I’m not what you would call a “dog person”. I love my 15-month-old border collie more than some blood relatives, but that love does not extend to dogs in general. I appreciate dogs, but won’t stop to pat a stranger’s dog, for instance, unless I’m trying to manufacture a version of myself who has an easy relationship with the world and affinity with all its creatures.
Personality-wise I’m closer to a cat than a dog. I can be standoffish, self-serving and strategic. If a stranger tries to hug me my body will involuntarily contort to get away from them. I got a dog because I wanted to believe in something better. I thought Roxie would teach me the kind of presence and open-heartedness the world is crying out for.
Dog people want to engage with Roxie. They present their hands to her nostrils before tickling her chin or running both hands along her chest and belly. Occasionally they have pre-prepared dog treats in their pockets and a tender memory of Bruno or Murray to share.
They don’t mind when Roxie smells like creek sludge or slobbers on their clothing. I’ve watched spellbound as a woman allowed her to chew a substantial hole in her cardigan sleeve. “It’s completely fine”, the woman said, beaming. “She’s just learning to use her little puppy teeth!”
I don’t recall either of my children receiving the same level of attention, unless one of them started crying at the supermarket and multiple people suggested it “might be past their nap time” between the freezer aisle and the car.
I’m new to being a dog owner. I’m working out the boundaries of familiarity. Mostly I like it when people pat Roxie and tell her she’s a good girl. I’m endlessly entertained by their baby voices they use to talk to her, which can transform waiting for coffee into a surrealist play where Jennifer Tilly is trapped inside the body of a 50-year-old electrician. I thank people who praise Roxie as if I’m in some way responsible for her floppy ears and gentle nature. I’m proud of her and all her good girlness. I want the world to love her as much as I do, just not more than that.
I don’t blame Roxie for what happened. She’s sensory seeking. She enjoys textures and smells and flavours. They help her understand the world. When I tell her sweet nothings she sniffs the air around my words like she is making them part of her.
A man at the dog park had some sweet nothings to share with Roxie. He waved eagerly from across the off-leash area, a large dog bounding beside him. I waved back, which is dog park speak for “my dog also has energy to burn”.
As the man and his dog came closer I noticed two things: the dog was enormous and the man had a goatee which was every colour of the cream yellow colour palette.
“Wow, big dog,” I said. “70kg of love,” the man said laughing.
He praised Roxie’s playfulness and shiny coat. I commended his dog for not accidentally crushing Roxie while they played. (There was an impossible grace to him! Like a rhinoceros making tea). I gave the gentle giant a pat on the head and we looked at each other and I felt as if we were simply friends.
The man squatted so his knees were either side of Roxie, scruffing her head and neck with both hands, his speech becoming lower and growlier, as if the closer he got to her the more dog-like he became. As the goatee lowered, Roxie, licking her lips, seized the opportunity to eat it like a 1990s breakfast buffet.
“They love the goatee,” the man growled, tilting his head as Roxie continued on to his moustache and gum line.
I watched with a mixture of horror and amazement, fully present, aware of every bird call and blade of grass.
Who’s they? I wondered. Did he mean other dogs loved his goatee? Or did the love extend to all species? Did his goatee attract local wildlife? A possum or two? A cockatoo? All goatees had a story.
Roxie switched her focus to a dead bird in the bushes and the man and I went back to chatting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
I’ll likely avoid that dog park on Wednesdays from now on, but I’m grateful for the lessons learned. Here was a man with an easy relationship with the world and an affinity with all its creatures. He was trusting and open-hearted, bounding towards the next opportunity for connection. He was a dog person in the truest sense; part dog, part person.
I think I’d rather be a person with a dog.
• Ashe Davenport is a writer and author
