Why Men Love Dogs
There is a unique bond between men and dogs. Men will lavish affection on their dogs that they will not display toward their own children. Talking baby talk to dogs is easy for men, but talking baby talk to babies is often a bridge too far. Men will mourn the death of a dog as they would the loss of their best friend. Indeed, dogs are, as we have all been told, man’s best friend. This is supposed to mean that the dog species is the best friend of the human species, but there’s an argument to be made that dogs are men’s best friend.
Hitler adopted a dog while serving in the trenches during the First World War. It was a small, white Jack Russell terrier that had wandered into No Man’s Land (possibly wandering away from its British owner). Hitler named the dog Fuchsl (“Little Fox”) and doted on him. Years later he recalled “How many times at Fromelles, during the First World War, I studied my dog Fuchsl […] I used to watch him as if he were a man. It was crazy how fond I was of the beast.”
In 1917, while en route to Alsace with his regiment for a little R&R, a railroad official offered Hitler two hundred marks for Fuchsl. The future Führer refused, saying, “You could give me two hundred thousand marks and you wouldn’t get him!” Then Hitler left Fuchsl alone for a while, tethered up, and when he went to rejoin him he found the dog had been stolen. Hitler searched for him, to no avail. “I was desperate,” he remembered. “The swine who stole my dog has no idea what he did to me.” History might have turned out differently, had little Fuchsl not been dognapped.
I have two dogs, a white dog and a black dog. The white dog, let’s call her Daisy, is the current holder of the title “world’s best dog,” which I have conferred on multiple canines over the years. I think she is just about as close to being the ideal dog as one can imagine. Among other things, she is the most affectionate beast I have ever encountered. She is part Jack Russell terrier, just like Hitler’s dog – a fact which will probably wind up in my SPLC dossier.
My black dog is half devil, half child. He was abandoned as a puppy and does not seem to have been properly socialized. He is a handsome dog and is quite friendly and playful – but also mischievous and disobedient. After three years of living with him, I can’t decide if he is smart or dumb. Greg Johnson once called him “retarded,” and another friend calls him “Doofus.” I love Doofus nonetheless. The Humane Society told me Doofus is “part lab,” but then they say that about practically every mutt they take in.
Much of the reason men love dogs is that dogs exhibit many of the characteristics that men admire in other men. These are decidedly not the same characteristics that women admire in men. Essentially, they are the characteristics of good comrades, or good soldiers. First on the list is loyalty. Daisy follows me from room to room. She prefers to sit next to me – or preferably on me. But at all times she must be in the same room as me.
If you’re a dog lover you’ve probably heard the story about the man who went hiking with his dog and then died of a heart attack. When his body was found weeks later, the dog was still at his side, emaciated but alive. Or perhaps you’ve heard the one about the dog in mourning that wouldn’t leave its owner’s grave. I’m convinced Daisy is that kind of dog. The only other creature in my life that was as devoted to me was my mother – but I’ve gotten a lot less grief from the dog. As for Doofus, if I went hiking with him and died of a heart attack, I’m convinced he would probably dine on my face. He could probably also be lured off my grave with a piece of ham the size of a dime. But perhaps not. Perhaps he will surprise us all.
Another characteristic of the good soldier, and hence of the good dog, is obedience. Daisy obeys me. Doofus does not. Daisy required absolutely no training, whereas Doofus seems untrainable. Daisy often seems to understand intuitively what I want her to do. She even understands pointing: if I want her to get off my lap and onto the back of the chair (where she loves to perch), all I have to do is point. Doofus will do hardly anything unless promised a treat. Yelling at him only sends him into paroxysms of insecurity, complete with flattened ears and furiously wagging tail, which breaks my heart.
However, neither of my dogs disappoints when it comes to two of the most important soldierly traits, courage and ferocity. I live in an upper-middle-class subdivision with perfectly manicured lawns and a strict HOA that sends you a warning letter if your mailbox post is painted the wrong shade of grey. Crime is low in my town (in a southeastern state) and there has probably never been a burglary in my neighborhood. My dogs, however, seem not to know this. They seem to believe that our home is constantly under siege.
The mailman, the UPS driver, the FedEx guy, the exterminator, and all the neighbors pose an existential threat to our happy dog home – at least, according to the dogs. In particular, Daisy is always on high alert. There is a dominance structure to the relationship between Daisy and Doofus. Daisy is about a year older and acts like she is his big sister – or like she is the Sergeant Carter to Doofus’s Private Pyle. Daisy will often detect the threat first, signaling danger with a low growl, while Doofus still slumbers in the Ikea chair he has claimed as his own.
But when Daisy unleashes all her fury, barking at such volume it would awaken the senior members of the House Ways and Means Committee, Doofus springs into action. If anything, he gives the impression of being more ferocious than his big sister. When my dogs race to the window as the UPS driver is dropping off a package, they alternate barking at the glass with craning their necks around to see where I am or what I’m doing. Doofus often pauses in his barking and rushes up to me with a plaintive look, ears back, as if to say, “Why are you taking this so calmly? Do something!”
The threat they are ready for will probably never materialize, but if it did I am quite confident that the sound of my dogs alone would cause evildoers to flee. I am also proud to say that my dogs are even more racist than I am. Blacks really trigger my dogs, and they bark and snarl at them with a ferocity that has a touch of madness to it. We only hate blacks with our minds; our dogs hate them to the very marrow of their bones.
