Of Animals and Me
INITIATION
There was a time when the world was young and fresh and little boys could be given 4 pennies to go to the baker’s to get a half loaf of bread. Some times it was worth a slapped ear for picking out the fresh white bread where the loaf had been broken. But the road to and from Royal Oak village had many distractions. There was an old witch whose house we had had to rush past. And worst of all, a vicious little bull dog who barked gruffly at us. It had no neck but somehow a spiked collar was behind its ears and under its jowls. We were told never to run past a dog, never look them in the eye, but always face them. Good advice. But my friend, Louise, knew that bull dogs’ jaws lock when biting and their mouths can’t be opened. We imagined that bull dogs would have to be killed and their heads chopped off to free a child’s ankle. Just to be safe, we crossed the road for 50 meters and re-crossed safely further down. The trouble was that the people across the road were given an Alsatian dog. Not a puppy, a Big dog. The bull dog sat in his open gate on one side, and the Alsatian sat on the other. Terror lying in wait. My friend, 2 doors down, Louise Peters, who was a couple of years older who was very beautiful and knew everything, had secret information about children who had been killed and eaten by that big dog without any evidence left. They had just gone, disappeared and if I was to ask anybody about it they would be sadly silent. Better not to mention such tragedies. For only 2 shillings (but an immense effort of saving for me), she would allow me to have a charm that would make me invisible to dogs. I paid it in half pennies, pennies thuppences and a sixpenny piece. She gave me a magic bottle top. I had to have it in my hand and my hand was to be in my pant’s pockets for it to work. ‘Let go of it, and they’ll attack.’ With my new charm and my invisibility, I sauntered past the bulldog fearlessly. Successfully. It didn’t rise on its squat bowed legs. It just sat in the sun with its chin up and its paws crossed. I got the Saturday half loaf and went back on the other side of the road, and, confident of my invisibility, I boldly approached the Alsatian. It didn’t even look at me. The magic bottle top worked! 2 shillings! A year’s savings well spent.
THE ODOUR OF SANCTITY
When I was 22, I met a wonderfully lithe Indian dancer. Philosophically we were compatible. She had high round orbed breasts like those on ancient sculptures and a tiny waist and real hips. And as she danced she sprouted a thousand rhythmic flowing arms. But in only two ways were we incompatible. She reverenced all life EXCEPT for my dog. And her cooking was dynamite. Her curry was exquisite, but HOT. The accompanying delicacies were subtle and varied. But the central curry burned. And burned again the next day. She suggested coming to my rented little gardener’s cottage to cook lunch for me. She brought pieces of lamb and two baskets of spices. She ground the spices in a mortar. And started cooking at 9. And as she had spent such creative effort I did try to eat the curry. And couldn’t. Many brave English soldiers in India had a curry as their last meal. While she left the room to prepare the yoghurt and mint Lassha, I scraped the curry into the dog’s bowl. In seconds it had vanished. After lunch we walked together. The dog came, too. And he tried to court her by putting its paws on her sari. I wanted to hear an evening organ recital of Henry Purcell’s music in a church. The dog sat obediently in the entrance porch. The music was so alive with all the power and overtones of large pipes. Then such sweet notes were hanging in the air. The prayers of good people had made the space sacred. Suddenly in the silence between musical movements, there was a resonating FART! A long drawn out fart amplified by the stone walls and vaulted ceiling. People turned to look at us as we were the last in. They couldn’t see the dog in the portico... I looked at my friend. She looked down, modestly. Goethe has the devil appearing to Faust as a poodle. Probably because he didn’t own a Labrador. As for Shanti, well, we never met again although she wrote me a letter on scented paper about our worlds being too different. Yes, she was right. Put that down! Othello, put it down. Heal boy. Put it down!