Mrs. Drysdale and her poodle Claude
Does anyone remember the Beverly Hillbilly's?
It was "Claude" wasn't it, the name of her adored poodle, the centerpiece of her life, whose very existence trumped all other realities?
The point being, I have neighbors down the street whose entire existence seems to center around their pets.
Now then, I do indeed love animals but am I the only one that wonders about the psychological construct of people who elevate animals into a raison d'etre?
At first glance, it seems like such a grand thing but then it begins to betray a certain emptiness, a certain emotional vacuity if you will.
Then time passes and a deeper observation, a more telling realization, sets in and one begins to realize--it's all they've got--and a feeling of sadness, for them, sets in.
Then more time passes and the realization sets in that these particular individuals would rather the company of their dogs than other humans--and a sense of je ne sais quoi arrives on the scene accompanied by the realization that, very plausibly, if it were a life or death situation between their doggies and a neighbor--that the neighbor(s) would lose hands down.
Is this the childless "me" culture at its very worst and most contemptible?
I kind of feel sorry for the dogs.