Dog-Eared

I finally finished the book I've been reading for some weeks now, Dog Years by the poet and memoirist Mark Doty. The length of time it took me is no reflection of how much I enjoyed it, which was very much. My life these days is simply made up of fragments of time, it seems.

The book is about Doty's relationship with his two dogs, Arden and Beau, a relationship that overlaps with the death of his lover, Wally, from AIDS and his current long-term relationship with Paul. There's more on Paul in this book; an earlier memoir by Doty, Heaven's Coast -- also beautiful -- deals extensively with Wally.

I liked this passage from Dog Years:

"A while ago, I had a drink with a new acquaintance, who was taking a little time away from his work and had come to the seashore to write a screenplay. Over a beer, in the way that people offer a topic of conversation in order to know one another better, he asked what I'd like to do if my commitments were all waived, if I suddenly had the freedom to choose whatever. I said I'd buy a place with a barn, in the country, and open a shelter for homeless retrievers.

"He looked at me a little incredulously. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. 'I don't know,' he said, 'when people talk about what they want to do for animals, I always wonder why that compassion isn't offered to other people.'

"My anger flared, a hot, fierce flush. I said, 'You asked me what I wanted to do, not what I thought I should do.'

"He nodded. 'Fair enough.' But the damage was done, the judgment cast. If I'd been more thoughtful and less offended, I might have said that compassion isn't a limited quantity, something we can only possess so much of and which thus must be carefully conserved. I might have said, if I was truly being honest, that I've never known anyone holding this opinion to demonstrate much in the way of empathy with other people anyway; it seems that compassion for animals is an excellent predictor of one's ability to care for one's fellow human beings.

"But the plain truth is no one should have to defend what he loves. If I decide to become one of those dotty old people who live alone with six beagles, who on earth is harmed by the extremity of my affections? There is little enough devotion in the world that we should be glad for it in whatever form it appears, and never mock it, or underestimate its depths.

"Love, I think, is a gateway to the world, not an escape from it."

Those last two paragraphs remind me of a movie I saw a few months ago, Year of the Dog, starring Molly Shannon (and, hello, Peter Sarsgaard). It's not perfect, but I did like it. What I really loved was the final note the film struck: It didn't flinch from or make excuses for the fact that love of animals is a legitimate love -- not inferior to any other kind -- and in fact for some people it's the primary and most nourishing love in their lives. I really hand it to writer/director Mike White for celebrating that connection, so often devalued or marginalized, in a mainstream (albeit indie) film.