Simon Garfield - Dogs Best Friend

Shutterstock by Barpe

W hy is he here?

Why is my dog lying at my feet in the shape of a croissant as I write this? How have I come to cherish his warm but lightly offensive pungency? How has his fish breath become a topic of humor when friends call round for dinner? Why do I shell out more than a thousand dollars each year to pay for his insurance? And why do I love him so much?

Ludo is not a special dog. Hes just another Labrador retriever, one of approximately 500,000 in the U.K. (hed be one in a million in the United States, the most popular breed in both countries). Ludo has a lot in common with all these dogs. He loves to play ball; obviously hes an expert retriever. He could eat all the food in the universe and leave nothing for the other dogs. He is prone to hip dysplasia. He looks particularly attractive on a plush bed in a centrally heated house very far from the Newfoundland home of his ancestors.

But of course Ludo is a unique animal to me and the rest of his human family. He is now an elderly gentleman aged twelve and a half, and we would do almost anything to ensure his continued happiness. We willingly get drenched as he tries to detect every smell in the park. We schedule our days around his needshis mealtimes, his walks, the delivery of his lifesaving medication (he has epilepsy, poor love). We spend a bizarrely large amount of our disposable income on him, and he never sends a card of thanks. When hes not with us for a few days (when our children take him for a weekend, say) then the house feels extraordinarily empty. I feel so fortunate to know him. Goodness knows how well cope when he dies.

This weekend I will visit Discover Dogs at an exhibition center in east London to watch dogs perform agility and obedience tests in a ring, and I will have the chance to meet two hundred different breeds, some of whom would fit in my bag and some who would have trouble fitting in my car. Ill also have the opportunity to buy a vast amount of dog-related paraphernalia and crap, the majority of which is not of course for dogs but humans, including oil paintings, clothing and dog-related homeware (with slogans such as If I cant bring my dog Im not coming, Dogs make me happy, you not so much and Id rather be walking my Schnauzer). To compensate for the fact that family pets are not allowed at this event, the following Friday Ludo will attend a screening of Rocketman at the Exhibit cinema in Balham, south London. Although no particular fan of Elton John (he likes listening to anything, really, so long as it doesnt sound like a vacuum cleaner), Ludo will enjoy his own seat next to mine, with a blanket and pupcorn treats. All the dogs at this screening will gain free admission in exchange for cuddles with the team, and the lights stay a little higher during the film so as not to distress them.

How did we get here, to the point where the dog is top dog? How did we arrive at the moment when a dog goes to the movies? How and when did we realize that dogs would assist humans not only in hunting, but also in bomb disposal and cancer detection? With what degree of quiet acquiescence did humans roll over and accept that our domestic livesour work hours, the cleanliness of our rugs, our holiday choiceswere henceforth to be determined by the demands of an animal that used to live outside and fend for itself? When and why did the sofa replace the scavenging?

This book examines how this strongest of interdependent bonds has manifested itself over the centuries, and how it has transformed so many millions of lives, human and canine. If it is at least partially true, as Nietzsche claims, that the world exists through the understanding of dogs, then perhaps it is also partially true that a study of dogs may provide a valuable insight into ourselves.

Why is this man doing something that involves a repeated tapping noise and the occasional loving sigh? How many hot drinks can he make to interrupt this tapping? Why is his timekeeping so bad when it comes to my luncheon? Why cant this so-called memory foam bed he bought me remember how I curled up so snugly last night? Why do I feel so fortunate to know him?

The anthropomorphism of dogs is not a new phenomenon. I have a photo on my desk of a black Labrador from the nineteenth century dressed as a lord in a suit and top hat (and smoking a pipe). Talking dogs have been a mainstay of film almost from the birth of talking movies. But the collusion of dog and human has never been so abundant, imaginative and unnerving as it is today. The nature of our bondour commitment to each otherappears to have deepened markedly in the past fifty years, not least because our scientific understanding of the dog has been enabled by advances in genetics, and our sociological interpretation of a dogs behavior has led to more avenues for joint engagement. Like dancers emboldened by drink and tenacity, we are entwined with our best friends in an ecstatic embrace.

Such passion does not always end well, alas. Alongside my Victorian lord I have a photo of a dog in a flat Kangol cap and glasses who looks like Samuel L. Jackson. On my computer I have pictures of dogs reading, sailing and riding bicycles. I know there is something morally wrong with these images, but I find it hard to resist adding more to the folder, given their wholly irresistible paws-to-the-floor adorableness.

Every week I get an email from the magazine Bark with the subject line Smiling Dogs. Each message contains at least two pictures of beautiful grinning hounds, most recently Baxter (Baxter has a bubbly personality, loves food, lounging in the sun, hiking outdoors, and cuddling) and Chad (This handsome boy might come across as a little aloof at first but thats what makes him mysterious and charming!). Appealing as these dogs are, they are not, of course, actually grinning. But the people at Bark know well that the photogenic often get a head start: most of the dogs in the emails are looking for new homes after a harsh beginning.

The names we give our dogs are increasingly names we would give to our children. For every old Fido we have a new Florence; for every old Major we have a new Max. This was not the case thirty years ago. Today the new names are the names of human heroes. Nelson is still popular; soon we will see a lot of Gretas. You have a female dog called Taylor, you will have a male one called Swift. Lawyers like to call their dogs Shyster, and architects favor Zaha, and there are an awful lot of young Fleabags in the parks these days. Only in rap music does it work the other way: Snoop Dogg, Phife Dawg, Nate Dogg, Bow Wow.

We increasingly use dogs to describe ourselves. A tough radio interviewer is a Rottweiler, a soft one a poodle (or a puppy). Friendly, faithful characters in novels are cuddly Labradors. Venal men in the city are pit bulls. A person who wont let go fights like a terrier, while a detective pursues her prey like a bloodhound. You get the idea. You get the idea because you are as fleet as a whippet and as smart as a sheepdog.