The Courier & Advertiser (Perth and Perthshire Edition)
I thought I knew truth about cats and dogs... but it seems they’re all like me
Ialways thought, being a cat person, that my love of all things feline was an indication of the deep connection I felt with these particular animals – allegedly domesticated but in reality completely determined to go their own way; demanding of attention yet equally snooty about being disturbed when they didn’t feel like it; greedy as all get out yet pernickety about what they’re offered to eat; capable of sleeping 18 hours a day and still annoyed when you wake them up; possessing a sense of entitlement that inevitably ends up with them sleeping on your pillow and you either half-way out of the bed to give them room or trudging off to curl up in the cat bed downstairs. Me, in furry miniature, I think you might find.
But since I have morphed from the senior staff member of a tabby tyrant to being a junior dog-botherer, I find that my spirit animal isn’t that obvious any more.
Dogs, I was always led to believe, were big lumps of love-absorbing mush, unconditionally devoted and always happy to be at your heels, adoring you in spite of everything and just thrilled to be in your life. Always ready for a pet, a pat and a long, waggy-tailed, trainer-soaking walk in any and all weathers.
Not our Dougal. He conforms to few canine norms. The Transylvanian tripehound is a big lad, featuring in his doggie DNA probably every one of the Heinz 57 varieties and many more not yet even thought of by Crufts, the Kennel Club or Mongrels ‘R’ Us.
But I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that he is actually a cat. Or more worrying still, that he is actually me, in canine form. He doesn’t look like me. Much. He just is me.
Evidence? He sleeps all the hours God sends. Tick. He studiously ignores anyone who greets him in the morning until he is ready to be fed. Tick. He has taken a complete scunner at French bulldogs and Michael Gove, albeit in the shape of a now much-mangled dog toy. Tick. He notionally loves the idea of a walk, doing the fourfooted jump with great enthusiasm until he spots that it is raining outside, then resolutely refusing to budge and/or running back into the living room to cover his head with his paws and take up all available room on the couch. Tick. He leaves hanks of white hair everywhere and clogs up the vacuum cleaner. Tick. He barks at things he doesn’t like. Tick. He expresses himself using eye-rolls and deep sighs. Tick. Annoy him and he sounds like the wrath of God. Tick.
Chicken and egg? I’m just trying to work out owner and dog…
Kalopsian quafftide wonderclouting
I don’t know if you have ever happened across a lexicographer and general wordsmith called Susie Dent – she appears often in print and on the telly in shows like Countdown where she has set up regular residence in Dictionary Corner. Now, loving a bit of wordplay as I do, some of the things she highlights, from history and, I think, from the vivid imagination of more modern-day minds, are just brilliant. She always seems to find the mot juste for every occasion so I have no shame at all – with the proper credit given, of course – in sharing some of these with you.
So how about “kalopsia”? This is a state when everything and everyone looks beautiful. It even counts when it’s temporary, especially after a small sherry or six, otherwise cross-referenced with “beer goggles”. I may mix with the wrong kind of people but increasingly frequently, I find I don’t have to go far to find someone in a state of complete kalopsia. It also
works well when swiftly paired with the notion of “quafftide”, that ever-earlier moment in the day when you get the bottle opener out. This moment is also frequently inaugurated by many of us using the expression: “It’s five o’clock somewhere”, to quote that wonderfully apt C&W ditty. This is otherwise known to those of us who still have a modicum of self-awareness as “any excuse”.
It also links rather nicely with “wonderclout” (something that looks great on the outside but which is actually worthless). Otherwise known as a Kardashian or, more abstractly applied, the promises of Boris Johnson. I suspect this might be in the process of finding a whole new lease of life in territories north of Birmingham after the announcements about HS2.
Be that as it may, my current favourite, leading the way as the best multi-syllabic yet single-word comment on our present sorry state is “ultracrepidarian” – someone
who offers opinions on things they know nothing about. Before, during or after quafftide is not stipulated. And if you can still make yourself understood after a telling spot of kalopsian quafftide wonderclouting, try getting your wellanaesthetised gums around the 19th Century notion of a “quockerwodger”. If you don’t actually know a “toy puppet whose strings are pulled entirely by someone else”, I think I might just be able to point you in the right direction…
Our Dougal conforms to few norms... he is me in canine form