Books: Visions Before Midnight — Rancid coils | clivejames.com
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Rancid coils

Dogshit! The very name is like a bell, to toll me back from thee to my sole self.

In a commentary admirably willing to call a load of crap a load of crap, the gooey substance was several times alluded to by this disyllabic epithet during The Case Against Dogs (Thames), an uninspired but in my view unanswerable assault on the British public’s insane fancy for the pooch. Dogshit. Why doesn’t everybody call it that? What’s in a name? A turd by any other name would smell as rank.

Unfortunately most of the relevant officials interviewed on the subject, both here and in Louisiana (where control of the canine pest is taken with exemplary seriousness), were mealy in the mouth, however hot they might be on the trail. On both sides of the Atlantic dogs were referred to as defecating rather than shitting. Camden Council employs a lone inspector to walk the pavement on the lookout for citizens allowing their dogs to foul it. In a sane society he would command a department called Shitwatch and wield the powers of Richelieu. As things are, he pounds the beat in solitary impotence, a dog-dogging Dogberry, with a jokey notebook and a Hugh Scanlon vocabulary heavily adorned with admonitory phrases like ‘inasmuch as’, ‘with a view to’, and ‘wherefore so deposit’.

Camden’s share of London’s million dog-owners answer this good man back with the insolence customary among those who treat animals like people and people like animals. In the unlikely event of his making the charge stick (the dog practically has to poo on his shoe before he can make the pinch) he can hope to see the offending owner stung for twenty quid at most. A worthy type, but valueless as an instrument of terror. If the law gave him the option to retaliate by entering the malefactor’s house and taking a swift crap in the parlour it would be a different matter. People would then be more apt to think twice before encouraging their beloved pet to drop its guts.

There was some pathetic footage of the only two purpose-built dog-lavatories in London. Needless to say, these constituted the few remaining square yards of open space in the entire city which were not thoroughly impregnated with cloacal slime. Dogshit, it seems, contains indestructible worm larvae which transmit themselves to one in twenty children who play in parks. The larvae cause disease in a significant number of cases, and in a significant number of those cases the disease expresses itself as damage to the eyesight. Eyeballs have been cut out of children because dogs have been allowed to dump their lunch on the grass. It’s my experience that most dog-owners would regard this as an acceptable risk: they are usually experts at ascribing to the will of nature the havoc wreaked by their jealously cherished vermin.

Near my house in Cambridge is one of the most pleasant stretches of public ground in Britain — Jesus Green. Neither an enamelled display case for a cocktail-bibbing under-graduate élite nor an exclusive arbour for port-sodden dons, it is a genuine gathering-place for the whole community. It is also a parade ground for the kind of strutting clown who wants to let his Doberman Pinscher out to play, while strenuously assuring you that there is no need for your child to be scared to death: Helmut would never dream of biting anyone. (Helmut never does, up until the moment when he inexplicably decides to chew a baby’s face off.) But wait! Suddenly the giant hound pauses in its headlong flight, spreads its back legs and voids a rancid coil, Another pint of worms for the communal sewer. How much more shit can Britain take before it buckles under the strain and goes down like Atlantis?

6 July, 1975