The idea of acquiring a dog at all began with Mingus. Mingus is a Dalmatian. He is the former pet of my partner, Trezza. Mingus lives in Derby with Trezza’s ex, but he comes to stop with us in Norwich sometimes for the occasional custody visit. In the days and weeks after Mingus has left to return to his Master you will find Trezza in melancholy mood.
Mingus is the first dog I’ve ever had in my home. He is nice to look at, but it’s more or less downhill from there. Here is an animal who will eat anything, who will display interest in any item that could possibly be comestible, with the sole exception of oranges. Drool falls in thick spools from his jowls as he sits in the kitchen keeping me under surveillance whenever I’m cooking, whatever I’m cooking, whatever I’m assembling; he does not even rule out Cornflakes. I find it hard work to conceal my distaste at the drool, though I try, for his sake. He has a deep soulful look and I don’t want to offend him, I do not want to precipitate the sadness that comes so quickly to a dog’s eyes by having him notice that I’m disgusted by a habit that he cannot help.
He has other habits I could live without too, like coming up to our bedroom at five in the morning to check we are still alive by licking our faces. It’s considerate of him, but it’s a kindness I would pass on, were it possible. We could close the bedroom door, but he would just scratch his way through it; persistence is one of his main characteristics.
His surprisingly sharp and tenacious white hairs, which attach themselves to any fabric and to every other surface as well, are dismaying. For me, it would be better if his spots moulted instead as a good part of my wardrobe, about which I am touchy, is in the dark-to-black end of the colour spectrum. Prior to Mingus’s visits I hide my regular clothes away, and for the duration of his stay I wear items that I normally reserve for decorating. I am touchy about the interior cleanliness of my car, too. So when we make a journey with Mingus I pre-drape the rear seats and headrests using the dust sheets that go with the decorating outfit. This protects against the drool, which is chemical in its power to decompose upholstery, but as for the hairs – which multiply faster than frogspawn and generate enough static to light a Christmas tree – there’s nothing to be done. I am still finding them months later.
I could easily get by without any of this, and most of the time, of course, I do.
But.
(But is often a doleful conjunctive, but not in this case, where it is active and crucial):
But I am fond of Mingus. It is not actually all downhill. He is a charming and endearing presence. When you walk with him you find that family groups will approach you expectantly and you are able to say, in a proprietorial manner, ‘Yes he is very friendly – go ahead, stroke him if you like.’ And so they do, and he takes it in his stride. Mingus is a natural celebrity who recognises his obligation to his public, and who deals with it professionally. He goes for the regal approach – his equivalent of Her Majesty’s restrained wave is the half-nod of acknowledgement, delivered with a self-assurance that derives from being so well-bred and so handsome. It goes without saying that his public reception has a great deal to do with the received image and status that his breed enjoys as a consequence of the 101 Dalmatians books and films, which, as you’d expect from cartoon fantasies, are not big on the downside of doggyness. But still, as I watch him being stroked, and I see the happiness it brings, it’s easy to forget about the drool, and the hairs, and the other matters – most specifically the crap – and at these moments I pretend to be Mingus’s real owner.
It’s during Mingus’s first stay over, while walking out in the pouring rain for the fourth time in two days, that the principal life-changing aspect of caring for a dog really comes home: a dog demands a frequent workout. If a proper dog (goodbye dear Chihuahua owner, but I fear this is not the book for you) does not exert itself twice daily, it will become an unseemly tub of tripe. A tour round the block will not do. The animal needs a run – ergo the single most alarming aspect of dog ownership: you are forced into direct contact with nature.
For myself, even without a dog, I take my exercise. I am forty-odd, and have reached a typical forty-odd condition whereby the endorphin-kick of aerobic exertion has almost eclipsed my addiction to nicotine. But of course I do not walk to the gym, squash court, five-a-side pitch or swimming pool. Exercise is its own end, it is not for getting from A to B. That is why I have a nice car.
Mingus
Mingus visits are, then, the only times I find myself with my feet on the actual ground, walking (anaerobic, worthless, endorphin-kick-free exercise) in those messy woodlands, commons and meadows (without a dog I can see no reason why a human should ever need to be in a meadow) with which I would normally have no acquaintance. These areas are simply the green backgrounds that I fail to notice through the window of the nice car as I drive past them. Though I sometimes jog around a sports field, a sports field is too cultivated and flat and tidy to fit the description ‘nature’. Nature has long grass, is unstructured, often slippery underfoot, and has insects and small animals living in it; it’s an environment about which I could not care less: verdant, necessary to life and so on, but about as thrilling as a Methodist sermon.
