KIDS….
… versus DOGS?
Of the many blessings of Hong Kong, one is the ease with which one can acquire a servant. Sorry, did I say servant? How terribly politically incorrect of me. I meant “helper.” Maid, amah, whatever you call them - I can’t see that their function has changed an awful lot since they were called servants. So that’s what I call them.
Like many island dwellers I have to spend an awful lot of time away from home every day. I normally leave at about 11 and get home at 22.00, and 11 hours is just too long for a dog (Piles, not the one pictured above) to be by himself. So naturally I have a servant to come and take him out twice a day. But arghh, now this worthy, intelligent and indispensable woman has buggered off to the Philippines for three weeks, and I have to leave later and come home earlier … except I can’t because then how am I to put dried dog food on the table?
I was just thinking today as I, stabbed by the relentless daggers of bad conscience, hurried toward the ferry pier, how much easier it would be if I could just call Piles and say I was on my way home. The problem is, he’s just too dense to pick up the phone. Also his fingers aren’t really up to scratch.
I used to sneer at people with children (the incessant crying, the nappies, the transformation of young parents, I mean parents of young kids, from normal people to one-topic cretins (not my friends of course - if they were I would drop them)) but now I’m not so sure.
All right, dogs are of course: More faithful. They never complain. And although Piles, unlike Lasi (pictured above) doesn’t greet me super-enthusiastically with wagging of the whole body but more with a curt nod when I get home of an evening, at least he’s not standing there with a sagging nappy full of poo hurling some ghastly mashed vegetable substance at me. Dogs are much less hassle, they never ask awkward questions and never embarrass you by suddenly bursting out: “Mummy, why did that man stick his tongue into your ear while Daddy was in the kitchen?”
Dogs never complain about the food you serve them, or that they’re bored, or pretty much anything. They can sometimes give you a Look but that’s by and large the extent of their passive-aggressiveness. They never disappoint you by growing up to be a customs inspector or chartered accountant and they seldom hang out with bad crowds.
Then again, they never grow up. They hardly ever learn how to speak, let alone read and write. You can’t leave them a note telling them to take the rubbish out - instead they’ll eat the rubbish.
All right, so you can, like the memorable story about the New Zealander I read about in the South China Morning Post a few years ago, go away on holiday for a week and leave out bowls with dog food marked “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday” etc. and hope for the best. In his case “the dog, apparently unable to read, had gobbled it all up by Tuesday and kept the neighbours awake by non-stop barking until they called the police.” You see where I’m going with this? Unable to read!
And the thing about dogs being so understanding and picking up on your mood - I don’t know. Recently, for example, I’ve been sad because of my mother’s death, but I can’t say I’ve got much sympathy from Piles apart from the usual curt nod and maybe some wistful stares - probably because I’ve been feeding him up to five minutes later than normally.
Dogs never say they hate you and wish you were dead, and they never seem to be embarrassed at being seen with you in front of other dogs. They never jump from the 27th floor when you ask them to do the homework. They are house trained at four months old, and you don’t have to worry about breast-feeding them in the toilet of The Peninsula. But they also never grow up to be a good conversation partner, and they never, ever learn how to play cards.
If you have a husband and two kids like Gweipo for example, you’re set up with card partners for life. Dogs? You’re lucky if they learn to sit, stay and fetch an idiotic stick. (What they’re doing with the stick when they bring it back is thinking: There you go, now make sure you don’t lose it again.)
And another thing about dogs - no matter how politically incorrect and morally defect you are, you can never, ever sleep with their friends. So what’s the point? Having a dog makes you marginally less guilty than having a child, and if you know they’re with the servant you don’t spend every waking moment worrying about them. Other than that it’s the same awful responsibility with feeding, picking up poo and making sure they don’t bite people.
So yes, I should have had children when I was a teenager; then I would have had good conversation partners, card playing partners and not least: Trustworthy people I could rely on to take care of my dogs, free.
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