For as long as I’ve been an adult (which feels like about 14 months), I’ve wanted a dog.
I wanted one, but was never in a realistic position to actually get one. Full time working – and therefore being out of the flat for twelve hours a day – always put paid to the idea. That, and my catastrophic allergies to all mammals. Including dolphins, presumably. And humans. Unless they’re hypoallergenic.
But recently I’ve been able to see a possible future where I work from home more often, allowing me to be in the house to accompany my live-in canine. I’d be willing to endure the scratchy throat, the flugelhorn sneezing, the chin-to-sphincter hives, and the bleeding eyes for the sake of this most ancient of partnerships – a man and his dog. Together through thick and thin.
The dog would be a beagle. And I’d probably call it something like Inigo Montoya. Or Hans Gruber. Or Lillian if it was girl. In spite of my life-threatening inflammatory responses to its presence, we would become the best of friends. We’d have spectacular adventures and maybe solve a crime.
But would he join me in the wilderness?
Apparently, dogs can run happily on a vegan diet. I think I’d question the use of the word ‘happily’ there. I read somewhere that dogs are in the order Carnivora, along with Giant Pandas which just eat bamboo. So, since dogs are omnivores – rather than carnivores – and because there are some dubious vegan bears in China that just consume scaffolding, dogs can be meat-free too.
For the most part, my plant diet is for health reasons – I just don’t trust myself to eat well if sausages, burgers and tinned ravioli are all fair game. As well as that, I do think animal agriculture is a moral dilemma, but only because we – as a modern human(e) society – have the capacity to make ethical decisions that can override our historical reliance on meat for food. A dog doesn’t have that. Hans, bless his cotton socks, is still just a dog.
So as far as the wilderness goes, he’d be a spectator, watching me from the carnivorous comfort of the tree line. But in all other ways, we’d face the future together; with me scratching, rasping and even – on those quiet Sunday afternoons when we’d watch Columbo re-runs together on the sofa – sinking inexorably into anaphylactic shock.
Still, that’s what EpiPens are FOR!
