“A dog with two tails”, meaning: I’m over the moon. That’s not me

There is an English expression that conveys the sentiment “I’m over the moon.” It is formulated as follows: “I’m as happy as a dog with two tails.” A dog with two tails could, in theory, wag its tails twice as much as a dog with only one; it could use its tails as propellers to take flight; it would astonish onlookers; and, in hot weather, it could function as a fan.

Clearly, my old Fix doesn’t have a tail. So can’t he be happy? As you will no doubt have gathered by now—even if you have always refused to read this column (dogs and children, dogs and teenagers, dogs, cats and grown-ups chasing lost time)—Fix is a mongrel, cobbled together as best as possible from various parts of other dogs, perhaps purebred, perhaps not. The result is, from time to time, a barking duck, a walking seal, a hot dog. But above all, he is a dog who went through various misadventures before ending up at the dog shelter, in that little wooden hut with ‘very good dog’ written on it; therefore, we can reasonably assume that Fix was not born without a tail at all, but lost it in an attack when he was small and in danger.

My daughter often imagines Fix as a puppy running happily alongside his mother, with mother and son (and perhaps little brothers?) wagging their long, soft tails in unison. The image is poignant, as Fix has always shown a profound longing for a mother (as well as for milk, which, however, makes him terribly ill and causes him to scratch furiously). At various times I assume the role of mother, as does my daughter, who indulges his every whim and his theatrical displays of anxiety; on occasion the men of the house also become his mother, although their presence tends to frighten him slightly—always for reasons we can only attempt to piece together, and thus romanticise, and which also involve the story of his severed tail. Who tore it off? Me – who at the moment would like to have a row with everyone, scratch everyone’s car, shout in everyone’s face; I dream of one day meeting Fix’s attackers (let’s be clear, they picked on a very gentle, small dog), I dream of having them standing before me, now grown old but still wicked and unrepentant, guilty by their own admission and not by insinuation, but then suddenly the dream shatters. What would I actually do if I found myself face to face with them? I would do nothing, say nothing; I would simply stare at them with the intensity my daughter often mimics—one eye narrower than the other, myopia and fury combining into a famous, piercing glare—then walk away calmly, though not at peace, with Fix on a lead, trotting alongside with his tail wagging. Fix knows how to forgive; I do not. Fix knows how to be kind even to those who have been unkind to him; I do not. Fix wags his tail even though he does not have one, but he has a sort of black ball that used to move frantically; now it moves with more wisdom.

Fix is capable of being happy even without a tail. All it takes is for one of us to say, ‘Hello, Fix,’ and he smiles, wagging his little black tail, even though he’s now so deaf that he relies solely on his sense of smell to find his way. Yet, in essence, Fix is a dog with two tails – every time we open the door, every time he comes home and runs to his bowl because he knows someone will prepare his meal. One wonders whether he realises he does not have a tail, and it appears he does, because he does not chase after it like others do, and because he knows he has earned his happiness – which is worth far more than a double tail.