How awful our love towards dogs is. As if nothing in them was actually lovable, as if their utility or their looks were a complement to our lives and character. A dog has to daily demonstrate its usefulness, its preparedness, it brings us cats and rats on the mat in front of the chimney-piece, it offers us awards, it silently sniffs the air to read what we’re needing and feeling and strives to fulfil it, so that we can love it, so that we can keep it a day longer, so that we can throw something out from our overfed table, something we’re unable to ingest when we’ve already untied our belts and the upper button of our trousers.
This is not an advert against neglect of animals, this is an image of utter surprise in my own ways to relate. “When I’m a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in”. I work hard, I search for cats and rats and kill them for those I love, display my trophies in full sight, so that the nest is safe and they know they owe it to me, so that I can have my share of the cosy warmth, and damn I’ve earned it. How strong and resistant I must have been if only now, for the first time, I feel tired and need some unpaid for rest. I’m great at sniffing the air and seconding the atmosphere, really deserve first prize and a well lit place. And when my ego wakes up and I start barking, it really doesn’t last long, you can keep me a day longer.