John Butleron man's best friend - and terrifying enemy.
When aliens land on earth, as they inevitably will, they'll have to interpret the sight of humans picking up the faecal matter of dogs as proof that cocker spaniels rule the planet and that we are indentured slaves in their regime.
It's absurd to note humans walking the pier holding plastic bags, comfortable with the knowledge that soon they will be lifting animals' turds in their hands. It's one of the many tiny insanities that we have fashioned in these times, because dogs are at the middle of many people's lives. In fact, dogs are some people's lives.
You don't need great powers of psychological insight to guess that, for many people, the dog takes the place of human affection, substituted in the heart for the love of a partner or a child. They are treated as humans, dressed, carried by their owners in papooses. There's something a little strange about all of it, and I have heard it said that it is wrong to waste all that love on a pet, but it doesn't seem like a waste to me.
A dog can teach you how to love. In fact, parents bring pets into the home to teach their children about love and about death. It makes sense, as the lifespan of the family pet is shorter, with luck, than that of any family member. If death is a lesson that must be taught at a young age, better that it comes with the death of an animal.
We had two in our family. The first was a King Charles spaniel called . . . Charlie. For a dog of such regal pedigree, Charlie was a hooligan. He would pick fights with Alsatians. He humped cushions. Once, when we came home, we found Charlie on the kitchen table, eating butter from the dish. I first learned about death when I was seven, and Charlie was replaced by a female beagle called . . . Seve. Like the boy named Sue in the Johnny Cash song, Seve overcame the difficulties of being assigned a name associated with the opposite gender, and she hung around for many years. Man, I loved that dog.
Recently, though, my relationship with dogs has become a little complicated. From them I have now learned more than I ever needed.
I took a summer walk around Howth Head a few years ago. Two friends and I were walking, and these friends are both actors. This is an important detail, because it means that each of them is a great storyteller, and if you are walking and they are telling you a story, you can become so engrossed with the accents, the mimicry and the physical embellishments that you can find yourself walking off a cliff.
Actor number one was in the middle of a gargantuan tale when actor number two jumped over a fence with a "no trespassing" sign fixed to it. Actor number one followed suit, and I, too, vaulted, engrossed. We started to walk across a field, with actor number two leading the way.
Fifty metres in, actor number one was nearly at the punchline when we heard actor number two, up ahead, say: "Um, this doesn't look too good, guys."
Actor number one and I looked up, and it was true: it didn't look too good. It didn't look too good at all. A Rottweiler was hunched low in the grass, creeping towards us, teeth bared. From its throat issued a deep guttural growl: the sound of hell. From the dog's mouth hung a rope of thick saliva, his stomach priming itself to eat. I shall never forget those shoulder blades rising and dropping as the animal crept towards us, the machinery working beneath a glossy coat that barely disguised the brute power.
Actor number two was right in the firing line, yet when he spoke his voice was calm. He was an actor. At this point I was willing to do what he said. Except what he was saying to us was: "Stand perfectly still. Don't move. The main thing to do here is not to show fear. Because if you show fear . . ." He was gone. Actor number two had bolted, mid-sentence, for the gate, the adjoining house and safety. Seeing this move, the Rottweiler began to sprint towards us, and we turned and ran.
We've all heard of the mother lifting a car with one hand to free her child from beneath it, and I can confirm that in times of great distress you acquire superhuman powers. Within five seconds I was past actor number one. Within six I had passed actor number two. Within 10 I had run through a thick wooden fence, exploding the planks as if they were made of balsa, and flinging myself into a deep ravine of gorse.
A few seconds later actor number one landed on top of me. We struggled to our feet, and from our home in the bushes we could see actor number two vaulting the fence farther down the field, the dog attached, viciously, to his back. The most terrifying sight was yet to come. As man and beast landed on the other side of the fence, and actor number two struggled on to his hands and knees, the Rottweiler primed itself to launch, jaws first, at his neck. It was curtains for actor number two.
Out of nowhere a human whistle sounded. The dog looked around and saw its owner, and we were saved. We were given bandages and tea with lots of sugar in it, and later we drank pints and muttered about litigation.
Nothing ever came of it, and, thankfully, the story ended with a whimper.
We each had learned our lesson. But I didn't need to learn it, because Charlie had already taught me that one.
John Butler blogs at http://lozenge.wordpress.com