There is a dog in the picture. Not just any dog, but Panu, a Karelian Bear Dog, who was a member of my family for about six years in my childhood. If I were to write my memoirs—which will not happen—Panu, and the other dogs I have had the honor of knowing closely, would play a large part in them. They would be far more important than any royal personage, head of state, famous cultural figure, or athlete I may happen to have met. Of all the persons in my life, only family members and a few of my closest friends would receive more space in my story per muzzle.
A reasonably large percentage of human beings are friends of dogs, and every one of us dog people knows how great a meaning a dog can have in a person’s life. And yet in memoirs they are usually barely mentioned: where are all the dogs of memoirs?
A dog is a friend, a teacher, a companion, and a bringer of love, joy, and often consolation. It is a being for whom one bears responsibility, and who answers that responsibility in its own way, always selflessly, and often decisively. It is a better being than I am, whose goodness often makes me ashamed of myself. Quality time spent with a dog can be a large part of a person’s life, especially in childhood and old age. A person who grew up with a dog as a child is, in my experience, usually more mature as a human being than someone who, when young, was protected from the influence of animals. Dogs help make many of us human.
While searching for books on the shelves of recycling centers, I have found it entertaining from time to time to notice that yet another acquaintance has written his/her memoirs. When one leafs through them, one usually finds a long cavalcade of various public figures with whom the author has had the honor of dealing. It is apparently precisely this large number of celebrity acquaintances in the reported course of life that has most often served as the impulse justifying the author’s own importance in the universe, and therefore practically pressuring him to write his memoirs.
I find that interesting. It gives a particular image of the writers’ relationship to the world and to their own lives. What is truly important, and what is merely chips and dry leaves in the current of life? Chips come and chips go, but if you have once known a dog closely, you never forget it—at least not before dementia, or good old Alzheimer’s, makes you forget your other loved ones too. Where are the dogs and other animals of memoirs?
