Thursday, February 16, 2017

LANCELOT VS FIDO

Twice in my childhood I was seriously humped by dogs. Once at a family summer camp. The older girls lip-synched to “How Much is That Doggie in the Window” for Talent Night. I was given the part of The Doggie; my lines, “Ruff Ruff.” As I crawled onstage on all fours, the camp owners’ terrier, Sporty, dashed in out of nowhere and mounted me from behind, clinging and humping while I tried to scurry away.

The whole thing was a spontaneous hit. All the grownups howled.

The second time, I went with my parents for a visit to some new neighbors. We were all in the parlor having soft drinks when I heard a dog whining in the basement. René, their French Poodle, our hosts explained, wasn’t allowed to greet guests. I begged to meet their pet, not understanding their protestations. How could a French Poodle, the popular image on everyone’s swing skirt (second only to the Eiffel Tower) and the inspiration for the Poodle Cut hairdo, be a problem?


Finally the neighbors gave in and opened the basement door.  René bounded up the stairs and made a bee line for me, knocking me to the floor for some frenzied humping. While his owners scolded and tried to restrain him, I scrambled behind the sofa. René broke loose and attempted to leap over the sofa before he was caught and again exiled to the basement. René had the full poodle coiffure but his pompom ears and tail made him even more sinister.



These brief encounters, what did they mean? What was their lasting significance in my life? As I matured, and began the search for love, each Knight in my life eventually revealed his inner Fido, your basic male Homo sapiens, a pronate in search of a supinate. 


Feminism arrived, and it became normal for lovers to assume either, or both, or some variation on the classic roles and postures. But I couldn’t figure out what this acute form of attention really had to do with love. My first taste of one of life’s eternal conundrums.

What do we know that a dog doesn’t know? Aristophanes, Boccaccio, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Woody Allen: they don’t know. But they know the question is great material. Love. Lust.

Permutations.



 Are infinite.