Showing posts with label psychoanalysis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label psychoanalysis. Show all posts

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Dogs


“Extraordinary creature! So close a friend” said Thomas Mann of his spaniel in his 1918 Essay Herr und Hund. It’s clear that Mann was a man who, when not meditating on the tensions of industrial modernity, liked to walk his dog. You’d be hard pushed to find a better account of the closeness between man and beast or a more eloquent testament of the power to see canines as crypto-humans (though without all the irritating baggage of actual people). For those of us less enamoured, this closeness is something of a source of puzzlement.  Dogs are supposed to endearing, faithful and even beautiful? Man’s Best Friend (assuming that whoever wrote that phrase had some human friends). In the parks of Lewes I am surrounded by people enjoying their pets (and the odd terrified child). I can’t help but wonder then just what is the trouble (or rather my trouble) with dogs?

It’s clear that human/dog camaraderie has been around for a while. The domestication of the wolf  is likely to have started at least 15,000 years ago presumably when some hungry stray decided that wondering into a human village and making a cute face was a good strategy for surviving the rigours of the ice age. Initially bred for work it’s clear that the new, more docile, wolves at some point also gained companion status. Can those who find pooches a pain in the arse have been far behind?

One thing that suggests they are more common than one might think is the large number pejorative uses of the word “dog”. Calling someone a dog signals something less than enthusiasm about their abilities or physical attractiveness. It can indicate low quality (that car is a dog), a poor investment (Enron was a dog) or a questionable effort (dog it). I expect the pre-dynastic Chinese (likely the first pet dog pet owners) had an equivalent phrase for “going to the dogs” to signal the Yangtze Valley neighbourhood taking a dive: Perhaps as a result of the increased in pooh. If you get bored with the word there are a number of negatively connoted synonyms of which flea-bag is one of the more polite. And the troubles with dogs are clearly many. They bark and occasionally bite. They have unfortunate ways of “making friends”, frequently smell (as do you after your un-wanted encounter with them) and their liberally shared faeces contain nasty bacteria.


It may be though that it is churlish to blame them for all this. Despite millennia of breeding it is difficult for dogs to be anything other than... well doggy. It could be here that the real trouble lies. After all it’s people who own them, fail to clear up their excrement and insist that their overtures are friendship. It’s owners who let them out to pee and yap at 6.30 AM. There is plenty of evidence that even dangerous dogs are actually the product of irresponsible owners rather than breeds we assume are aggressive. It’s humans who imbue dogs with emotions akin to our own. Perhaps the trouble with dogs is the trouble with another species.

I’m beginning to think maybe Thomas Mann had a point.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Fairies



“Mummy, am I fat?” says my daughter, all of seven, regarding herself in the bath. She doesn’t know it yet but body fascism is my wife’s darkest fear. The thought of a little girl worrying about weight evokes a response like that of a vampire facing a crucifix or Lady Gaga being asked to wear a twinset.


“No darling you’re not, and it’s a silly thing to worry about”, my wife replies with admirable (though bogus) insouciance. After a couple of minutes of intense debate the crisis is over and worries about the Messages Kids Get Today are, at least temporarily, averted.


“You promise you’re telling me the total, absolute truth Mum?”


“Of course sweetheart. I’ll never lie to you when you ask me for the truth. Cross my heart and soak my sleeve in this bubble bath”.


I slip out of the room, failing to hear the scream of a gigantic hostage to fortune being abducted right beside me.


Halfway down the stairs the other shoe drops.


“Mum, tell me the truth. Are the fairies really coming?”
Long pause…


My son is already demanding story-time and milk but I am paralysed, watching my wife trying to make her mouth move.


In the last few months the Tooth Fairy has been working overtime at our house. Though we sometimes worry about encouraging this too much (and about the hyperinflation which seems to have occurred in the market for teeth) we also can’t help but find it charming. As long ago as the 1970 the psychoanalyst Bruno Bettelheim pronounced fairies officially OK. Believing in magic apparently helps “master the psychological problems of growing up-overcoming narcissistic disappointments, oedipal dilemmas, sibling rivalries; becoming able to relinquish childhood dependencies; gaining a feeling of selfhood and of self-worth, and a sense of moral obligation”. Belief in magic also provides an interesting insight in to children’s’ cognitive development. And of course they grow out of it (at least up to a point). I’ve realised now though that the trouble with fairies is actually that I might not be ready for the moment when they get the push.


The question is still hanging. My wife (and this is like watching someone downing but beyond help) takes a huge gulp of air and opts for truth.


There was a lot more. Like a car accident, you don’t need to know all the details. Santa was still intact by the end of it but that was about all. She seemed sad but accepting. We were given strict instructions not to eat the Tuc biscuit left for the fairies on the kitchen table. In the morning, we heard feet hammering down the stairs, then back up again.


“Mum, Dad, it’s still there. The fairies aren’t real!” Followed, finally, by tears. And I don’t just mean from my daughter.


So what do you do when your child asks, really asks, for the truth? Perhaps close your eyes, clap, and wish with all your heart that they’d waited till they were a bit older.


John McGowan, 27th January 2011