Finchley

He has big sad eyes that light up when we get the harness out for a walk (he wheezes if you use a normal collar) and look mournful when he is being ignored. His oversize paws and ears fly everywhere, except when he naps on his towel (faded, it reads “Polo bear, designed by Ralph Lauren”). He has no fear reflex. Licks anyone. Reminds me of a Luis Aragon piece, where he describes his youth “… qui mettaient sur tout leur doux bruit d’ailes” - brushing against everything with the soft sound of its wings. I don’t ever recall being that innocent and unscarred.

On walks, he sniffs industriously at every major dog-landmark (bushes, pillars, aging dog-poop…). Explores the boles and bulging contours of tree trunks. Stops stock-still at the sight of big, brown Clingendael geese. The geese argue loudly, like my old neighbours in Colombo. Probably about the same things. Pigeons take-off en-masse at the sight of us. He stares at cows sleeping near the old bunker of Arthur Seyss-Inquart, the Nazi Reichskommissar for the Netherlands during the 40’s.

When I work in the study, he lies nearby, chewing meditatively on favourite toy no. 2 (a piece of blue knotted cloth) or giving his genitals the once-over. His paws are usually damp from a walk, or from getting too excited at the water bowl. (he drinks in loud gulps – snout deep in the bowl). Every once in a while he lets out a deep sigh. I make sighing sounds, to keep him company.

A streak of white extends up Finchley’s handsome black forehead, widening out in a gentle triangle at the top, as if drawn by a paintbrush. His stomach fur is long and thick. Paw-pads wide and worn, as if he was a forest animal. The sun coming in through the study window silvers the hair on my forearms, and highlights the contrasts in his fur. I see my reflection in the metal of the table lamp. I look sleepy and unshaven.