The wisdom of dogs
I don’t write about myself in my stories. But I do write about what I find around me. In many ways I’ve long viewed my work as post-it notes for those I hold close. Messages that whisper, ‘I might not say this out loud but we’re all scared, all excited, all baffled and entranced by the rich dark thing we call the world. You’re not alone. You’re part of the ceaseless, questioning, unfinished throng we call “humanity”. This is who we are.’
The Costa books came out of my wondering how a good, ingenuous young man would survive in a society that was as bleak and broken as it was beautiful. That was a deliberate choice on my part. Sometimes those ideas happen without my conscious knowledge too.
My current book (excluding The Killing) is the Venetian standalone Carnival for the Dead. One of the key ‘characters’ in it is a small dog which may or may not be the same animal seen in this painting by Carpaccio which you’ll find in the wonderful little Scuola di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni in Venice.
Click for a bigger view but to be honest the only way to appreciate this and the other wonderful Carpaccios in the Scuola is to go to Venice and see them for yourself.
The little dog in that painting serves a purpose, and guessing what the purpose is forms one of the riddles inside the book. Yes, it is a book of riddles, a conscious nod towards writers who’ve inspired me like M.R. James, Daphne du Maurier, Jorge Luis Borges and Robert Aickman. Not a police thriller. I don’t get a kick out of reading the same kind of book again and again. So why would I writing the same thing?
But here’s the truth. I wasn’t just writing about Carpaccio’s dog in that book. I was quietly voicing my own fearful concerns about a dog closer to home, our own little wire fox terrier called Eddie, then just turned ten years old, entering the last lap of a canine life. It’s impossible for me to untangle Eddie from the part of my career that began with those books in Italy. He was a puppy when I started writing them. He listened to my plot ramblings when we went for walks. These interludes out in the countryside with him were key moments when I could stand back from what I’d written and think, out loud often, while Eddie sniffed and tugged and probably thought, ‘What’s he going on about now?’
He grew as that series grew, year by year. When times were hard and my career seemed to be steering towards the rocks I’d look at his terrier face, watch the determination with which he went about everything in his little life, confined to a square mile of Kentish countryside. Then pick myself up, brush myself down and do what Eddie would always… try again and keep on trying until something worked.
Terriers never give up even in the face of failure. Authors shouldn’t either. We both need that resolute obstinacy in our genes. Something else I learned from him too, and in Carnival for the Dead I put this into the mouth of one of the principal characters towards the end of the book. He says this…
‘There’s a wisdom about dogs. They’re not like us, trying to brush mortality aside in the hope it might simply disappear. For a dog the idea of death is nothing more than a ridiculous fleeting nightmare. He lives in the full knowledge his existence will never come to an end. So every day begins afresh, every moment has some unforeseen promise in it.’
He reached over and threw some money on the counter.
‘We can learn from this. We should. Some more than others.’ Arnaud, the Count of Saint-Germain – he would always bear that name – turned and stared at her, into her. At that moment he was the man from those strange stories, no one else, and Teresa had no idea what to do, to say or feel.
‘We watch them grow, from puppy to prime to feeble old age. All in such a brief space of time, for us anyway. A man or woman with feelings, witnessing this passage, remembers they’re just like us. On the same journey. Merely one that happens to be a little shorter, with fewer opportunities perhaps, though full of all the same excitements and uncertainties, terrors and joys. The wisdom of dogs is to remind us of our own arrogance and stupidity in believing tomorrow may somehow prove more precious than today.’
Yesterday morning I took Eddie for a walk before catching a train to London for meetings. Twelve years old, he was full of life, happy, sweet-natured, mischievous, always looking to please. When I got back he was semi-conscious on a table in the vets. Some bastard thing called a tumour of the spleen had stolen up on him in his joyful, elder prime. Less than twelve hours after I walked him along one of the country lanes he loved that hidden monster took him from us.
Grief for his untimely passing still grapples with gratitude for his boisterous, selfless loving life. When the disbelief had finally dissipated I knew I’d have to go back to that book and find that passage. Because what I was half-consciously writing in Venice two years ago was the thought with which I hoped to console myself today when we woke to a house full of his things — the bed, the ragged tee-shirts, the toys, the chaos — but bereft forever of his cheerful bark and bright-eyed anticipation of the day to come. I said that mostly I wrote notes to others in my books. On this occasion I penned one, a hesitant, apprehensive message, to myself.
And like an idiot I forgot to write the final words I wanted for the UK edition. But you’ll find them in the US one, on the dedication page…
Here he is a few months ago, poised above the garden steps where he liked to sun himself with a toy.
