January/February 2008

Canine Country

Dogs reign supreme in England, where Brits and barks go hand in hand.

By Larry Maddry

I recently visited England, which Shakespeare described as an emerald isle but is, in truth, the land of the barking dog. There are more dogs per square block in the United Kingdom than any place on earth. Nobody caters to dogs the way Brits do. 
      
A small dog named Reginald was the official waker-upper at our B&B. The dog came scratching at the door of each guest room on our hall at 7 a.m. This was to let us know that breakfast was being served.
     
Reggie, as he was often called, was very efficient as he trotted from door to door—black and white tail flicking back and forth, rapidly, like a wiper blade on high—as he made his rounds. He scratched with his right paw on each door panel—always three scratches before moving on. His briskness and sense of purpose reminded me of a British shopkeeper going from to door to door while locking up for the day.
      
Dogs seem to harmonize with every aspect of English life. Until very recently, they were allowed in restaurants throughout England but are now banned from them in major cities. But visit any small town pub in England, and you are likely to see a dog or two, either behind the bar or resting comfortably beneath a table as though it was the most natural place in the world to be.
       
Dogs go places in England where you wouldn’t see them in the United States. Victoria Station in London is probably the busiest train station in the world. During peak periods, hundreds upon hundreds of rail passengers move across the tiled floors of the gigantic station at warp speed. 
       
At such times, it takes quick feet and an alert eye to dodge the rumbling flow of travelers with bags on wheels moving rapidly towards you. But the terriers, spaniels, poodles and others, all on leashes, adopt the hurried and hell-for-leather pace of their masters and mistresses.
        
I watched with great admiration as a cheeky little Pekinese trotted at the heels of his mistress. He resembled a giant powder puff, with extraordinary determination etched in his black face—eyes glinting with the same resolve Evil Knievel’s must have had as he motorcycled over that canyon.
        
We took day trips from London during our week’s stay there, and I don’t recall a single train that didn’t have a dog aboard. On our last trip—from Orpington to London—I was startled when a white bull terrier jumped up on the seat beside me to say hello. 
        
The dog had a black nose over tight, clean lips and gave me a long sidelong glance that said: “Are you going to engage with me or just sit there like a dunce?”
         
A powerful dog, rippling with muscle, he enjoyed being scratched behind the ears. I think he would have sat beside me for many miles, but his owner, a muscular young man in his 30s, whistled. The dog leaped off the seat and joined his master on the shifting platform between the coaches. 
         
It seemed to me the Brits spend more time training their dogs than we do in the states. The dogs I saw in England appeared well-behaved. They knew their place in the scheme of things, it seemed. And took pride in it.
         
The affection Brits have for dogs doesn’t extend to politicians. Knowing of their interest in dogs, I often asked—as an ice-breaker—a question about Tony Blair, the former prime minister.
         
“Since you folks often referred to Mr. Blair as President Bush’s lap dog ... what breed of lapdog do you think he might have been? Poodle ... terrier ... hound?”
         
They shook their heads sadly, often momentarily closing their eyes, and rarely wanted to talk about it.