*Note: I had to use stock images for this blog post because I reached the Wix storage limit for photos, and I'm broke, lol. Enjoy :)
The Way of the Dog was a depressing, yet delightful read for a sunny, Wednesday morning. Following a ‘life or death’ scare from my little hound the day prior, reading about our main character’s dead dog, Roy, was a far cry from a light read. Fortunately, 80% of this novella, actually, surrounds the deterioration of Harold Nivenson’s youth and fast-approaching death, than the death of his dog. So, by the time I finished this story, I was contemplating the ultimate fate of my aging parents more than I was the brush with death that my hound escaped just recently.
Summary/Analysis:
Basically, Harold Nivenson (the protagonist) is a washed-up art collector and what he defines as a “minor artist.” He lives in an aging mansion that directly mirrors the deterioration of his health, and he hardly ever leaves the premises. He talks of his appreciation for his dog Roy, but more of his life as a failed art collector and the loss of his friend turned artistic/romantic rival, Peter Meininger.
After the fallout with Meininger, Nivenson relied on his dog Roy to ‘keep him going,’ so to speak. Nevinson says on page 18, “My life followed a dog’s rhythm,” which is true, as Roy was the only reason Nevinson left his house--or did anything besides rot in a decrepit mansion filled to the brim with eclectic (borderline obscene) paintings.
More than his failures and self-loathing, Nevinson is also deliciously pessimistic of a society that is quickly ‘aging him out.’ On page 68, Nevinson says, “A fair number of the women, I notice, also push before them gibbous bellies in various stages of tumescence in which pupate forms of new homunculi are riding. How fermenting and fertile the world around us is, I find myself thinking.” Not only is this the most poetically gross comparison of pregnant women I have ever read, but it is completely indicative of Nevinson and his spiteful resignation towards impending death. The detachment he feels towards these women (and also to his son, Sidney/Alfie) can be coupled with a detachment and/or distaste towards youth, rebirth, and growth. All things which is out of his reach, as he approaches the last legs of his solemn life.
Moreover, on page 72, Nivenson says, “Universities teem with such people, who in clever career moves have turned themselves into the foremost apologists and intellectual defenders of contemporary media trash culture,” which not only solidifies his dislike for the youth, but also criticizes the field of humanities, which he dedicated his life to, and which ultimately drove him to the poor status he now resides. There is an element of criticism that lies upon the notion that universities bolster the importance and pomp of Academics to elicit some artificial sense of credibility.
On a personal level, I resonated with this line, as in the later months of my undergraduate studies, I became disillusioned with my peers and the field of studies I had chosen. Most of the time, I felt as if we just talked about problems rather than working to fix problems. In that sense, it felt like the bulk of my education happened inside an echo chamber. Perhaps I, like Nevinson, had simply ‘aged out’ of the audience to which undergraduate studies targets. (Maybe if I were to go to graduate school I would feel more fulfilled in my academic pursuits.) Most days, in my undergraduate studies, when I went to class, I became perturbed by the simple gripes that my peers would announce to the class, as if they had been served a great injustice by the price of Starbucks, or that an author hadn’t appealed to every single person’s identity in the scope of a ten-page story. True, some of my peers had lived objectively ‘harder’ lives than I had, and yet, I was always left feeling lied to because of the lack of authenticity that existed within the four walls of a classroom. True, technical learning is important, but it is one thing to debate geopolitics or human rights, and believe you are making a difference by merely speaking, than it is to actually put boots on the ground and make a difference in the lives that you can touch, rather than the ones that are thousands of miles away and across oceans, who you will never meet (or even bother to learn a common tongue).
I forget where I read this commentary on Catcher in the Rye, as I stumbled upon it on a Reddit thread years ago, but it went to the tune of something like this: “The story makes more sense once you’ve got some wear and tear on your tires.” I think that pretty much sums up The Way of the Dog by Sam Savage.
As a side note, I also couldn’t help but hum Sam by Sturgill Simpson while I read this book. It was just so fitting.
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