The canine challenge

Dogs … bark. It’s what they do, an indisputable reality, in much the same way as sugar is sweet, sky is blue, and husbands are wrong.

In the case of dogs in Regnano – and rural Marche, actually – this reality is doubly true. Perhaps even triply. They bark … a lot.

They also, through their vocal proclivities, can have an impact on the performance of ritual and tradition. Take the passegiata, for instance, one of the noblest and enjoyable of Italian traditions. This is the evening stroll down the promenade with family and friends, a leisurely end-of-the-day ritual in towns and cities across the country, intended – or so it appears to me – to slow down, catch up, and clutch out. We’ve indulged in the pastime – with relish – whenever we’ve had the opportunity. I tried to do so in our little one-road borgo, while Julius rode his bicycle – it was a once-in-a-lifetime event, thanks to the dogs. Apart from barking incessantly, some of them were quite menacing as they approached me, and, being in no hurry to test the theory of barks being worse than bites, ended up siding with discretion rather than valour (i.e. I scuttled off … with my tail in a place I’d rather have seen my antagonists’ in).

One of these dogs – a German shepherd, or Alsatian – is positively scary. He gets so excited that I can actually picture him opting to jump out of his skin (if given the option) just to get a chance to go at us. Being an immediate neighbour, one might have hoped that he’d develop some familiarity over time, given the frequency that we pass him, both by car and on foot. No such luck. Not even a hint of recognition. Thank heavens he’s confined to a fenced-in garden. His frantic, beside-himself behaviour makes me wonder if his owner is hiding something behind such a vicious visage.

A week or so ago in Bolognola we saw a woman trying to calm her own dog as her son and grandson arrived for a visit. His (the dog’s) reaction to her slapping his jaw was downright frightening – his bark turned to a snarl-growl, and he bared his teeth as if he was about to de-hand her. The 3 of us (Maria, Julius and I) watched – horrified and transfixed – waiting for him to perform the severing act. To our morbid disappointment (or possibly relief), he didn’t, perhaps deciding at the last minute to postpone the dastardly deed. If I’d been her son carrying in my own child, I’d have turned tail and fled for the hills rather than take the risk of having my boy in the company of such a beast.

Out in the country, these dogs roam free. Our organic neighbour has four such dogs. They’re always out in the streets or galavanting across the fields, sometimes sniffing around our house. They shit everywhere, of course. And bark. A month or so ago, he told Maria proudly how they’d caught and killed a rabbit. Back in June when the bitch had four puppies, he killed 3 of them – a sort of post-partum method of birth control. Such is life out here – basic, practical, unemotional.

On the way to school in the morning, we often see another roamer – a large German shepherd running along the road with an apparently definite destination. I’m not sure where he’s bound, but he always looks earnest and serious, as if he’s on a mission, and not one of altruism or charity either. Sometimes he has buddies with him, each displaying the same ominous purpose. They seem like a canine sort of Gestapo – sly, ill-meaning, and not to be trusted. Every time I see them I think the same thing: Me here (in the car). You there. Good arrangement.

Across the valley from our house, I’ve counted up to 13 dogs at one of the farms. It’s possible there are more. They hold the valley’s title for most barks per square meter. Many of these accolades are earned at night. As you might imagine, across the silence of a rural Italian valley at night, sound carries, right into one’s bedroom and one’s ear and directly through to one’s attempting-to-sleep conscience. The impact is flash-like, turning a pacifist animal-lover into an irrational vengeance-seeker with disturbing thoughts of deeply satisfying mass murder. (Naturally, this is only on the bad days – the normal ones only render us savage-like.)

Having said all that, I think I sort-of understand why this canine culture exists. I’ve seen it before, in South America, where a sturdy stick (or canine repellent) is an essential tool when walking out in the country. The dogs provide protection and an alarm system – it’s cheap, efficient, and the only option available, in most cases. Interestingly enough, they also seem to know their boundaries and their role. Our neighbour, for instance, also keeps chickens, pigeons, and cats, and the dogs leave them well alone, not even reacting as they stroll past within biting distance at mealtimes.

Naturally, understanding of the reasoning behind it all doesn’t necessarily diminish the frustration it breeds. And it hasn’t stopped us scheming how to do some clandestine culling of our own. Of course, we won’t go through with it, not only because it would be criminal and cruel, but because it wouldn’t make a difference at the end of the day – within weeks, perhaps months at the most, there’ll be a new litter, and this time around they’ll let the whole lot of them keep breathing and barking on instead of just one or two.

So, like a parent that develops a tolerance of an infant’s wailing, we’ll just have to build up our immunities. Who knows, maybe we’ll have a Spot of our own sometime in the future … although I somehow doubt it. And besides, it’s a virtual certainty that HRH (Mr Young) would veto such a suggestion with pleasure and a feline flourish.