I’m going to tell you how I was betrayed not by my beloved, but by my dog. Left just like that without a word, without any consolation. There should be a hotel for the owners of dogs who’ve been abandoned by their animals. With networks of friends and solidarity groups and well-meaning ladies, allaying their conscience at charity sales. It’s not a question of writing a conclusive work on canine ingratitude. Merely a word of warning to other loyal, dedicated pet owners.
I’m an ordinary member of the human race, with no proven pedigree, and if I have a place in any newspaper, it’ll be in the unclassified advertisements. My dog, on the other hand, is of the purest race, a category proven on his birth certificate. The creature is thoroughly thoroughbred, full of ancestry. A retriever, son of a retriever, grandson of a great-grandson. In an unadulterated ancestral line, like the kings of genealogical descent. The clumsiest thing about him is the name he was baptized with. It’s such a human name, I almost feel humiliated by it: Boniface. Is that a name for an animal? I’ll get to the point and then lose it again.
Every day, late afternoon, I would take him for a walk. That is: he would drag me along on his leash. Boniface would choose what paths to take, where to stop, what speed to go at. And there were times when, so as not to cause inconvenience, I would bend down to scoop up his stinking poop. Did I show such a degree of deference to my own children? And on top of all these privileges, people would only ever talk about him:
—Fine specimen, splendid animal, they would say.
When they noticed me, it was by accident or as an afterthought. Me, humble little me, at the other end of the leash. I was the one being led, a mere member of the human race, without any proof of pedigree. My dog, my lord and owner, was above mere mortal animals. He didn’t sniff: he merely inhaled the sophisticated odours on the trees. He didn’t pee: he merely relieved himself with dignity, in the neatest of streaks. And if he soiled the street, he wasn’t the filthy one: shame was directed at me and me alone.
My temper got worse the more of these injustices I had to face, to the point that I began growling whenever I put Boniface on his leash. This sense of vexation must have expressed itself in my face, for on one occasion I was asked:
—Bite?
I replied that they could relax and approach the animal, because he didn’t bite.
—I was asking about you, not the dog.
That was the first warning. I was assailed by a sudden fear: one day, I might be forced to wear a muzzle. And to carry a vaccination certificate with me.
I started to avoid going out with the animal. Only when the city was deserted and when the noises of the nocturnal animals had died down did I dare take Boniface for a walk. And it was on one of these occasions that he, obeying his canine nature, assaulted a cat with a couple of bites. This produced a kerfuffle and accusations of responsibility. People asked me nervously:
—Is there a vaccination certificate?
—Who for? Me? I asked, by now at my wit’s end.
There were no further retorts or altercations. Being the owner of a cat has great advantages: the person comes rapidly to the conclusion that he is the owner of a virtual animal, or that it exists only at certain times. But I was beset by an endless doubt: did they suspect that I was the one who had done the biting? I was doomed, unavailing of human rights. How could they suspect that, between me and Boniface, I was the one responsible for doing the biting? I’m only too aware that the human mouth contains so-called canine teeth. And on Boniface’s snout there dwelt a smile of the purest innocence.
In order to put an end to the matter with the cat, I had to shoulder all the blame and claims for damages. As for Boniface, he remained in blissful disregard, ready for other assaults on innocent, civic-minded cats. That was the last straw. A dog is man’s best friend? Well I, for my part, decided to run away from home, leave everything behind me, neighbours, friends, the losses and gains of a whole life. And I didn’t come out of it too badly, such was my relief at not having to remain domiciliary and domesticated. I happily took up residence in a primitive hiding place, an empty shed in a public garden. I enjoyed a genuine dog’s life. People would leave me a few leftovers. Sometimes, if I was lucky, a few doggy bags! Did I yearn for my own existence as a person? I no longer wanted to think about it. A man who barks doesn’t bite, I barked, and the caravan passed by.
Until one afternoon my dog, none other than Boniface, emerged on the grassy horizon. He was dragging himself through the park, as gloomy as an autumn day. When he saw me, his tail almost detached itself from his body, so violent was its wagging. He bounded towards me and, jumping up, started to lick me. He seemed so happy that for a few moments my heart dithered and my eyes filled. Then I noticed he was carrying a lead in his mouth. He waved it around, suggesting that I put it on him so that we could once again walk the roads full of interesting smells.
—Oh, how clever! those present remarked, moved.
—I was the one who taught him to do that, I boasted proudly.
—We were talking about you, my friend.
That really was the last straw, the one that broke the camel’s back. I didn’t need to utter a word, that’s what I should have added. But I didn’t speak, nor did I bark. And it’s in silence that I allow my pitiful fate to take its course. Just one last question: Is there a competition, by any chance, for fully-trained men? Don’t give me an answer. The one who wants to know is Boniface, my old owner and master. That’s what I always read in his eyes every time he passes, tall and haughty, through the park where I swap fleas with other members of the canine family, my colleagues in misfortune.