You’ll see them at the hairdressers, at the spa and by the beach. You’ll find them toted like fuzzy Pokemon hand-bags that whine and yap. Most often, their fur matches their owners’ hair.
We could even start a debate: discuss the identity of Italian dogs and decide if there isn’t something eerily catlike about them. Carried around like Sunday pastine on a silver tray, most are allowed to see the world at eye level. In fact, I’ve never met one that didn’t give me the once-over. Italian dogs pull all the shots, and, if you don’t mind my saying, their superiority complex makes them uncannily similar to gatti. This is my newest theory and I could be full of rot, but not every country has hounds whose ancestors posed for Bronzino and a whole slew of talented Medici court artists whose names I’m sure they remember even if we don’t.
However, besides posing in the laps of ladies wearing gold and silver weave and sniffing out truffles worth their weight in diamonds, dogs have been rather luckless in Italy. Limited garden space and low square footage is partly the culprit. Bounding big dogs whose tails wag and skin creeps don’t really fit in retrofitted palazzos whose original owners were small enough to wear the tiny suits of armor you find in the Bargello. Their other problem is linguistic rather than logistic: the Italian language has no real word for ‘pet.’ True, they make an attempt with animale domestico, yet the phrase rings about as affectionate as an alarm clock on Daylight Saving day and fails to give house pets-tame or otherwise-their proper due.
‘Italians are not really pet people,’ I told Filippo, on a break from this article.
I said it in English. He shrugged and answered in Italian, ‘Non voglio male alle bestie.’
‘I know, but the fact that you call animals ‘beasts’ pretty much gives you away.’
For some reason, he didn’t see the point. But that was no reason not to argue it. ‘I was in England once, and the whole neighborhood was disperato about a cat stuck in a tree. They called the fire department-per un gatto, ci credi? Had it been a baby up there, they would have said it was none of their business.’
I suppressed a smile. If he was right, I was not going to admit it. ‘You exaggerate.’
‘Well, if I do, I’m not the only one.’
Okay, so maybe pet loving is a national pathology in all English-speaking countries. And language, as usual, provides proof of that pudding. The word ‘pet’ not only defines our dogs, cats, hamsters and goldfish, but also doubles as a word for ‘darling’ and ‘caress.’ These are the tell-tale facts.
But speaking of over-the-top linguistic coincidence, have you ever noticed how bad a rap dogs get the world over? In Italy, Siberian temperatures in tropical climates means there’s un freddo cane, while in the deeper chill of solitude, you’re simply solo come un cane. Dogs are not only cold and lonely in Italy. Adjectives abound: un cane sciolto is a rebellious human who runs without a leash, and a crestfallen cane bastonato is a badly beaten fellow who’s more likely to hide in his kennel. And since we’re on beating, while English speakers ‘beat around the bush,’ Italians menano il can per l’aia. May the idea of a poor puppy being shoved around the barnyard serve as a vital reminder: straightforwardness is the most urgent of goals.
In the English-speaking world, dogs don’t seem to have it much better. For us, the country is ‘going to the dogs’ and everybody knows it. And a man who acts ‘like a dog’ is actually a scoundrel who in truth behaves just the opposite. Whether ‘dog tired’ or ‘sick as dog,’ we’re not too kindly when it comes to mentioning our four-footed friends. This is why my all-time favorite-in either language-is the prize-winning exclamation ‘Doggone it!’ Something like ‘damnation,’ you say it when you’re either angry or disappointed. The reason? Elementary my dear Watson, the day is drearier, the dog is gone.
