Those recovering from heart attacks and strokes apparently do better if they have a dog in the house, according to a study of 300,000 people in Sweden, published in Circulation: Cardiovascular Quality and Outcomes. The companionship’s good for the soul, and the incentive to exercise is a help.
It’s well known, too, that dogs are good for depression, but I must say that they don’t work for me. I love dogs, but have never owned one; I prefer to borrow them. My friends’ cockapoo is one I’m very close to. He’s called Hugo, which was the breeder’s choice, not theirs. The problem with walking a dog called Hugo in any park near where I live, is that when you call him, half the boys within earshot come running towards you. Apart from that, Hugo gives great value at times when walking is the best therapy.
In the house, though, it’s different. Here things get very stressful. The relentless adoration I get from Hugo is too much to bear. I don’t have the self-esteem to feel worthy of the love. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I can feel his eyes gleaming in admiration of me.
At times this can feel almost hostile. “Hugo,” I implore, “I am not the man you seem to think I am. I’m finding your adulation quite distressing.” Not being fluent in psychobabble, Hugo takes no notice at all and looks serenely on.
Eventually, I have to put him in another room to give myself a break. But then I feel bad about that. The guilt nags away and soon enough I have to retrieve him. I open the door and there he is, his ardour for me undimmed by this cruel banishment. And so it goes on. Eventually, I can take no more and I walk him home.