A home invasion is highly unlikely here, because local negroes know that everyone in this town is armed to the teeth. But if it happened, I am quite sure that Daisy and Doofus would defend me without any thought for their own well-being. Doofus may be a bit of a retard. He may be disobedient, a trifle aloof, greedy, and destructive (he once ate part of the bedroom wall), but I have no doubt that he loves me and would risk his life to defend me.
He may be a doofus, but he is my Doofus – our Doofus, actually, since the three of us are a pack. There is probably a guy like this in every platoon. And isn’t this a motif we’ve seen over and over again in war movies? The awkward bungler, the omega male, or the cynical jerk who seems to care only for himself is redeemed in the end when he sacrifices himself to save his comrades, bringing a tear to every male eye. You’ve got to love a dog like that.
Dogs, in short, are the ideal comrades. A dog like Daisy is an exemplar of manly virtue. Forget about the fact that she is female. It is amusing to see how thoroughly she dominates Doofus. They love to play-fight and while Doofus is a spirited warrior, Daisy mops the floor with him every time. Their matches usually end with her holding him down and licking his entire head, even inside his mouth. And this is despite the fact that she is the smaller dog. She also regularly mounts and humps him, which I find rather disturbing.
Setting aside this latter point, dogs inspire us to be better men. I was once stopped in traffic behind a car with a bumper sticker that said “GOD HELP ME TO BE THE MAN MY DOG THINKS I AM.” Amen. When Daisy crawls into my lap (which she does many times each day) I look down at her and realize that I do not think I have ever given anyone the unconditional love and loyalty she gives me. I feel a keen sense of obligation to these dogs. I feel inspired to show my dogs the same devotion they show me. I easily spend more out of pocket each year on their medical care than I do on my own.
There is a true nobility to the dog that inspires men to paint portraits of them and otherwise commemorate their lives. For many years, the British Royal Family have buried their dogs in a private pet cemetery tucked away on the grounds of their 20,000 acre Sandringham estate in Norfolk. The cemetery was created in 1887 by Queen Victoria after the death of her collie, appropriately named Noble. One of the more recent gravestones is eloquent testimony to how we feel about dogs. It commemorates the life of a black lab named Sandringham Brae. He is described as “A Gentleman Amongst Dogs.” Another gravestone describes a cocker spaniel as “A Mischievous Character.” You see, even the royals get a Doofus now and then.
One of my closest friends isn’t a “dog person,” but even he appreciates their good qualities and laughs at their antics. This last point is quite important. My dogs are downright hilarious. People say that having dogs is like living with small children. I think it’s more like living with small clowns. One of the reasons I can cut Doofus so much slack is that he makes me laugh every single day. Both my dogs have figured out what makes me laugh and so they pull the same tricks over and over.
They delight in playing with each other and with me. This is one of the things that makes us love our dogs so much: the obvious joy they take in life. Everyone appreciates this about dogs, not just men. Here again, I want to be more like my dogs. Doofus loves to swipe hankies or tissue paper out of my pockets. He is extremely skillful at this. Before I even realize what is happening, he has stuck his nose in my pocket, swiped a tissue, and run off with it. I call him the Artful Dodger (as well as many other unprintable names). But I can’t be angry with him. He takes such joy in making off with his tissue paper and then shredding it into a neat little pile. I wish I were this easily amused.
Dogs are more complicated than we give them credit for. I don’t pretend to completely understand their motivations. When my dogs are together, they often pause in their play and become very still, sometimes eyeing each other warily. Something is being silently passed between them that I am not privy to. Sometimes Daisy chastises Doofus for no discernible reason. He must have broken the dog rules, but we don’t fully comprehend exactly what those rules consist in.
I adopted both my dogs from the Humane Society and I have no idea what they went through before I got them. It must have been bad, because they never talk about it. Both seem to have “abandonment issues.” They become distraught if they realize I am leaving the house. If I so much as change my shirt they lose their minds. And they are extremely jealous of each other. If one is receiving attention the other one becomes incensed. Several times a day I must drop what I am doing and hold them or play with them.
It does not matter to me. Just like it does not matter that they insist on cuddling up to me in bed in July, and that Daisy manages to kiss me on the mouth at least once a day (she has a very fast tongue that’s hard to avoid). I have loved dogs since I was small, and with a kind of depth that I don’t feel for most humans. My love for dogs feels like it may be the best thing in me. There is something wrong with people who dislike dogs, and I never trust them. As far as I am concerned, the well-known antipathy of Muslims to dogs is sufficient reason to keep them out of our countries.
The life of a dog is short, but filled with love and loyalty and joy. Arguably, a life without marriage and family is an incomplete life. Certain relationships are required for us to actualize who and what we are and to be fulfilled. I believe that a life without dogs is incomplete. They are indeed our best friends, and they richly deserve to have portraits painted of them, statues erected to them, and novels written about them. I consider it rather miraculous that a beast exists that has been bred over the course of tens of thousands of years to be the perfect companion to us. We need them, and they need us. They are the most wonderful creatures on earth.
I don’t put much stock in theology and the traditional arguments for God’s existence leave me cold. But why has no one ever put forward the Argument from the Existence of Dogs? In a nutshell: the existence of dogs is evidence that there is a God that loves us and wants us to be happy. Clearly Aquinas never owned a dog, or he would have thought of this one. And need I remind you that God is just dog spelled backwards?