Man's Best Friend Is My Best Friend

Ever heard the Cat Stevens song he wrote about loving his dog as much as his partner? He sings:

I love my dog as much as I love you // But you may fade, my dog will always come through

It's the second line that's the kicker.

Perhaps his wife or girlfriend could accept he loved his dog equal to the inevitably monumental amount he loves her, but then he doubles down on any doubt she may have lingering in the back of her mind and spells it out clearly: You're set to fade, baby.

In The Road Less Travelled, psychologist M Scott Peck explains human love will always be superior to the love we give an animal because the love for an animal has to be projected upon it, we, the owner, give our pets personalities, we anthropomorphise them and manufacture the second half of our love to make a whole. Human love is much more challenging, sophisticated and ultimately, according to Peck, spiritually rewarding.

So stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Stevens.

I have a dog. I also have a wife and a family. I love the dog, but I categorically don't love the dog more than my wife, or my children.

Sometimes I jokingly cuddle Ronnie, our chocolate brown, working cocker-spaniel and say "I love you Ron, but I'd sooner chuck you in an incinerator than choose you over the family." It's OK though, he doesn't understand what I'm saying, he's just happy he's getting a cuddle.

And it's with this spirit, the knowing, pragmatic spirit of reality, that I suggest that my dog is my best friend.

Could we get all logical about it and challenge that notion, pointing out that I have friends I share 20 or 30 year connections with, more developed and meaningful than any connection I could possibly have with an animal? Sure we could.

But do those same friends greet me every time I come home like I'm some goddamn war hero? No is the answer.

I'm his master. There is something magical about the relationship between a hound and his master. I'm the alpha of the family, the head honcho, and he, Ronnie, is the only living soul in this world that will ever consider me as such. So I'm taking it.

I'm the main dog-walker. Together we share slices of solitude, I meander through woodlands and fields whilst he bobs and weaves around me. I offer up single, monosyllabic commands when required; a deep-voiced "here" or "Ron" will suffice, and he will come bounding.

In these sacred, stolen hours, there is almost a mind-meld, he and I share the experience of nature together, attached by a single, invisible string or third eye, us both equally pleased the other has joined us on the journey.

Since lockdown, beginning in March 2020, I've not worked and I've rarely left the house. Fine, I'm 42, married with children. My joys are to be found at home. It's the millennials I feel sorry for. A hundred boozy weekends gone, parties ceased, clubs closed, myriad opportunities to make bad romantic decisions evaporated.

So whilst the younger generation does whatever they now do, on TikTok or whatever, I got to spend each day with Ronnie. He sits at my feet when I write, he lies against me on the sofa when I video edit, he follows me around the garden as I mow the grass. This silent, hairy being, a foot high and two long, endlessly loyal, endlessly loving, never far from my side.

We play rough. I bundle him onto the ground, a chew toy in his mouth that we wrestle over for possession. At times he will bear his teeth, his growling will reach fever pitch, others in the room will worry, or call for calm, as he tugs and shakes the toy into oblivion, but never once will he express aggression towards me. We have unspoken boundaries, we both know the rules of the game and we both play along with them.

A couple of times I've hurt him; I've sat on a leg, I've put my hand on a pressure point, and he's yelped out. It is in these moments we both embrace, I, to apologise, he, to get comfort from the one person he wants it from the most.

It's almost heartbreaking how devoted he is to me, a flawed and ordinary human that makes up his entire universe. If he could understand my words I'd manage his expectations, I'd explain I'm a mere man, though I know he would have none of it.

At nights, when my wife and I eat in front of the TV, he bides his time. He knows the drill. We eat, we put the dishes away and it is then he comes on the sofa, fitting his long, cashew body in between us, and sleeps whilst being softly petted for an hour or two. On the odd occasion one of us is out, or I am working upstairs, he will not rest, but instead sit transfixed on the hallway, waiting for the missing element to arrive and assume their rightful position on the evening sofa.

Can a dog be a best friend? Perhaps not in the way a human can, perhaps not wholly, but also they can uniquely, in a way a human cannot. Dogs, animals in general in fact, provide a welcome solace to humans that soothes our soul.

There's an innate need for us to be close to our pets, to our dogs, and such feelings extend back to the canine species also.

Studies have shown dogs are the only animals able to read the expressions on humans' faces. Not even a chimpanzee can demonstrate such intuition or have the same ability to live among humans. Also, unlike wolves, when a dog puppy matures into adulthood it will actively seek the company of people over other dogs. The human bond with dogs is unique, sacred. We have lived in each other's company for 30,000 years. There is a reason why dogs are known as man's best friend.

So no, I can't go drinking with Ronnie, I can't confess my secrets to him and get comforting words back, I can't rely on him to help me out of a difficult situation, nor to lend me a couple of hundred when times are tight.

But he offers something more, something dog-shaped and sacred, something special that only he can give. And that is all I ever want from him, and he never fails to deliver.

Is he really my best friend? Probably not. Do I love him more than my family? No. But can we grade or even articulate the unspoken, spiritual bond between a man and his dog? Definitely not.

We have each other and that's all that matters. Master and hound.

I once heard a quote that said: "A dog is the only thing that loves you more than yourself," and that's sure what it feels like. Though, I heard another quote which said: "Be the guy your dog thinks you are." I'm trying. Without doing anything but loving me, that damn dog is making me a better person. And that's why I'm claiming he's my best friend.

You're a good boy Ron. You're a good boy.