I was sent to Methodist church when I was a young boy growing up in the soot-coated city of Stoke-on-Trent. Not because we are religious, but because that was where your parents sent you on a Sunday so that they could have some peace and quiet. After the thrilling sermon there was the thrilling Sunday School lesson. Occasionally, Sunday School trips to the countryside were organised in order that we might take fresh air, cleanse our souls, and learn to identify flora and fauna by name. I would hang at the back of these excursions in a cloud, wishing I was a Catholic. I had no interest in being able to identify flora and fauna by name and this has never changed; my inner Christian scholar is more than satisfied by knowing a great deal more about football than is necessary, and by attempting to interpret information regarding the form of horses.
But as a consequence of having Mingus around, by liking being with him, by hosting him as he spread his largesse into the world, I began to discover that, when it came down to it, I didn’t actively mind, all that much, walking in nature. I remain immune to specific knowledge of bird variety, but I like their songs. As the trees change in time with the seasons, I’m struck by the shifting sculpture of the landscape. When the sun comes out after the rain, I like the smell. In the right mood I even like the rain itself. In short, it’s not as bad as I remembered it.
There is something I mind, though, and I mind it a lot. It is the inescapable, extra awful aspect of Mingus and every other member of his species: he, and they, will shamelessly relieve their bowls wherever they like. I despise dealing with turds. Crouching to ‘pick-up’ is not a job for a man. It is fresh turd, too, remember, it is at its most stinking. And you can count yourself lucky if it’s a fresh stinking log or three, which is at least manageable, and not a fresh stinking pile, which isn’t. You sheath yourself from excrement-direct-to-flesh contact only by the gauge of a plastic bag as you lean forward to gather the stuff, while simultaneously and instinctively leaning back, away from the stench. You could not patent a more perfect method for putting your back out; here is the reason why many a dog owner walks with a stoop.
You could use a pooper scooper of course, which would give you the benefit of a little distance, but after using it you would be carrying a shitty spade about. For me this is a significant design flaw. They could invent a disposable pooper scooper, I suppose, but as you are already holding a bagged-up turd for which you can find no bin, where would you get rid of the disposable pooper scooper?
As a matter of nasal self-preservation you develop tactics to avoid picking up. A ‘Do Nots’ list accumulates in your mind. Do not walk him on a pavement with a narrow greensward alongside it that he will only regard as a crapoir. Do not take him across the road at the traffic lights, so he can demonstrate his dumping skills to motorists stopped on red. Do not tie him up outside a newsagent’s. Do not take a short cut through a supermarket carpark. Do not take him to a Piazza, a square, or a shopping mall. Never walk him through a town centre.
Instead, encourage him to poo in the garden before he leaves the house. Pointless, he will refuse to do that as it would be unhygienic to go to the toilet in his own personal space. He will regard you curiously, wondering how he has managed to get himself involved with a human as dim as you are. The expression on his face will say, ‘No, not here; how many times do we have to go through this?’
If you are going to become a long-term dog person, here is the way to deal with defecation: first thing in the morning launch the animal into the back of the car (trade in the nice sports coupé while it’s still got some residual value, it’s a battered estate you’re looking for). Drive the battered estate to a copse – an especially overgrown part of nature: a meadow with trees and bushes. Park as near to the copse as possible and let him directly into it.
Using this method, his bottom’s first prolonged contact with the chilly air that unfailingly provokes the turd (unless he’s in his own garden, of course), will take place in an area where you can leave it behind. This may represent a violation of a by-law, but there is fox, rabbit, vole and mouse shit in there as well, so, like the foxes, rabbits, voles and mice that went before him, you can feel free to abandon the evil item. Like a person who has just silently farted, you can move along on your way with a more or less clear conscience.
Meanwhile, what remains behind can be assumed to provide a fertile, manure-type base in which further examples of nature can flourish. In this manner, instead of engaging yourself in odious and demeaning pooper-scooper activity, you have instead become part of a virtuous life-cycle. After the poo(s) (there may be more than one) and the lovely walk in nature, back home in the warm kitchen, Mingus will look at you adoringly with his head tipped to one side. This is because you are holding a pork pie. For the price of half of it he will love you. For the price of the other half he will protect you from attack and lay down his life in defence of yours.
It was through knowing, and liking, Mingus that I was able to begin to think of myself as a person who might have a part-share in a dog.
And so it was, on the snowy winter afternoon, that I found myself at a re-homing kennels considering the idea that a pair of Deerhounds the size of donkeys might come to live in our house.