Aged seven, an earliest memory was running away from my Aunties dog called Widget, meandering and weaving through the paved hung garden from the two-tone plastic swing into the safety of my grandma’s conservatory. Frightened, bursting into tears, and sliding the door shut, I was finally safe, bounded with the warm stifled air of the extended room. What had been nipping close to my ankles and gnarling between small steps was no longer a danger, as I looked at it through the mottled glazed panel, barking and asserting it’s decrepit dominance. Behind it’s wired coat, rotten teeth and life extending steroid injections was a well-loved creature, one which could do no wrong. Signing off on every birthday card and featuring in the staged family photos, the old smelly bag of bones managed to find itself everywhere. It was this aspect of ownership which I invariably disliked the most about this dog, and it wasn’t even it’s fault that it was made to feel at the centre of attention. Did he make me despise all pedigree chums indefinitely? No. Did he make me start to question their owners? Yes.
What this dog and many others around me in the countryside have exposed, was a bracket of owners, who are totally dependant on their furry friend. Here and there I do get a gentle satisfaction when I scratch their beard, sneakily give them a treat or twiddle their ears as they lean comfortably inward, although I find it nauseating how people can be so obsessed and wet about them. Embodying a third child, or an extra head at the table, these mutt’s become socially personified characters. Qualifying their personas to fit the image of the owner, you’re more than likely to witness a brown Labrador called Monty slobbering all over the rind of fat from ‘Daddy’s’ Sirloin steak, left for him on the worn level of the pub floor, “Ooooooo there you go boy… ah ah don’t walk over there…no sniffing Daisy’s bottom… Come here!”. There’s no fucking escaping these owners, coming as commonly as the Land Rover defenders they drive, and the shotguns they pack over the shoulder of their Schoffel gilets.
Invariably, the hound is never the priority; it’s about the concerns and anxieties of the owner. By creating and training these dogs characters much to Pavlov’s delight, these owners can distract from their insecurities and woes. Plastering and glueing their lives much to the similar effect of a good pint, blending a necessary social lubricant to allow a fluid flow of conversation with other country bumpkins. Quelling the nerves and without having to say a word about yourself, is a perfect formula offering a maximum outcome. Dogs fill the void of people by becoming their own characters in these remote spaces and sparse vistas and have become an essential part of maintaining the constant social climate within the village and beyond. There are no hospitals near here, so it’s the most immediate means of replacing a lost crutch (which may be floating down an overflown river thanks to Storm Derek this weekend).
All this being said, I’m starting to think a critical message is being barked which is not my intention, so perhaps I ought to put my muzzle on before someone bites back; no one wants to play with an anti-social dog. It’s easy to be dismissive of the value these domesticated beasts have, which is considerable for some. Enabling any person to be able to arrive into any situation or environment, eradicating underlying feelings of loneliness and uncertainty, which can be readily felt around here when it’s dark by 5 pm and there’s not a yellowed spill of the street light outside seeping past the front curtains. It’s the mushiness and gooeyness I struggle with, which escapes me whenever I see a small sausage pitbull mongrel (yes I’m sure it was painful) cotch next to the opening of the bar, or be escorted begrudgingly on his lead round the pub by a stubborn child. All the while, swirling on his large glass of Shiraz or spinning the metal container of straights, his master masks in his silent company. The steady companionship, mirrored by their routinely quiet entrance and ease is something that does not need to be talked about or implied, but simply enjoyed.