Sun is shining. First time in weeks. Feeling of warmth. Walking down the land we stop. In the bay beyond the road, the tide is out and 12 seals are sunning themselves on the rocks, heads and tails raised, like small American Indian canoes.
When I go in to the kitchen Chester is lying relaxed in a beam of sunshine coming through the french doors. We’ve met before, so we’re cool. He gets up, stretches and comes over to greet me, then moves to the fridge freezer and looks up. I find the instructions: it’s okay to give him the ball on top of the freezer. He can be taken out without a lead. His food is in a bag in the back hall. Right. I find the ball on the cluttered surface, Chester getting all buzzed up in expectation. It’s a manky, rubber, multicoloured thing, a large chunk already missing, and I wonder if many toxins were used in its manufacture as more and more I see goods tagged, truthfully I hope – ‘toxin free’. Mmm! “Right Chester, there you go” and I scoot the ball across the floor. As it dashes for cover under the sink, Chester pounces, and within seconds, to my horror, he has shredded it into dust-like particles that are all over the floor, in his coat, in his muzzle. Chester is a winning little creature. He’s a blond, wire-haired terrier with, strangely, a pug-like face. Even at the best of times his breathing can be strained, his snaffling quite alarming now, with several thousand toxic particles of shredded, coloured rubber up his nose. I put fresh water in his bowl but he’s not interested, so fresh air the next best thing, I click on his harness, and we go outside. He sets off at a brisk pace, the momentum growing, the lead straining as we head down to the main road. Not having power-walked ever in my life, half an hour is enough and we’re back. Chester slurps his water, gets his treat, settles down, and I promise to be back at dusk.
The evening light is almost gone, and the scents and sounds that assail Chester are his alone, and have every nerve in his body strained, alert. He darts from left to right, jumps onto walls, burrows between crevices, as if unknown voices are calling, taunting: “Catch me if you can”. I hold the lead tighter, fearful now that should the clasp of his harness snap, he will take off like a rocket, tear across the roads, the fields, the hills and hollows and be next spotted swimming with dolphins off the Aran Islands. Safely inside I get his bag of food.
Years ago a trip to the vet would see a few lone bags of specialized dog food in a corner. Now the array is overwhelming, and mostly presented in hugely shiny, environmentally-unfriendly packaging. There’s food for big dogs, small dogs, young dogs, old dogs. There’s performance puppy and large breed puppy. There are dogs that need to put on weight and dogs that need to lose weight. Dogs with allergies, itches, arthritis, rashes, dogs who are nervous, dogs who are boisterous and need to be calmed, dogs who need more protein, less protein, dogs who can’t eat wheat, and on it goes. All packed with vitamins and minerals and antioxidants and omegas and calcium and lean proteins even! And all given wonderful names.
I place the assigned amount of food in Chester’s bowl and he tucks in. I return the shiny bag to the hall and am about to leave when a thought strikes me. I pick up the bag and check, and there in large letters ‘Advanced Fitness’! Recently I called in on Polly, a lovely rescue dog, a sort of small dingo-greyhound cross. As always she is either curled up in her basket or stretched out happily on the sofa, her limbs and coat toned and glistening, her eyes bright after her walk. Her owner that day was concerned as the local shop had temporaily run out of her food and Polly and co. were about to go on holidays. “What’s she on?” I ask. “Well”, she says rather sheepishly, “It’s called ‘Working Dog’”. Way to go Polly, though I have to say I think ‘Early Retirement’ might be a little more apt, very early. Perhaps even as I write, the scientists are already mixing the ingredients for that one.
I find the picture today that I had cut out from the Telegraph Magazine of November 6th to send to David. It depicts a man, standing on a high rocky outcrop, looking into the distance, surrounded by his 7 beautiful dogs. I immediately assumed it was Afghanistan. It was not. It was Italy, the Amalfi coast. The man, Gianni Menichetti, has been living in a wild canyon in the area for over 30 years. He is a fighter, a fighter for the environment, fighting to keep this undisturbed area out of the developers’ hands. The photographer is Carlo Bevilacqua, the photograph, stunning. He was shortlisted for the Taylor Wessing Photographic Portrait Prize at the National Portrait Gallery. I wonder if he won. And if he did, I do hope that 100,000 people don’t descend all of a sudden on the wild canyon to meet Gianni and his dogs, destroying his solitude and his peace of mind, upsetting his dogs and trampling underfoot the myriad inhabitants that live beneath us, on and under the skin of the planet.