Cauterwauling Over Doggerel
And cataloging how we say it
By Justine Hankins
A dog's life is happy and carefree -- at least in my house, where dogs lead a life of leisure with unlimited access to affection and the couch. Yet, according to the dictionary, the phrase "a dog's life" means "a wretched existence."
This is by no means the only phrase in the English language that suggests a dog's lot is a miserable one.
If something is ruined, it's "gone to the dogs." In Britain, when someone really fouls things up, they make a "dog's dinner" of it; and the low man on the totem pole is a "dogsbody." If we feel physically ill, we're "as sick as a dog"; those who have irritated or offended us are "sent to the doghouse"; and a person described as a "hound dog" is, invariably, a low-down good-for-nothing. In the end, if we meet an undignified demise, we "die like dogs."
Female dogs in particular have something to bitch about. "Bitch" comes from the Old English "bicce," meaning female dog. By the 15th century, it was being used as a jocular insult for both men and women. But by 1796, according to the Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, it had become "the most offensive appellation that can be given to an Englishwoman." Since then, it's become common to describe enemies, friends, or even yourself as a bitch. Some feminists have attempted to reclaim the term; the radical magazine Bitch, for example, took its name because "[the term] 'bitch' is often hurled at women who speak their minds. We'll take that as a compliment, thanks." But, let's be honest, the word is still more often used against women by people such as Ice Cube ("Life ain't nothing but bitches and money") and Eminem ("There's three things I hate: girls, women, and bitches").
Cats fare little better than dogs in the linguistic world. When they're not being killed by curiosity, they are labeled as humorless tyrants ("While the cat's away, the mice will play"), as troublemakers ("set the cat among the pigeons"), or as self-satisfied and smug ("the cat that got the cream").
Felines give us expressions for the criminally crafty ("cat burglar"), the musically challenged ("cats' chorus") and the lascivious ("cathouse"). Indeed, cats have been synonymous with prostitution since the 16th century.
There is, however, some consolation for our feline friends: "The cat's whiskers" are as good as it gets -- although there is stiff competition from bees' knees.
It's not only our domesticated companions who have had their names dragged through the dirt. When we're bitching at each other during a cat-fight, we throw in some metaphoric farmyard animals as well. "Cow" has been an insult for centuries, and "pig" means a vulgar or dirty person in more languages than you'd care to count.
Wild animals can also be relied upon for terms of verbal abuse. Shakespeare wanted to tame a "shrew" (a bad-tempered woman) and called his fairy queen a "vixen." (The dirty rat!) "Ass," incidentally, has nothing to do with equine creatures; it is simply an American variation of an Old English word for backside, and the original spelling ("arse") is still in use in Great Britain. "Ass" (as in hardy, sure-footed member of the horse family) does, however, give us "asinine," meaning obstinate or stupid.
Our linguistic heritage is often a reflection of an era when attitudes toward animals were very different. And since it is only relatively recently that we've cherished animals as companions, it's perhaps surprising that the idea that "a dog is man's best friend" considerably pre-dates Rin Tin Tin. The phrase, always used literally, has existed since at least 1700. "Love me, love my dog" dates back as far as 1485, when it was recorded in a book called Early English Miscellanies, although its meaning has subtly shifted over the centuries. Originally, the message behind the expression was, "If you really love me, you must love everything about me, including things of little value, such as a dog." These days it is more likely to imply, "There's no way I'm dating you unless you're really, really nice to my dog."
Language evolves over time as old ideas are replaced by new ones, and, generally speaking, we're becoming more sensitive, inclusive, and egalitarian when it comes to choosing our words. Mostly, language changes all by itself, but sometimes we're encouraged to mind our language by campaigning groups. For example, the animal advocacy group In Defense of Animals has decided the term "pet owner" has to go and is campaigning for the word "guardian" to be used in its place. An IDA policy statement explains that the group will not "use language that accepts the current concept of animals as property." The state of Rhode Island and six U.S. cities have already scrapped the word "owner" from municipal codes relating to pets, and the Los Angeles Board of Animal Services Commissioners has voted to follow suit.
The move provoked annoyance and amusement in equal measure on the letters pages of newspapers. Take these wry words from a reader of the Los Angeles Times: "As a resident of West Hollywood, I long ago learned the PC terminology. However, my three Dachshund Americans informed me that they do not feel it is in any way demeaning for them to refer to themselves as my owners. They do, however, take exception to the words 'dog' and 'pet.'"
It sounds very outdated to talk about a dog's "master" now that people are more likely to regard their pets as friends, or even children, than as servants. The word "pet" itself is rapidly losing ground to the less patronizing "companion."
Yet, despite these semantic changes, animals are still ill-used by language. Peter Singer, author of Animal Liberation, points out that "we commonly use the word 'animal' to mean animals other than human beings." This usage, he argues, sets us apart from our fellow animals and allows us to justify using and abusing them. The words "animal" and "beast" are routinely used to express horror at uniquely human cruelties, from serial killing to war crimes. Perhaps animals should start reclaiming language for themselves, but they are strangely silent on the issue.
But then, who knows what they call us?
