It goes without arguing, judging from the response I received from fellow writers since my story on cats was published in this space, two weeks ago, cats make ‘purrfect’ colleagues. But writers also need a pair of brown eyes that gaze at them with love every waking hour, a comforting kiss on the cheek when a publisher sends a rejection note or a furry hug when a careless error occurs in a published newspaper article. They also need a wagging tail to assure them over and over no matter what the world says, you are the best in the entire Milky Way. In short, in order to survive in the turbulent seas of the literary world, a writer needs a friend. She needs a dog.
A dog like Virginia Woolf’s Pinka, John Steinbeck’s Charley, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Flush, Lord Byron’s Boatswain or my very own Sudu Kella, Patchy. Patchy is perhaps the youngest in a long line of writers’ best friends beginning with the oldest of them all, Argos, the loyal hound who belonged to Odysseus.
When Odysseus comes home after an absence of twenty years Argos recognizes his disguised master and Homer tells us that he dropped his ears and wagged his tail. But Argos, also understands that his master is in disguise, and that he should not approach him. Odysseus can’t acknowledge the dog either, without giving himself away and sheds a secret tear, when Argos, having waited for so long to see his master again, dies after a single glimpse of him.
Lord Byron’s brave Newfoundland dog Boatswain too had a tragic death when he breathed his last after contracting rabies. Byron, unafraid of being bitten and becoming infected, nursed the dog until the disease took its toll. On his companion’s death, the grieving Byron composed the lines “Epitaph to a Dog”, to be carved on Boatswain’s tomb.
“Near this spot / are deposited the Remains of one/ who possessed Beauty without Vanity, / Strength without Insolence, /Courage without Ferocity, / and all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.”
While other poets like W.H. Auden and J.R Ackerley too wrote poetry praising their dogs, Virginia Woolf who had her own dog, the cocker spaniel Pinka wrote a biography of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s spaniel—Flush. Woolf took a literary interest in the sensory worlds of dogs, which are so different from humans’. She imagined presumably accurately Flush’s touch- and smell-based world:
“The cool globes of dew or rain broke in showers of iridescent spray about his nose; the earth, here hard, here soft, here hot, here cold, stung, teased and tickled the soft pads of his feet. Then what a variety of smells interwoven in subtlest combination thrilled his nostrils; strong smells of earth, sweet smells of flower; nameless smells of leaf and bramble …”
Woolf also imagined how Flush would have experienced the different social worlds of England, where he first lived with Elizabeth Barrett, and Italy, where they moved after her marriage to Robert Browning. While Victorian London kept dogs on leashes and segregated them according to the rules of good breeding (Flush, as a purebred spaniel, was an “aristocrat”), in the more democratic Pisa, Flush was free to roam and cavort with other dogs of all sorts.
We all know John Steinbeck loved his poodle Charley so much he went on a road trip with Charley, wrote a book about it and called it, ‘Travels with Charley.’ But his other dog, Toby deserves to be mentioned too, because Toby ate the first draft of ‘Of Mice and Men.’ “Minor tragedy stalked,” Steinbeck said of the incident. “My setter pup, left alone one night, made confetti of about half of my [manuscript] book. Two months work to do over again. It sets me back. There was no other draft. I was pretty mad but the poor little fellow may have been acting critically.”
Way back in 1892, Anton Chekhov was given two dachshund puppies by his publisher, Nicolas Leykin. Chekhov named the male dog Bromine (Greek for “strong-smelling”), and the tan one Quinine (a drug used as a painkiller). It was Quinine – the lazy, idle, and potbellied sister of Bromine who became the author’s favourite. According to his sister Masha, “every evening Quinine would come up to Anton, put her front paws on his knees and look into his eyes devotedly”. Another publisher who gifted a dog to a writer was John Blackwood. He sent George Eliot a pug dog as a sort of ‘extra payment’ for her novel, ‘Adam Bede.’
It is not easy, however, to imagine Shock, the lapdog belonging to Belinda, the beautiful heroine of Alexander Pope’s mock-epic poem “The Rape of the Lock” gazing at the writer with a similar look of adoration. Shock would have been hostile towards the lovers who came to woo his mistress. It comes as no surprise that the love poets of the early 18th century regarded these popular pets as little rivals, nestling gleefully on their mistress’s lap, the fortunate recipients of favours permitted to no human suitor.
Wessex, the terrier who belonged to Thomas Hardy shared Shock’s temperament. He was snappy, aggressive, and liked to defend his territory. When strangers arrived at the Hardys’ home, he’d go for their legs, often ripping their trousers. He even walked around on the dinner table during meals, helping himself to food from people’s plates. Yet, Thomas Hardy loved him dearly.
Of course, most dogs are totally different from Shock and Wessex. The average writer’s best friend fills the writer’s life with love, loyalty, inspiration and lots of fur. They also make a writer’s eccentric habits seem normal. Though writing is joyful work, it can also be terribly lonely. So lonely that you often end up talking to yourself at the end of the day. If you talk to your dog, however, no eyebrows will be raised.
But a dog means more than that too. Maybe it’s the fact that the dog makes you go out and socialize more often, maybe it’s the bonding of two equally sensitive souls, or maybe it’s a coincidence. Either way, writers can’t do without their furry friends.
Perhaps none of what I have said makes a ‘lick’ of sense, but it doesn’t have to. We all know, the best kind of love can never be defined. And that it rarely touches the reasoning parts of the brain. It touches the dreamy parts, the devoted parts—it touches the parts we sometimes call the heart. That’s where all our dogs live.
And here’s Patchy saying, “woof, woof, yes, yes” in total agreement.
Slobbery dog kisses are actually awesome.
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