Sleeping with Dogs is the record of one man's passionate affection for the dog, rooted in his early childhood and lasting undiminished into his dotage. These were for the most part dogs discarded and left to fate - tied to the railings of Kensington Gardens, found with a broken leg in the wilds of Turkey, adopted from an animal rescue home, passed on by the vet - but there
Sleeping with Dogs is the record of one man's passionate affection for the dog, rooted in his early childhood and lasting undiminished into his dotage. These were for the most part dogs discarded and left to fate - tied to the railings of Kensington Gardens, found with a broken leg in the wilds of Turkey, adopted from an animal rescue home, passed on by the vet - but there was also a whippet of noble pedigree and three generations of a family of crossbreeds in which the whippet strain was strong. They were not pets, but indulged friends and companions, with all of whom he shared his bed, and who richly rewarded him with loyalty and affection. This is not a sentimental or determinedly anthropomorphic book - the dogs remain steadfastly dogs. It is observant and records the canine society of dog and dog as much as the relationship of man and dog.
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If some of your best friends have four legs, a wagging tail, a language of woofs, growls, and yips---well, then this is the book for you. While a few cats enter into the story (and show the author to be a true friend of animals), this book is really for dog lovers (and I count myself firmly in that camp).
I knew nothing about this author, and you won't really find out much about him in this book. This slender volume (just 134 pages) sticks to telling you about every dog who has shared the author'
If some of your best friends have four legs, a wagging tail, a language of woofs, growls, and yips---well, then this is the book for you. While a few cats enter into the story (and show the author to be a true friend of animals), this book is really for dog lovers (and I count myself firmly in that camp).
I knew nothing about this author, and you won't really find out much about him in this book. This slender volume (just 134 pages) sticks to telling you about every dog who has shared the author's bed and his life in his 80+ years. At the end, there are photos of all these dogs, except for the very first (the dog of his very early childhood, pre-World War II, who met a sad end) and the very most recent (a terrier, whom he says is actually the dog of a friend who now helps him care for his own remaining dogs, dogs he believes will, he says, "surely see me out").
I had to google the author's name to find out that he is a well-known British art critic. If I knew more about art, I may have realized that he gave many of his dogs art-related names. Most of his dogs were rescues and he details how each came into his life. He has nearly steadily had more than one dog, and says he believes three is the perfect number to form a community. It interested me that he could go back in his memories and call up the exploits, the personality, the tactile feel of these long-ago friends. Some of the dogs' misadventures can perhaps only be appreciated by a fellow dog-lover. Others would surely find this doggy mischief evidence to affirm their non-doggy households. But really, I doubt a non-dog-lover would ever get that far into his story; it would bore someone who hadn't also lived with these amazing creatures. (Personal note: I have also lived in the company of dogs, and usually more than one, nearly all of my life.) I liked that he considers walking his dogs not only exercise but also their intellectual stimulation, as it most surely is. He says (and I have read a similar sentiment before) that all of those pauses to sniff their surroundings are akin to his own reading of a newspaper, and that having a dog run alongside a bicycle or jogger does not fulfill this canine need.
Of all of the dogs he had, just one was a Jack Russell terrier (a breed I really love), but his memories of that dog were fittingly funny and rascally and very much Jackish. That dog's name was Mrs. Macbeth, because she had murderous intent, but she was no lady. He got that dog when she was ten years old, as a rescue. No surprise there: Jacks are notoriously difficult to live with. They have high energy levels, were bred to hunt (mostly rodents), and are very intelligent and inquisitive. But they are also some of the sweetest and most affectionate creatures I have ever met. A real bond is formed because there is a spark of understanding between species, a knowledge of, "yes, I too am flawed, but that makes things interesting, doesn't it?"
Mr. Swell's dogs have been his family. His elderly mother lived with him for some years, but otherwise, his dogs made up his true family. He kept the bones of every dog in this family (except the dogs of his childhood) and even exhumed their buried remains, their bones, when he moved to a new house. Late in life, he planted a new, very large tree in his yard and put those bones under the tree. For more recent losses, he has a stone sarcophagus in his yard with the word "Dominicanes" inscribed on the side. There is a photo of one of his dogs sitting atop this grave of his departed fellows, looking very pensive.
I suppose that for someone who doesn't feel as strongly connected to dogs, Mr. Sewell may seem a bit over the top, but I am reminded that the human history of sharing our lives with dogs has only recently been discovered to go back much further than had previously been thought. (
http://www.bbc.com/news/science-envir...
)
There is even a new book postulating the theory that dogs worked with early Homo Sapiens to drive Neanderthals into extinction. (That book, in case you are interested, is: "The Invaders: How Humans and their Dogs Drove Neanderthals to Extinction" by Pat Shipman.)
