arrogant , annoying, rude, ill informed. She’d made the mistake of telling me – blithely, casually – that she was going to buy a dog. She wanted a specific breed, she said, but she didn’t know which. I found this ludicrous and told her so in no uncertain terms. If she wasn’t passionate already about a particular breed for a particular reason, what was wrong with a mixed breed? I just didn’t get it. We argued back and forth, the novelty of not being on the same side for the first time ever exhilarating.

It was a horrible evening, I hated arguing with her and felt jangly until we saw each other again and cleared the air. We joke about it now – she claims I’ve put her off ever getting a dog, any dog – she said she’s too terrified to do it, or rather do it ‘wrongly’, since that evening. I don’t believe this however – she’s not at all the type of person to roll over – and I check her house for a clandestine cockerpoo every time I go over.

True Friendship

When I was nine, I got a dog. My best friend – now and still – was scared of dogs. She’d been bitten by one quite badly as a toddler, so it was eminently understandable. But she – never one to let things get in her way, always one to make the best of things – took it with gumption. What I love about her is that she, scared though she was, immediately set her own concerns aside and threw herself, bravely, into my delight – and by the time Tess (a stout black and white corgy / husky cross that had allegedly been a border collie puppy) grew up, she loved her almost as much as I did.

This would already have been commendable, but since Tess wasn’t the most singularly adorable dog ever, it was even more so. She yapped, a lot, so much so that one of our other friends (a cat lover, not to be trusted) wanted to sellotape her mouth closed one evening when we were getting drunk at my house. It goes without saying that my friend and I stopped him, the sellotape didn’t come out of the drawer and he wasn’t allowed to darken either of our doorsteps for quite some time.

This friend – Kate – went on to marry a lovely chap who is dog mad, whose parents are vegetarians and have half an animal sanctuary at home. Whose sister is an animal behaviourist. They came to London when their second son was only just walking. We went to Kensington gardens and her son threw sticks for my puppy, both delightedly having a great time. That’s real friendship.