A Tale of Two Bitches

My dog and I share the same name.  There’s a story behind this – of course – which I’ll get to shortly, but for now be assured that I am aware that it’s both weird and embarrassing.

It wasn’t a problem in Singapore, for two main reasons:  I rarely walked the dog, so anyone enquiring about her would direct questions at her walker.  Who, luckily for her, did not have the same doggy name.  Also, Singaporeans are not, by and large terribly interested in expats or their dogs (or, more accurately, expats’ maids and their expatty dogs).  So on the rare occasion when I would walk the dog – when, say the maid was sick or busy or (The Horror) having a day off – it was unlikely that anyone would stop and Talk Dog.

We are now in Ireland, and the dog walks have changed entirely. 

To begin with, they are freezing, and I am never properly dressed, so I walk along slowly dying and muttering under my (visible) breath.  And I never have enough poo bags, and there are certainly not enough bins about to unburden me of said poo bags once full and steaming,  and so I have to walk through the frozen mud with bags of shit dangling from my frozen fingers. 

They are also more fraught, as our neighbourhood (and, it seems, all of Dublin) is awash with foxes.  And it turns out there is nothing my dog loves more than fox poo. Her favourite thing is to roll in it – she really likes to dig herself right in – just to properly condition her very long, very absorbent fur.  This hasn’t been so easy recently because of the freezing conditions – even disgusting tar-like fox shit has a freezing point.  So to overcome this, she has started to condition herself from the inside out – by eating the stuff.  Fox poo, peeps – it’s like collagen supplements for dogs.  With added breath-scent. 

But the main difference with Singapore is that the walks now take hours.  This is not because we are walking for hours, striding over hills and down dales, breathing great lungfuls of fresh air.  Oh no.  (Generally we are tip-toing through mud and avoiding the woods where, alternately, a fox’s carcass or a flasher can be found.)   It is because all the other dog-walkers are out, and, being Irish, they are a chatty bunch.  I do love the social interaction – you could walk a two-headed dog in Singapore and nobody would even look your way, let alone say hello to you – but there are times when I’m in a rush, and even stopping to say “I’m in a rush” takes about fifteen minutes.   And being chatty, the first thing that gets said is often “What’s your dog’s name?”  So I tell them, and they nod, and comment on how beautiful she is (she is.  But it’s also Ireland, everyone is wildly kind about each other’s dog. It’s like turning up with a new-born.  Your dog could look like a sack of potatoes – like all newborns – and still everyone would comment on how beautiful she is.)  And then the talk turns to their behaviour, and their food, and where you walk them, and where you live, and how old she is and before you know it all the information that ever was about your dog has been shared, and when you then say I really have to go now, they say Lovely to meet you, what’s your name? 

There are generally three reactions to my response.  1. Confusion.  Did they mishear?  Did I mishear?  They clarify:  No no no, your name.  And so I force a laugh and tell them the story behind the dog’s name.  2. Embarrassment – for me.  Their faces scream “God, she called the dog after herself.” And so I force a laugh and tell them the story behind the dog’s name.  3.  Pure and absolute DELIGHT.  Gushing happiness.  (Mind you, this one has only happened once.) “That’s what they do in Spain isn’t it?  They call their children after themselves, I think it’s lovely isn’t it, it’s brilliant you’ve given your dog your own name it’s so Spanish.”  I didn’t like to point out the obvious – I did not birth that large hairy creature who is currently chewing frozen fox shit  – but I was so taken aback by her reaction that all I could do was agree that it was indeed lovely.  And then I forced a laugh and told her the story behind the dog’s name.  She didn’t care.  As far as she was concerned, as soon as the dog popped out of my belly, I took one look at her long snout and stupid grin and thought – Mini Me.

And so to The Story Behind The Dog’s Name:  We got the dog in Singapore just one December, and so, being desperately unoriginal, we tried out a few Christmassy names – Holly, Brandy, Tinsel, etc.  Nothing seemed to suit her, and more to the point, she ignored us entirely when we used any of them.  Then my son, who was 10 at the time, suggested Jesus.  Hahaha, I said.  No really, Jesus – it’s a great name.  We can’t call her Jesus, I said, imagining us back in Ireland, me walking through the woods (sidestepping flashers and dead foxes), shouting JESUS, COME HERE.  Why Not?    We just can’t.  WHY NOT?  WE JUST CAN’T.  Well…  How about Jessie then?  It’s short for Jesus.  Yeah, no.  WHY NOT?   Um, because that’s my name?  Silence, then:  Your name is Mum.   And with that he was gone, announcing to all that the dog’s new name was Jessie.  And the fucking dog turned around and barked in agreement and did a little dance, and the other kids clapped their hands in glee, and my husband rolled his eyes and made a joke about bitches, and I thought I am never ever walking the dog…