‘A Dog’s Life’ touches a woman’s heart

So there was a revelation to me – dozens of houses, and presumably hundreds of people. Somewhere among them, I felt sure, was my future soul mate. It is delusions like this that help you put one paw in front of the other at the end of a hard day.

Peter Mayle’s gem of a book would not have earned a second glance from me if I came across it during my pre-Hashbrown days. What could possibly interest me with A Dog’s Life when at 32 I never experienced having to take care of one?

We pick books for certain reasons. Maybe it’s the author or the cover, the impressive two-page reviews inside, or because it was on sale. But when I decided to adopt a dog, it was for no particular reason.

"I always considered myself to be the pick of the litter – if you had seen the others you would understand why – and so I was confident that I would one day assume my rightful role in the scheme of things..."

Rewind to my recent past. Hashbrown is a mini Dachshund who has three siblings. Frail and sickly at two months, she was the last of the lot when we were introduced. She has a bald spot on her right hindquarters and is beginning to develop an allergy that would make her loose some more hair. Reading dog owner’s manuals did not quite prepare me on how to best take care or deal with her personality. But I thought that she, like me, must be half-scared and half-curious with this new partnership.

And then I found this book with the words dog and life as bait. I checked the back cover to see if it was interesting. Drawings illustrating the hilarious yet sometimes wistful adventures of the protagonist were an added plus.

Meet Boy, the adopted dog of the Mayle household. (Though he doesn’t get his name until he reaches page 61.) His childhood and "progress through life" is soap opera material. With no name to identify him with, he had too many uncelebrated birthdays to commemorate the passing of time. When his first owner, Nimrod the hunter, found out that he is not the pedigreed hunting dog he was professed to be as a result of a bungled attempt with a rabbit, Dog was forced inside the hunter’s van for another trip to the forest. It was to be his last as Hunter was bent on abandoning Dog. Upon reaching the perfect spot, Hunter tricked Dog with a piece of sausage that Dog never found.

To live and survive, Dog found his way to the village and learned how to scavenge, and in his own account, "shop for food" at the meat shop barely escaping the mad butcher with the broom. Even his human contact was limited to occasional pats on the head and sugar lumps that offered false hopes and promises that never were. More or less, that has been Dog’s life.

"I like to take a turn through the vineyard in the hope of finding something small and unimportant to terrify."

From the day Peter’s wife brought Dog home and christened him Boy, everyday became occasions for new adventures and more misadventures, one after the other.

Reading Boy’s "memoir" was seeing dogs in a new light, embellishing their existence with rules, some of which humans may find malevolent, but in the final analysis offer nuggets of wisdom. Here are some of them – in Boy’s own words: (a) chicken is that happy combination of sport and nourishment, (b) charm succeeds where yapping fails, (c) the bed had a definite appeal – as it would to you if you normally spent your nights in a basket on the floor, (d) the world is divided into those who like cats and those who don’t. I’m founding member of the second group, (e) the human responds to spontaneous displays of affection, (f) to err is human. To forgive, canine.

If you are curious to Boy’s seven Gestures of Appreciation, look it up on pages 89-94. And if you are on speaking terms with your own dogs, read to them Boy’s Advice to the Young Dog.

I could take up my position as barker in chief, permanent resident, and defender of the premises against trespassing lizards...

It may not become a literary classic but A Dog’s Life touched me in a way that made me appreciate Hashbrown. It taught me to be less worrisome, to trust her instinct, innate intelligence and better judgment. Whenever she escapes from the house and runs off like hell chasing and jumping at cats double her size or terrorizes my grandma’s chickens, I just open the door for her because this is where she will return. Of course, she gets the usual dressing-down until the next time. Thankfully, she doesn’t eat live chickens, preferring veggies and fruits – for her it’s a matter of taste. And the humans, they too suffer in her presence.

She fancies electrical wiring and plugs, humiliates the owner whenever she parades used undergarments (singled out from the hamper), eats tissue paper, follows the marching ants, and demonstrates unconditional love, complete with yapping, licking and body movements befitting a great break dancer.

But what endears her most to me is that she respects my books. So unlike the uncultured dog of a friend who happily chewed my book. Sometimes when Hashbrown sees me reading a new book, she would make a trip to my end of the bed invading that space between my book and me. Slightly moving her head and eyes, she pretends to read before returning to her self-appointed place on my bed. Occasionally, she throws a cursory glance waiting for me to close my book. Taking her cue, her eyelids drop even before I can turn off the light.

Once, I tried reading A Dog’s Life to her. Perhaps to humor me or maybe out of sheer loyalty, she pretended to listen – for at least three seconds.

Long names become shortened in daily use, anyway. Remember Vercingetorix d’ Avignon III, the prize beagle? They always called him Fred.

Boy will always be called Boy. Hashbrown? My cousin calls her Wow.