For example: the golden retriever of Mr Paine, a history teacher at Abingdon.
Mr Paine used occasionally to invite boys round to his family home to watch the Varsity rugby match (this was instead of a history lesson, hence the enthusiastic uptake). An entire A-level history set would pile into the living room and the dog would be pleasantly surprised. Boys would sit on and around him, shoving aside his pillows, blankets and chewable objects, but the most the dog would do was stay still with a slightly embarrassed expression, as if to say: ‘This is awkward.’
But overall I’m not a massive fan of dogs because they’re dangerously delusional. They think they’re in a pack with you and your family, maybe also your friends, but probably not the postman. They think there’s an important team thing going on; they are so convinced of it, they become blind to the evident boundaries of species. They think there is a bigger picture – the survival of this fictional pack – which is of more importance to them than a reliable supply of warmth, shelter and Chum.
This makes them dangerous. They are capable of self-sacrifice in the name of this fictional pack, this fictional greater good. Stories of dog bravery and dog savagery are both caused by this delusion. It is why dogs will attack strangers, why a small terrier will try and kill a postman. The terrier knows that, in the end, the postman is mightier and will almost certainly prevail, but perhaps it thinks that, if it can only slow the postman down, some of the pack may evade the deadly letters. These delusions make dogs trainable, employable for our purposes. They allow us to make them care about the safety of sheep despite having no use for knitwear. But they also mean that, if you are a stranger to a dog, you can’t guarantee, however small it is, that it will not suddenly try its very best to destroy you.
I cannot keep this from my mind when I pass dogs in the park. I don’t think they’ll probably attack me, but I know that they might. Unlike passing a scruffy-looking youth in a dark alley, it’s not rude to give them a wide berth. Their feelings won’t be hurt, as the youth’s are when he turns out to be a socially responsible Guardian reader rather than a flick-knife-wielding smackhead. But it’s wearisome, when walking along, to be slightly aware of all the dogs. I’d rather be looking at the sunlight-dappled trees than following a King Charles Spaniel with my eyes, as assiduously as a toddler who’s spotted a wasp.
I’ve never really felt the need of a pet myself. I did look after a goldfish once. For about twenty minutes. Then I left it on a petrol pump.
I was in a car on the A1 when I realised. I was furious. Why did I have to notice?! Or why did I have to notice so soon? We’d hardly gone any distance from the petrol station – my Hula Hoops were still unopened – and it was too easy to go back. ‘Speak now,’ I thought, ‘or be a fish murderer, unmitigated by tartare sauce. But there are hundreds and hundreds of miles to go! All crammed in, with it sloshing around on my knee. It’s panicked most of the twenty-odd miles so far. It’d surely never survive until London anyway. But still …’
It had to be done.
‘Emma. We’ve left the fish at that garage.’
‘Oh my God, have we!?’
Immediate screeching U-turn. It was scarier than a pit bull in an FRP with a sparkler attached to its tail. For the sake of a fucking fish.
Rob and I were driving back from our successful Latin! stint in Edinburgh with Emma Stenning, a theatre producer with a Ford Fiesta. Princess Diana, we were slowly realising from the sombre tone of the radio DJ, had died the night before in an unrelated incident.
The car was crammed with props and costumes – the stuff that you should probably just throw away but, having spent a month with these objects as the key to your existence, it’s almost impossible to accept how valueless they have immediately become. You can never forget how deeply, sincerely, all-consumingly you’ve wanted to find a hat, pair of glasses, telephone or other key prop in the darkness of a theatre wing – you’re like Richard III inquiring about a horse. You have to be very unsentimental to let go of all those objects