If you , too, have lived with and loved dogs, you will probably agree with Mr. Sewell's "Coda", in which he says:
"I....am more than content to have, not just a dog, but dogs about me. Dogs are utterly unselfish, though perhaps occasionally thoughtless, and will surrender their little souls for you if that is what you want. A dog's devotion is unquestioning, undemanding and undiminishing; he never cares how you look first thing in the morning; does not look aghast at belch or fart, nor does he grumble if you choose not to shave. He doesn't care a damn whether you drive the latest Mercedes-Benz or a clapped-out Morris Minor, for he has no vanity. He responds to your foulest mood by minding his own business and asks nothing of you more than food and water, a daily walk or two, and physical gestures of affection. He laments your going and rejoices at your coming back." (page 134)
This will certainly sound a bit blasphemous, but having now, myself, arrived at the downhill course of my journey (unless I manage to live into my 120s), I can just remark that my children, who consumed so much time and treasure, have now gone their merry ways, but my dogs, my beloved dogs, are still here at my side.
(When I told my sister that last sentiment, she said ,"well that's because they have no choice!") I just had to add this short video clip of a dog and man working together in an unusual job. It's really just fun to watch:
http://aeon.co/video/culture/the-truf...
After two books in which he listed the (few) artists he admires and the (many) he despises, plus a blow-by-blowjob account of his busy sex life, 80-year-old art critic Brian Sewell now sets out to catalogue the dogs he has owned, from boyhood up to his present great age: usually two or three at a time. Some were pedigree animals, some were cross-breeds, a few were mongrels. Most were rescued from re-homing centres; one he brought back from Turkey.
This is a short book (130 pages), each chapter en
After two books in which he listed the (few) artists he admires and the (many) he despises, plus a blow-by-blowjob account of his busy sex life, 80-year-old art critic Brian Sewell now sets out to catalogue the dogs he has owned, from boyhood up to his present great age: usually two or three at a time. Some were pedigree animals, some were cross-breeds, a few were mongrels. Most were rescued from re-homing centres; one he brought back from Turkey.
This is a short book (130 pages), each chapter encompassing the life of one or two of his beloved pets. The life
and the death
. Brian sticks with his dogs in health and in sickness, tenderly nursing them through injury, blindness, incontinence. Some of them he was forced to take to the vet to be euthanased but more often than not he cared for them to the very end. "
The deaths of dogs grow more painful the more we experience them,
" he writes with poignant accuracy. Some of his dead dogs were buried in his or his mother's garden; a few were dug up and re-buried in another garden. Others were treated to a Tibetan 'sky burial' on the roof of his house. Mr Sewell, lord love him, is a bit weird.
He writes an elegant Edwardian prose, dense with commas and subordinate clauses. He writes with a touching tenderness and a fierce passion. This is a man who has clearly loved his animals, loved them wantonly, lavishly and slavishly. Any committed animal-lover will not fail to weep and laugh with Brian as he bonds with - and inevitably parts with - dog after dog after dog.
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This is a little gem of a book. A profile of the mostly rescued dogs art historian and critic Brian Sewell lived with throughout his life. He's an engaging and thoughtful writer who evokes movingly his feelings about the dogs, particularly when they die, and the emotional turmoil he experiences when these tragic but inevitable times occur. My American friends most likely have never heard of Brian Sewell. In the UK he's a respected authority in art but whose views and the manner in which he expre
This is a little gem of a book. A profile of the mostly rescued dogs art historian and critic Brian Sewell lived with throughout his life. He's an engaging and thoughtful writer who evokes movingly his feelings about the dogs, particularly when they die, and the emotional turmoil he experiences when these tragic but inevitable times occur. My American friends most likely have never heard of Brian Sewell. In the UK he's a respected authority in art but whose views and the manner in which he expresses them--in writing and in the media with such a distinctive voice--polarises people. I like him. And would even like to him meet one day; but I fear the pleasure he presently engenders would end if I were to do so. Better to have dead heroes than any at all is a difficult lesson I've had to learn in life. We are of completely different classes and backgrounds. Yes, we share a passion for dogs--but not all animals--and what else would we talk about? Anyway, I now wish to read the two volumes of his autobiography. Clearly, he lives a fascinating and intriguing life that would entertain and irritate in equal measure. Oh. And another reason to like him is this. He's not afraid to speak his mind and, if need be, in the most sarcastic and amusing way. What's not to like?
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Loved this. It is a short memoir of the writer's relationship with his various dogs. I howled when Winck died and am still feeling weepy a couple if hours later. Perfect Christmas present for dog lovers.
Brian R Sewell (born 15 July 1931 in Market Bosworth, Leicestershire) was an English art critic and media personality. He wrote for the London Evening Standard and was noted for his acerbic view of conceptual art and the Turner Prize. He was been described as "Britain's most famous and controversial art critic".