Cape Town - Last week, I read that 41 percent of British dog owners talk more to their four-legged friend than to their partner, with most spending 47 minutes a day chatting to their pooch.
I read the results of the survey to Joey and asked him what he thought. He looked back at me with doleful eyes and burped quietly out of his grey muzzle.
“Oh, I know,” I said, “it’s probably some rubbish study done by a dog food company, but still.” He wagged his tail and lay his head on my lap.
“You know, you are the most handsome moony-moony of all the moony-moonies in the whole wide world. Yes, you are.”
I have no idea what a moony-moony is.
I think it’s cruel to talk to dogs for 47 minutes a day - 73 would be better. Our dogs seem to enjoy my conversation. They rub their faces and lick my ears when I tell them about the book I’m reading or the weird signpost I saw, or how the world is making me sad. When I try to tell my husband these things, he rubs his face, flicks my ears and shows me his new hi-fi system. It has a DAC. I have no idea what a DAC is.
Sometimes I sing to my dogs, inserting their names into songs. “Joey” works well in almost all Steve Perry tracks. Other times I whisper secrets in their loamy ears.
I’m not alone in having canine conversations. One friend says she offers running commentary of what she is doing: “I wonder if the washing’s dry?” “The kettle boiled ages ago and I still haven’t made the tea, have I?” “I’ll finish this report and I think we should go for a walk. What do you think?” My friend is a professor with a high IQ. She knows the dog won’t answer.
Another friend - also a professor - says she asks questions: “Where have you been?” “Why do you want to kill that bird?” “Why did you crap in the strawberries?” “What are your plans for the day?”
I have come across many people in the park engaged in long conversations with their dogs: women complimenting their pooches on their winter jackets; men praising their Labradors on their excellent ball skills - “You know, Lacy, if you don’t watch yourself, some rugby coach is going to offer you R1-million to play wing.”
One man, whose pooch was evidently trotting out of sight, nearly had me reaching for the mace. “Come on, darling,” he said, staring right at me. “Bring your lard arse here and come to daddy.”
Dog owners will tell you of the unconditional love they receive; the consistency and loyalty of a hound. Some (actually one - my friend Linda) might confess they feel flatulently free only with their furry friends. Yet others will describe how a dog saved their life.
I have a friend who has struggled for years with an illness that attacks her nerve endings, often leaving her bedridden and in excruciating pain. She says that during her worst days, “with that whole arsenal of drugs beckoning, promising an end to unending pain and misery, and as I sat weeping or lying curled on the couch and thinking it was time, one or all three dogs would gather near”.
“A paw or a snout or a gentle warm body would touch me. It was always enough to remind me that they loved me, and that no one loved and cared for them as much as I did, and they needed me here still”.
A few months after my first brother died, I was inconsolable, pale and absent. I, too, had started eyeing an arsenal of drugs. Then, one day, almost unconsciously, I found myself driving to Hout Bay and turning into the entrance to Darg (Domestic Animal Rescue Group).
There, in a run, I found a puppy defending himself from the other dogs, baring tiny rice teeth. He was as scared of the world as I was and needed equal rescuing. I took him home. He spent his first night whimpering on top of the dining room table.
Over the next few months, he grew stronger and braver. He needed walking, so I took him walking. We walked and walked and walked: in parks among people, in forests among leaves. The world started to feel warm again. At night, I slept in his arms, breathing in fur and life.
Now Joey gets the benefit of my scintillating conversation, “don’t you, moony-moony? What do you think we should we have for dinner tonight? Fish or steak-flavoured cubes? And what do you think about all this Zuma nonsense? I know, moony-moony, I don’t know either”.
Oh, you want a song? Okay, Steve or Paul Simon? You choose. Okay, I don’t know any Paul - it’ll have to be Steve. Here we go. You ready? From the top: “You should’ve been gooooonnne, knowing how I made you feel. And I should’ve been gooooonnne, after all your words of steel…”
Our love holds on. In fact, if one looks closely enough, all love holds on - in spite, and because, of everything.
Cape Argus