So why didn’t the dog bark in the night?


I write about a strange and almost inexplicable trait present in many British people , a trait which I certainly do not share, nor do I even attempt to either comprehend or  even understand. It is the singular foolishness of risking one’s own life to ‘rescue’ an animal which is perceived to be in danger of dying; either through accident or human action; it is the whole idea that an animal is worthy of the possibility of losing or hazarding the rescuer’s own life to aid that same animal.

Time and again, we watch or read, or hear of some futile rescue attempt of a dog, usually a dog, possibly because they are more singularly stupid than the merest of cats and moggies in general, who seem to have a much higher degree of self-preservation built into their natural DNA; when the dog has either fallen through an iced-up pond or lake, or fallen off a cliff, or else some equally hazardous or extremely silly happening. The rescuer, if still alive, but more often than not is now dead, is referred to as a hero, or a brave and fast-thinking man or woman of moral steadfastness; worthy of the tributes of lesser mortals.

Just think about the strange, and in fact remarkably effective, campaign by some pressure group or other which strove against the killing of baby seals in the Canadian Arctic. It wasn’t the artful campaign photos of a female model dragging a sealskin coat across the floor, the passage of the coat was of course traced with the alleged blood of the dead seals which was the prime mover of the campaign winning: it was the photos of the head of a baby seal with its two large, seemingly soulful eyes staring reproachfully back out off the pages of the adverts and articles which was the crunch kit of the campaign against the use of furs from those dead baby seals. Most viewers simply looked at those two reproachful pools, staring out of an animal’s head; and immediately transposed the eyes into human eyes, and the fur coat trade died away.

And it is exactly the same transference which rules when some ordinary man is hailed as a HERO, by his actions in saving, or attempting to save, some animal; even at the cost of his own life: a  cost which is felt most severely by his dependants, who now have to struggle along without a breadwinner: but he is, or rather was, a hero!

Which brings me to the main point of my writing today. Readers will no doubt have read and heard of the saving of some 150 dogs from a blazing inferno at a Manchester dogs’ home, while some fifty other animals died. Two of the men who rescued some of the dogs were being interviewed by the BBC pillock on the Today Programme, and they had been retelling how they had seen the flames from their own homes, and had rushed over to try and save the dogs, despite the fierce temperature of the fire and the flames. They were suitably modest about their ‘heroics’, and said that anyone else would have done the same. But the BBC clown then said, “You must have heard that the fund to rebuild the dog’s shelter has already reached over a million pounds. Are you surprised that people have donated so much money to a dog’s home, when OTHER CHARITIES ARE FINDING IT DIFFICULT TO HELP STARVING PEOPLE OVERSEAS?”

Now, if some wet, liberal, lefty BBC clone had asked me, or someone like me, why I had donated cash to some bloody burnt-out dogs’ shelter instead of the starving f***king Ethiopians, or the Sudanese, or the Ebola victims, or any other of the myriad causes placed forward so piously by the multitude of bloody charities which have sprung up like weeds, my answer would have been a tad more robust, and to the effect that “IT IS MY BLOODY MONEY, AND I WILL SPEND IT, OR GIVE IT AWAY, TO WHOM I BLOODY WELL PLEASE!”

 

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