Apr 21, 2020
THE PUREST KIND OF LOVE
The more I watch people, the more I love my dog.
I make no secret of being uncomfortably misanthropic at times. Humanity seems to be going through a form of species-specific schizophrenia, with elements of heart-warming kindness, and heart-stopping brutality and evil. You stand in the cold and applaud nurses and doctors. Then go back inside to find that your computer has been violated and you with it, by a scammer offering you a sure-fire and worthless way to avoid the Covid19. In the UK alone, the National Cyber Security Centre (NCSC) said it took down more than 2,000 online coronavirus scams last month. This included 471 fake online shops that were selling fraudulent virus-related items.
I can't help feeling that for every good person and for every good deed, there is a shit perpetrating shite.
I would love the default position to be this: expect humanity to behave with humanity, honesty, decency and compassion. We have been evolving long enough as a species to hold those things as universal truths and aims. Or have we? Apparently still a very long way to go.
Which is why I so completely agree with Mark Twain. “The more I learn about people, the more I like my dog.” Not just Mark Twain. Similar sentiments have been expressed by several savants. It’s why I like those people I can trust, and do, and dislike the public which I can’t and don’t.
But in my case, and putting humanity to one side, “like” is nothing like strong enough. For the small, brown-and-tan four-legged person who owns us, I feel such strong love that it hurts sometimes, and it is a love so complete and so pure that it rides alongside pretty well everything and everyone I hold dear, and frequently ahead.
I love and am furiously defensive of my family and woe-betide anyone who does harm to any of them. They will be harmed right back, using the law as a club. But if anyone were to harm Mitchy, I would look for the nearest cleaver and kill them. That is how strongly I feel.
Of course, I am capable of falling slightly in love with just a handful of women — but that’s “in love” and utterly incapable of being requited. It does not last, either; just as long as I can see them on screen. Julia Roberts, with that mouth and smile which should be declared illegal. Ellie Harrison, who stomps about in our TV programme “CountryFile” and who has a face so beautiful and animated that it almost certainly causes men to walk into lamposts. Fiona Bruce, BBC presenter extraordinaire, talented beyond reason, stunning of face and figure, with a bedroom voice beyond resistance and the carriage of an unconsciously sexy monarch.
I no longer have any need to prove or demonstrate my love by means of the joining of genitalia. Been there, done that, had my share and quite a lot more than.
So now, I glory in the deep love of our little doglet boy, and bask in the affection I receive in return. He demands nothing but to be fed (just enough) walked (as much as possible and more than we can) and loved (no more than all the time).
