Growing up, dogs were not a part of my childhood. This absence, coupled with an inherent fear of the neighborhood dogs, shaped my early perceptions. Even Alex, the gentle golden retriever belonging to the Kanestrøms, a dog known for its good nature, presented a challenge. While he was amiable with the children, his solitary barks directed at me created an insurmountable barrier, leaving me frozen on the gravel path, unable to proceed. This fear, instilled by the dog’s assertive sounds, mirrored a deeper, ingrained response to authority, particularly the “law of the father.” The paralysis I felt when confronted by the dog’s barks was akin to the fear evoked by a loud, authoritative human voice, a fear that has marked my life for forty years. This experience cultivated a subordinate’s instinct: to act out of fear of reprisal, a trait that has persisted despite my attempts to navigate environments like academia and the literary world, which often eschew such displays of anger. The fear of dog-like aggression, whether from an angry motorist or a former partner, has consistently led to yielding and paralysis.
My one significant deviation from this pattern has been in literature. I posit that literature serves as a unique sanctuary for free expression, a space where the “law of the father” or, metaphorically, the “law of the dog,” holds no sway. Literature, in this sense, becomes the “arena of the cowardly,” the “Colosseum of the fearful,” where authors, like gladiators who freeze before a barking dog, can assert themselves and their rights when in solitude. This notion is not without its critics, as other authors might protest, “Speak for yourself.” However, I find support in the observation that many acclaimed authors have not owned dogs. Knut Hamsun and Tor Ulven are examples of writers who did not have dogs. It’s difficult to imagine Marguerite Duras with a dog, and Ibsen, too, remained dog-free. While William Faulkner and Virginia Woolf owned dogs, Faulkner’s ownership might warrant a re-evaluation of his literary standing, and Woolf’s “lapdogs” were too small to inspire fear, thus not truly counteracting my theory.
My own experience with dog ownership lasted two years, undertaken solely to fulfill my eldest daughter’s persistent wish for a dog, a desire she’d held since the age of three. This dog, while infinitely kind, was also profoundly unintelligent. I found myself lacking the authority and strength to train it effectively. It would jump on everyone, scavenge food from the dinner table, strain excessively on the leash, dig up the lawn, and was never fully house-trained. Its submissive and humble nature often evoked irritation and even rage in me, a reaction akin to recognizing one’s own least appealing traits in another. The dog was constantly by my side, following me into my writing room and lying at my feet. It would even howl along to music, often in the same pitch as the vocals.
The arrival of a new baby in the household intensified the challenges. The dog required multiple daily walks and had to accompany us everywhere. We eventually installed a fence to contain it in the garden when we were away. However, after a few months, a neighbor discreetly informed us that the dog had barked and wailed incessantly whenever left alone. Ultimately, I rehomed the dog to a family that genuinely loved and understood canine care. It was only afterward that I realized that during the two years the dog lived with us, I hadn’t written a single line of literary prose, producing only articles and essays. While I do not blame the dog and certainly do not claim to be among the ranks of “good authors,” I believe that in a significant way, dog ownership hindered my literary endeavors. My work, being largely autobiographical, felt somehow diluted. While the precise mechanism remains unclear, it is plausible that the dog’s inherent character, so similar to my own, played a role – a similarity I recognized even before bringing it home. Indeed, the original title of my first autobiographical manuscript, later changed to “Argentina” and finally to “My Struggle,” was “The Dog.”
