A rather alarming thing arose at the MPH dinner, which the whole Overdrive team attended a while back. And it wasn’t the fact that Ross, our old operations manager, can’t go for 12 minutes without thinking of something for Ciro and me to do, or that he can go a whole 7 without thinking about something we haven’t done yet, that we said we’d do. Last year Monday.
The Aston Martin Bulldog. The only car (n)ever named after a dog.
Nor was I alarmed that some ass-hat in a bandana bid R200 000 for a signed Pelé shirt. Alarm was a distant galaxy when Ciro tried to leverage in on Ross’ and my heated football banter by saying something singularly incorrect and bereft of anything to do with Bolton Wanderers or what colour corner flags should be (proving indisputably that his life is vastly more varied and “outdoorsy” than ours).
Alarm was a forgotten trowel in the darkest part of the garage when Neil Andrews predictably made a “Banana-Banana” joke on something about our national football team. They were fighting for their lives in the Cup of Nations that night, as we scoffed congealed salmon and threw beer in our faces while hearing about children’s liver transplants.
Alarm was a stray sock left near a campsite in Thabazimbi when we patiently sat listening to the doctor from the charity which benefited from the proceeds of a framed picture of Michael Schumacher AND Fernando Alonso standing together somewhere (I would have bid if they were pulling into each other on a patio in Costa Rica). He is no doubt a talented surgeon, but had quite clearly never spoken in front of a room of people without saying “scalpel please”. But no matter.
I was truly alarmed however to discover that I had a cat hater at my table. And not just some random berk who decided to wear a Billabong T-shirt and a pair of strops to a 1700 bucks-a-pop gala dinner. I didn’t bother to talk to him for fear of becoming soundly irked. No, the enemy was closer. Right next to me in fact. Professing his cat hatred casually after a swig of chilled cider. I was stunned. I love cats, and immediately started to try coming up with analogous arguments to prove why cats are superior in every way to dogs. In Ciro’s favourite language, obviously: Automobilia.
Before I begin the lesson, let me categorically state that I really l do like dogs, as long as they’re well trained, don’t bark at imaginary things in their heads all night, don’t eat (most) children and are not mine.
However:
1) First off, have you ever heard of a car named after a dog?* No, because dogs are stupid, crap and often three-legged. And Rover doesn’t count because it’s not a type of dog, is extinct and is still the 19-time Undisputed World Heavyweight Champion of shittest electrical system ever placed near a steering wheel.
Triumph the Comedy Insult Dog from Late Night With Conan O’Brien also doesn’t count because they have also ceased to exist. And in an ironic twist my last memory of a Triumph was the one my Gran drove. A friend and I being about 5 decided to play a spot of imaginary car-chase behind the wheel of the parked car, and in some sort of surreal Miami Vice re-enactment ate some pills we found in a packet in the cubby hole. Turned out they were the Alsation’s billary pills and as a result we were sicker than students on Expired Cider Night down at the rowing club.
Cats have given us the Jaguar and uh…I’m sure plenty of others. Like that Lynx kit car. Anyway, my point is would you drive a Renault Alsatian, Kia Bouvier or a Maserati Mastiff? Actually I would drive the last one, but Maserati could call one of their cars the GT Leprosy and I’d like to own one.
*I’ve just remembered that Aston Martin had a concept car called the Bulldog (which was a one-off like the actual dog should’ve been). I think for next week I’ll make a list of the best cars named after animals. The species that is, so the Reventon sadly doesn’t count.
Check the Aston out here.
2) Shite celebrities have dogs. I love Ozzy, but I’d throw up a little in my mouth whenever I saw those awful hounds of his defecating all over that overstuffed, reeking mansion. And dog-celebs are always snapped getting out of the worst cars. Like a Tiffany or something equally as abhorrent proving that dog owners have less taste than cat lovers. Anyone who thinks one of those Pug (not the Peugeot) monstrosities with a face like a bashed crab is cute is obviously tripping on something they found under a cupboard in 1987. Or is Paris Hilton.
So while cat people are lounging on Lake Como or stepping out of a perfumed lift with a Duchess who’s 21 and good at gymnastics their cats are at home where they should be, not giving a Frenchman’s wallet about anything.
3) When I approach a car I want it to be quiet and menacing. Not all cutesy with smiley-lights and a hooter that goes off when you hit the transponder sounding like the audio equivalent of girls who dot their i’s with a heart. Just naff. In the same way, a dog’s mind is utterly blown away by excitement when you get home. The thicky has probably been sitting staring at the door the whole day, trembling and making those rubbish mewling sounds, which sometimes stretch into dismayed barks.
The motoring equivalent of coming home to a cat is approaching a rain-slicked Vanquish sitting sulkily in a deserted parking lot. The start of the engine is like a disdainful flick of the tail and will always remind you that you are here purely at it’s convenience.
4) My final analogous argument is simple. A dog is predictable. It comes when you call it. Will fetch rubber bones for fortnights on end etc. Just like a car with thousands of driver aids. It’s predictable and some people like that, and I must admit at times I like it too.
With a cat you have no idea what’s it going to do from one minute to the next. Snuggle up on your lap or scratch your face and attack a fern. And isn’t that why we drive, for the thrill of the unpredictable?
