‘It’s a dog’s life’

Press, 16 July 1983, Page 12

‘It’s a dog’s life’

JILL WILCOX contemplates the charmed life our canine friends.

I have been having these fantasies lately, in which I am yelping, growling, barking, rolling over on my back in ecstacy, or begging with a huge smile plastered around my face.

I have not bothered consulting a psychiatrist about it because I know what ails me.

I am suffering from a modern complaint called “dog envy.”

My own dog is nothing exceptional to look at, and her name “Patch” was not chosen on one of the family’s more inspirational days. She boasts no pedigree — even her immediate parentage is in doubt, though she looks as if somewhere in her background a corgi and a fox terrier had a run-in (or I should say a love-in.)

I won’t go as far as to call her a mongrel, because that would be demeaning for a dog that has got everything going for her. It’s like this — I take her out for a walk, and we’re never more than a hundred yards from home when someone speaks to her. They always say something nice like, “What a good dog!” or, “Aren’t you a

lovely little fellow.” She laps it all up and is not a whit concerned about being called a fellow, when she is a girl. Women’s Lib is strictly for people. Dogs like her do not need it. I stand discreetly to one side while all this mutual admiration is proceeding, anxiously waiting for it to be my turn. Not that I am longing to be told I am nice and lovely, just a friendly “Good morning” or a “Nice

day,” makes me feel good. Occasionally, I do get a brief word, but I never really feel it is for me, the person, but for the dog’s appendage. When I embark on this cold world without her I do not generally merit the brief word. If I take her down to the shops, she sits by the door, or in the middle of the doorway looking in with a little-dog-lost anxious frown on her face. Everyone falls for it and commiserates with her, they pat her head and tell her how good, how patient she is. She looks sadder by the minute, and rolls over on her back to get her tummy scratched. This is the ultimate in bliss as far as she is concerned, and all she has had to do to earn it is to look anxious. When I leave the shop I look around me and notice yet again that a great many of my fellow humans are looking anxious, but do we go around giving each other reassuring little pats (psychological if not physical.) Spot an anxious face bearing towards you and you look the other way.

Anxiety is an infectious disease — but it cannot be caught from dogs. When I grew up in a small Canterbury country town everyone knew everyone, and a walk

down the road always included the time of day being passed with neighbours or acquaintances. Part of my earlier ; married life was spent in a similar but much bigger country town in Southland. Much the same feeling of mutual good will prevailed — and even if you did not know each other a word or a smile in passing was generally exchanged. About 12 years ago we became city dwellers. The pace of the world accelerated. I had brought my own six kids up to be friendly to all, but after a load of knock backs they became as wary as the rest. As for me — I still keep hoping. I mean if the dogs can do it, why can’t we? After all, we are supposed to be the superior animal. So if you happen to come across me one of these days, with or without dog, do smile and say “hello.” For my part I promise I shall try to refrain from wagging my tail and licking your hand in gratitude ... It’s a dog’s life!