Statement Dog

They tumbled out of the Armley Nisa carrying three bottles of breakfast cider between them.

He had matching cheek tattoos and a t-shirt with an Indian Chief and a soaring eagle on the chest. She was dragging a Rottweiler the size of a small steam roller.

I’d seen them before. They’d suddenly appeared a couple of weeks ago crossing the road outside my office window on their way down the back street to the playing field. I noticed the dog first.

You couldn’t really miss a beast like that. There are lots of big dogs around here, mainly Akitas and Malamutes, which seem to be the favoured breeds of a certain demographic these days. They always have that lean and hungry look. Dangerous. And they don’t play nice. They pull and they growl and they pee on your fence, and their owners are too busy on their iPhones to give a damn. But this dog was something else.

I could hear him coming by the yells, shrieks and grunts coming from his two human mishandlers. They were holding onto a thick chain attached to something that looked like an exhibit from the Royal Armouries which was clamped around the dogs vast neck. They walked at an angle of 45%. Their heels scraped the tarmac. They gripped the lead as if it was attached to a caravan containing all their personal belongings and it was about to slip off the end of a cliff.

The dog merrily bounded along, crashing into cars, headbutting garden walls, and testing the construction of several locked gates. He looked unstoppable.

And he didn’t stop. He towed the couple into the tea-time traffic as if he was flying a pair of kites.

They swore as the number 16 bus narrowly avoided knocking them down, and they howled as the dog got himself entangled around a bollard, and they shouted commands that were blithely ignored, and they screamed as he spotted a cat and tore off for some playful knockabout with a terrified tabby.

Ten minutes later they did the same thing in reverse.

I’ve watched them a few times since. Listened to them too, and it’s not a happy noise.

But this was the first time I’d come across them face to face. The path outside the shop is narrow and there is no way three humans and a Tasmanian Devil can pass each other by gracefully.

The dog was the first to work this out.

He pulled away into the road, yanking the arm of the woman and causing her to drop the cider. She bent to retrieve the bottle which was in danger of rolling under a van, swearing and lashing out at the dog as she scrabbled to save the alcohol. The dog cunningly ducked and reversed, somehow managing to slip his lead. Then he was in the road.

Traffic screeched to a stop. More, I think, to avoid a complicated insurance claim than for any concern for the dog. He could have done some damage.

The tattooed man was swearing. His companion was laughing and pointing. Neither seemed in any hurry to make any actual effort to remove the dog from the road.

“Here boy”, I shouted, patting my thigh, instantly wondering why the hell I was getting involved, “come on, fella.”

The dog cocked his head and did a quick reconnaissance of his situation. He must have calculated his best bet was to get out of oncoming traffic, dogs being quick to spot when they are best going along with a human with a plan, and he ambled over plonking his considerable bulk on my foot.

He looked up and I swear he smiled at me.

Maybe it’s just the shape of a Rottweiler’s face but the dog seemed to have a cheeky grin.

He was two hundred pounds of pure muscle, a fighting machine, a hard man’s hard dog. But it’s hard to be scared of something that smirked like Benny Hill.

I took hold of his collar and he seemed happy enough to walk with me to the side street where I could hand him back.

“What’s his name?”

“Chopper”.

“He’s, erm… he’s quite a big lad, isn’t he.”

“Statement dog. He’s a statement dog…”

I wasn’t quite sure what statement a dog this enormous would make, unless it was “I’ve just crapped in your herbaceous border, you got a problem with that, sunshine!”

But I said, “he’s … lovely.”

“He’s not ours. We don’t own him. It’s a friends… he’s away for a bit.”

Ah, I thought… away, yes, that makes sense.

The owner was “away”.

What chance has poor Chopper got?

I tried to hand the dog over, releasing my grip on his medieval collar. But the dog had other ideas and instead of being grateful to be reunited with his temporary custodians shot off down the cul de sac and smashed through a gap in a hedge.

I realised I liked this dog.

Mr. Tattoo cheeks screamed abuse.

It’s a principle of mine never to challenge a man who is slurring his words before the end of morning rush hour.

As Carole King once sang,

You can’t talk to a man,

With a Strongbow in his hands…

(Chorus) Strongbow

I thought it best to leave them at this point and think about calling the RSPCA, Social Services, Interpol, Alcoholics Anonymous and Alltogether Armley for advice…

Then I thought, no.

This is culture too. Dogs are semiotic signals, as my neighbour rightly pointed out though in less pretentious words. A Rottweiler is as much a cultural statement as is a hipster beard, a flat white, a ticket for the opera, or spoken word poetry.

I’m not sure how a Rottweiler fits into the cultural strategy for Leeds though.

Perhaps we could get Leeds Inspired to commission a play or contemporary dance or even a mural?

Statement Dogs?

I’d like to see them try and get Chopper a part.

Art is for everyone, is it not?

2 comments

  1. Sorry to be a stalker Phil but now you’re on to dogs I couldn’t resist a slight cultural interjection.

    Never mind the larger breeds and their position in everyday life, this is well travelled especially in your neck of the woods.

    No, let’s go for the increasingly fashionable toy breeds and miniatures- the French Pug, the smooth-haired Griffon, Chihuahua or the Cairn Terrier. These too can be a source embarrassment in a public place.

    Let me tell you this one and I kid you not. Sour was on a spying mission in one of those artisan cafes in the cultural quarter the other day. No names of course but they certainly like to put lots of kale in their sandwiches and it was reassuring for customers to know that the pigs who have kindly provided the meat for their sausages have lived their short lives in the open air.

    You get the picture. Anyway, a couple of young love birds come in and sit at a nearby table. The guy has some kind of baby sling round his neck and I thought just for a moment aww they are just starting out on their journey in life with their new arrival. How charming; they have so much ahead of them to look forward too.

    But what pops out of the sling for these doting parents to fondle but a bloody toy dog. I ask you can’t it walk on its own. Things get worse. Small enough to stand on the table they offer it some of their meal. Hmm Companion animals in the café possibly, kept under the table, maybe, on the table sharing the food??? – Now I’m not one for too much elf and safety or food hygiene but I must be out of step with something here.

    Fortunately, the animal did not become bilious and was eventually allowed to stand on its own feet under the table for a few minutes before more caressing and being put back in the sling.

    After this I noticed more and more of these toys staring at me blankly from man bags and ladies’ totes or being carried under arm by their doting owners.

    As its “head up shoulders back” for me when strolling around I have also had the occasion to literally fall over these mini-beasts on the odd times when they are eventually let out of their comfy pouches and allowed to roam freely on their extendable leads. Anti-social trip hazard or what? Someone needs to step in and put a stop to this public health menace.

    At the same time, I have concerns for the futures of the victims of this narcissistic self-indulgent fad and I don’t exclusively mean the people. So, my advice is If you want a dog get a proper sized one – not these “toys” and live up to the demands of responsible pet ownership.

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