. . . on pet hates
ANIMAL MAGIC. It started with the neighbourhood cats. Slinking across our back wall, helpfully providing pre- Peppa Pigmoving pictures for the babies back when all they did was lie there, dreaming of the day when they would be evolved enough to empty boxes of cereal all over the floor. We gave the cats names. The least imaginative names imaginable, but still names. The black and white one was Chess. The really scruffy one? Scruffy. Before the girls were born I was the kind of person who would go out and shake my fist at backyard cats, to show them who was boss, like. Now I am the kind of person who gets concerned when Grey doesn't show his face for a few days. (Yes, he's grey. Your point is?)
These girls love animals. With a fierce, animal type of love. It seems most children do. Their fascination for beast and fowl, for snails and spiders, parrots and pigeons, is something I find curious because I don’t particularly like them myself. I wish them no harm but proximity to them, whether horses, hamsters or cows, is not something I enjoy. The smells. The unpredictable scurrying. The underlying fear of what they might do, from biting injuries to the toilet end of things.
Once, at the Dublin Horse Show, I narrowly missed being trampled on by a runaway horse because a quick-thinking passer-by whipped me out of harm’s way. An incredible afternoon spent with trainer Aidan O’Brien at Coolmore Stud a few years ago was slightly spoiled by my irrational fear that a multi-million euro racehorse could bolt and trample over me at any moment. And by the suspicion that the ensuing headlines would be more concerned with whether the prime equine specimen who knocked me over would still be able to run at Ascot than any life-threatening injuries I might have sustained.
People who love animals don’t really understand those of us who don’t. You go into their houses and because saying “I don’t really like dogs” is almost guaranteed to offend, you pretend that you don’t mind a big lump of hair and teeth sniffing at your crotch every five minutes. You nod when they say “he’s really friendly”. You listen attentively to the anecdotes about when Dingo did this adorable thing with his ball. You pretend to care when really you are thinking, when are they going to make it go away?
(Actually, it must be the same rigmarole for people who don’t really care for children. These people exist. You probably know at least one, they’ve just become very good at hiding it over the years. You are just telling them about the cute thing your extremely cute child did, just as your child cutely smears jam on their trousers. What they want to say is “I don’t really like children”, which wouldn’t just offend, it would result in instant social banishment. So they keep quiet and grit their teeth instead.)
I make an exception for penguins. Watching the Humboldt penguins on Dublin Zoo’s penguin cam was one of the highlights of the winter snow. I quite like watching the elephants on their new elephant cam too. It seems I can do animals from a distance. I like wildlife programmes a lot. And I cried during a documentary on that baby gorilla being born in the zoo.
So, to sum up, before the children I was “Hurray for animals, just not anywhere near me, okay?” And now? Now, I think I might quite like the company of certain dogs. And cats might actually be kind of interesting. The children don’t care about the smells or the hairs or worry where the dog’s tongue has been, and they’ve shown me how not to care. They don’t seem to distinguish between pets and people, affording them as much importance as close relations (if not more). They pass a dog in the street and they want to know what his name is. “Snowy” you say because, duh, it is a white dog. For weeks afterwards they want you to tell them a story about Snowy the doggy. He is as real to them as Peppa Pig.
Now we have all these animals in our life but none in our house, although it’s probably just a matter of time. Alfie, who lives across the road. Humphrey in Avoca, who hasn’t been well lately. Max in Harold’s Cross. Spooky in London. Mo in Rialto. Charlie in Clontarf.
Their great-nanny Sarah in Keady, Co Armagh has cats, an orange one and a lazy one. “What are their names Nanny Sarah?” they asked her, at which point she confessed they didn’t have names. They do now. Ginger and Sleepy.
I had a dog once, years ago. He died. I remember sitting with Sam at the bottom of the stairs when his tumour got too big for him to move. I remember looking into the beautiful brown depths of his eyes and learning something that stayed with me for years: pets equal pain.
I am being taught a very different lesson now.
In other news . . .Camara Education is a great charity that uses technology to deliver education to disadvantaged communities in Africa and Ireland. Support it by joining its 10km fun run along the promenade of Strand Road, Sandymount in Dublin 4 at 9am on May 28th. For details, see camara.ie