Dogs -
Isle of Thanet Gazette 20th October 2006
At the risk of exciting extra hate mail, I will tell you: I don't particularly like dogs. The main drawbacks are their dependency, their neediness and their penchant for licking their testicles and then wanting to do the same to my face. I also dislike the sort of owner who stands by with an indulgent smile while Fido jumps up and wipes his wet, muddy feet all over me and then calls out: "Don't worry - he won't hurt you..." And I positively loath those that don't clear up after him.
Recent media coverage has done nothing to encourage me. Following the recent tragic maulings, there have been various newspaper articles about Man's Best Friend. Or Woman's. Journalist Christa D'Souza described in the Sunday Times, her love affair with Kodo, a shiba inu, who used to pee on her bed whenever she left him alone in the house and on her friends' beds if she took him with her. Robert Crampton, in the Times relayed the "funny" tale of Knockers, another charming canine who went on a visit and proceeded to eat a guinea pig and then urinate in a handbag. Presumably he was adored too. I'm afraid I just don't get it. One of my theories on the human psyche is that when it comes down to basics, everyone can be put into one of two categories. You're a dog person or a cat person. This applies even if you own both or neither. And I'm with the cats. So it was odd to find myself striding along Kingsgate Bay last Saturday afternoon holding a ball, a lead and some doggy treats. These belonged to Kenzo, Lyn-Marie's black Labrador, who I'd volunteered to remove while Lyn entertained a houseful of squealing nine-year olds for her daughter's birthday (mine seemed like the soft option). And to my surprise I liked it. I threw the ball, did a bit of authoritative calling to heel and felt suitably gratified as Kenzo bounded back towards me. We lost the ball in the sea pretty early on, Kenzo got soaked and I had a small altercation with another dog, but overall I rather enjoyed myself. I had started saying "Good Boy!" in a hearty manner and nodding warmly at other dog owners and was beginning to entertain thoughts of perhaps just a small Jack Russell..., when Kenzo began sniffing about in an urgent manner and I realised there was something I had totally overlooked. He might do a poo. A peer into the carrier Lyn-Marie had furnished me with, revealed a small heap of plastic bags. Oh my god. I knew I couldn't get that close to a warm turd. Not when I still had the last lingerings of a hangover. Not anyway, on any day. I also couldn't, after years of public ranting, leave it there. I wondered wildly whether I could phone Lyn-Marie and ask her to send an obliging party-guest, or if I could just stand around looking helpless until someone offered to help (a tried and tested method by which I got my tyre pressures checked for many years). Just as my anxiety had reached its peak, Kenzo stopped sniffing and trotted on. "Good boy", I cried with renewed fervour, giving him another biscuit and hustling him home before he could change his mind. On the way there, Kenzo veered towards a passing teenager, attempting to lick her and plaster his wet, sandy feet up against her jacket. She leapt back in alarm and revulsion. "Don't worry," I heard myself calling gaily, "he won't hurt you..."
Recent media coverage has done nothing to encourage me. Following the recent tragic maulings, there have been various newspaper articles about Man's Best Friend. Or Woman's. Journalist Christa D'Souza described in the Sunday Times, her love affair with Kodo, a shiba inu, who used to pee on her bed whenever she left him alone in the house and on her friends' beds if she took him with her. Robert Crampton, in the Times relayed the "funny" tale of Knockers, another charming canine who went on a visit and proceeded to eat a guinea pig and then urinate in a handbag. Presumably he was adored too. I'm afraid I just don't get it. One of my theories on the human psyche is that when it comes down to basics, everyone can be put into one of two categories. You're a dog person or a cat person. This applies even if you own both or neither. And I'm with the cats. So it was odd to find myself striding along Kingsgate Bay last Saturday afternoon holding a ball, a lead and some doggy treats. These belonged to Kenzo, Lyn-Marie's black Labrador, who I'd volunteered to remove while Lyn entertained a houseful of squealing nine-year olds for her daughter's birthday (mine seemed like the soft option). And to my surprise I liked it. I threw the ball, did a bit of authoritative calling to heel and felt suitably gratified as Kenzo bounded back towards me. We lost the ball in the sea pretty early on, Kenzo got soaked and I had a small altercation with another dog, but overall I rather enjoyed myself. I had started saying "Good Boy!" in a hearty manner and nodding warmly at other dog owners and was beginning to entertain thoughts of perhaps just a small Jack Russell..., when Kenzo began sniffing about in an urgent manner and I realised there was something I had totally overlooked. He might do a poo. A peer into the carrier Lyn-Marie had furnished me with, revealed a small heap of plastic bags. Oh my god. I knew I couldn't get that close to a warm turd. Not when I still had the last lingerings of a hangover. Not anyway, on any day. I also couldn't, after years of public ranting, leave it there. I wondered wildly whether I could phone Lyn-Marie and ask her to send an obliging party-guest, or if I could just stand around looking helpless until someone offered to help (a tried and tested method by which I got my tyre pressures checked for many years). Just as my anxiety had reached its peak, Kenzo stopped sniffing and trotted on. "Good boy", I cried with renewed fervour, giving him another biscuit and hustling him home before he could change his mind. On the way there, Kenzo veered towards a passing teenager, attempting to lick her and plaster his wet, sandy feet up against her jacket. She leapt back in alarm and revulsion. "Don't worry," I heard myself calling gaily, "he won't hurt you..."