A hell of a dog who added something to everyone’s lives he touched. I don’t think it’s fanciful to say that knowing him, watching him, thinking about how he saw the little world around him added to my range as a writer. Eddie was a lesson in life, composed, confident, inquisitive, demanding and most of all devoted beyond all else to his family and those he loved.
He taught me a little of the wisdom of dogs and for that, and much else, I’ll always be grateful.
13 Responses to “The wisdom of dogs”
A very moving post, David, full of love and quiet wisdom – I’ve been living with a dog, and then with cats, and we both (my wife and me) went through a loss (more than one, unfortunately) of our beloved barking/meowing friends, so I think I can understand your feelings just now.
So long, Eddie.
I am living now with my 5th dog. I have always had German Shepherds – each very different from each other; My first guy died at almost 14 – the next three died very early and each from a horrible disease (two had cancer and my 4th guy died – we don’t know why at age 6); my current guy just turned 4 – he is silly, funny, smart, loving, beautiful, weird, annoying and a true part of my soul. Each of my guys has been a part of my soul and without each of them my life would have been a lot less teary but also just a lot less. My thoughts are with you – it is hard and doesn’t ever get easier.
Oh, David, I am so, so sorry. You are never prepared to lose a dog (or a cat, if you are a cat person) even when they’ve suffered through a long illness. But so suddenly… although I’m not sure, at least for Eddie, that walking in the fields with you one day and gone the next isn’t the best possible ending to a happy dog’s life.
We’re going to lose our oldest dog and our oldest cat before long, and I suspect I will be going back and reading your elegy for Eddie again.
Much sympathy,
Debs
I’m almost lost for words after that, David. A quite beautiful piece.
I’ve discovered as I’ve got older, a little wiser and a bit calmer that we have much to learn from dogs: their love of life, their energy, their amazing ability to bring light into the darkest of corners.
But you’ve written about the most important lesson – that dogs live in the moment, never reliving the past nor projecting into some unknown future. They are just here in the now… something that we would all benefit from.
David, sorry for your loss. I certainly found that having a dog helped me enjoy the Kent countryside on a daily basis, whatever the weather – and come to terms with a tragedy. I very much agree with your sentiments. I hope you can treasure Eddie’s memory and find a new writing companion.
I sympathise greatly. My black lab, who I grew up with, died of a very similar affliction. The day he died was one of the saddest in my life.
I agree with you that dogs live every day not giving a “thought” to mortality, but animals do know when their time has come. My lab had some form of stomach cancer and not long before the vet recommended we put him down, he went off into the fields and curled up in a ball, ready to die.
Dear David
I am so sorry to read about your loss of Eddie, from your many tweets and pictures it was clear he meant so much to you.
When reading Carnival of the Dead I did wonder if Eddie had provided some inspiration.
I have a little golden lab and like Eddie, I always feel that Orach gives me unconditional love and asks for so little in return.
Got too be honest and say I found your piece very heartwarming, I didn’t know Eddie, but I don’t mind admitting I did shed a tear when reading the blog.
Rest in peace Eddie.
I am very moved by your post. My retriever is 15 years old. I try to spend as much time with him as I can because I know that, although he is still in great shape, he hasn’t got very long. I do understand how you must be feeling ! My thoughts are with you!
One of my cats, Handsome, died 3 weeks ago. We had spent the morning together and I left to shop and visit my daughter. Four hours later I returned home to find him gone. I’m still grieving. He was a light in my life that is gone now, his toys lay scattered still on the landing. I don’t have the heart to put them away yet. My other cat, Simon, has finished grieving and now brings me joy…but Handsome will always be remembered for me as “Pete” in the first book I wrote.
Very sorry to read your piece about this. Condolences. A similar experience has led me to believe that canine (and, maybe, feline) deaths can sometimes be more scarifying of the emotions than those of close human friends.
We were talking about that last night. I think you’re right and I’m not sure why. Thanks for all the kind messages here and elsewhere. It’s going to be an odd weekend then come Monday it’s time to get back to things.
I am so incredibly sorry for you loss. Such an astute observation. As I wipe the tear from my own cheek, I am reminded of how precious the moments from those walks surely were. Puts things in perspective quite rapidly eh? The never-ending adoration only a dog can bless you with is truly one of the greatest gifts in this life. Godspeed, Eddie.
I’m so sorry to read that Eddie’s left us. He was one of my favourite facebook friends. I still miss animal companions I’ve lost and you have my condolences. R.I.P. Eddie.
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