FOR DOGS AS FOR HUMANS, FRIENDSHIP IS NEVER ABSOLUTE, ALWAYS a mixed grill. Even with the closest of friends, there is always something you don’t like, something that will never change—something as trivial as a phrase repeated without thinking or the sound he or she makes when eating. No big deal. One must accept minor irritants if one wishes to have any friends at all.

At the same time, some irritants are more irritating than others.

Of late, Gus has been receiving regular visits from a colleague whom I shall furnish with a pseudonym, to protect his owners, who have done their best. “Bill” is a four year-old short-haired retriever, a rangy galoot with big feet and a chomper like the comedian Joe E. Brown’s. A hearty eater with a tail that can sweep two drinks off a table at once, he’s eager to obey if you get his attention, loves a rassle and barks with a wet, throaty Rouwwp! Rouwwp! Gus is really very fond of him, with one rather large caveat. (Caution: some might find the following offensive. As they say on TV, Viewer Discretion is Advised.) Specifically, I refer to Bill’s periodic attempts to, well, hump a fellow.

For that is the only word for it. Certainly nothing more vulgar, given that both dogs were neutered as pups. At the worst, it’s a case of asexual harassment—whatever that might be.

Another set of neighbours sees Bill’s problem in moral terms. They won’t allow Goldman (not his real name) to play with him. Sadly, the issue has brought about a certain frostiness, not only between Goldman and Bill, but between their owners as well.

I disagree. When Gus’s friend performs his unwelcome manoeuvre it is perfectly obvious, in the most obvious sense, that this is not a sexual act, in intent or ability. As well, he is otherwise a perfect gentleman. One’s leg has nothing to fear from Bill.

Nor does his behaviour seem related to the much-ballyhooed competition for Top Dog. On the contrary, Bill acknowledged long ago that this is Gus’s territory, that Gus is the older and more experienced dog, a big brother figure, a potential mentor. Bill knows his place. Gus leads, he follows.

Unfortunately, as I have said, this willingness to take the rear is precisely the trouble. Gus responds instantly and unambiguously with a tight U-turn and a snarl that sounds like Arrrre! and sends Bill reeling backward on two legs with a terrified squeak. And that’s it. Gus gives out a reproachful Whar! and continues on his way. Or, if he is really disgusted, he will walk off to a corner and go to sleep: I can’t see you; I can’t hear you; you’re not here.

Bewildered and hurt, and he not sleeping a joke? on his big mug, Bill hangs around awhile, hoping for a change. At length, he looks up at me for direction. Better go home, I tell him, slowly shaking my head. We’re disappointed with you, Bill.

And he slinks away, leaving me with the same old question: What can it mean? As far as I can make out, what seems to be going through Bill’s mind is a vague, vestigial, tired memory of something his forebears used to do, something he associates with fun, though he has no idea why they did it, why they did it, or why it might have been fun.

It’s like something out of Samuel Beckett. He can’t fathom his own behaviour, much less control it. Worse, thanks to his incomprehensible acts, Bill is a dog without a friend—a social outcast, a clown of the universe. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

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