My Dog Tulip — J. R. Ackerley

For the most part of his adult life Joe Randolph Ackerley longed for what he called an “ideal friend”—or, rather, the Ideal Friend. An openly gay British writer and editor, he counted a number of fellow persons of letters, homosexuals, and men who were both among his friends. But none of them, to his dismay, seemed to fit the adjective. Not even E. M. Forster, his most distinguished colleague, or Christopher Isherwood, then an up-and-coming author he championed, did. If someone did deserve the label, though, he was neither of literary persuasion nor of homoerotic inclination, and, more importantly, was neither someone nor he. It was, quite simply, a dog—or, rather, a bitch.

The bitch was a handsome German shepherd rescued from a life of domestic imprisonment when she was just sixteen months old by the then quinquagenarian Ackerley. But for all her quiet beauty Queenie, as she was called, was from the very start a difficult dog. This was just as well, because Ackerley was himself a difficult and unsociable animal. It was a perfect match between, to borrow the alliterative phrases from a certain film trailer, “curmudgeon and canine,” “intellect and instinct.”

The trailer in question is for an animated film called My Dog Tulip, an adaptation of a classic memoir published in 1965 and written by none other than Ackerley, about none other than his dog Queenie. The book, like the film, is titled My Dog Tulip. Publishing legend has it that Ackerley’s editor insisted on renaming the dog solely for the book to eschew remarks by readers referring to the dog’s very feminine name and her owner’s sexual orientation.

But Ackerley’s preference for the same sex is hardly touched upon in My Dog Tulip. This memoir is determinedly canine-centric, and mentions of sex here, rather than evoking images of warm bodies in bed, invariably involve Queenie, hereafter Tulip, preparing to assume the female part of the sex position named after her species.

“Soon after Tulip came into my possession I set about finding a husband for her. She had had a lonely and frustrated life hitherto; now she should have a full one. A full life naturally included the pleasures of sex…” So begins Ackerley’s account of his quest to mate Tulip with another dog. Spanning nearly half of the book’s length, it’s a surprisingly detailed, although at times slightly soporific, sequence featuring supposedly admirable Alsatians with monikers like Max and Chum trying and failing to mount and penetrate Tulip. Indeed, she seemed to have been unwittingly demonstrating Ackerley’s famous self-description in one of his two other memoirs: “quite impenetrable.” Until…

Tulip was ultimately conquered by a mere mongrel named Dusty. Of that encounter Ackerley writes triumphantly: “Heavens! I thought, this is love! These are the pleasures of sex!” He recalls, “It was a full half-hour before detumescence occurred and Nature released Dusty, who instantly fled home…” As for Tulip? She was relieved, to say the least: “It was more as though she had been freed from some dire situation of peril than from the embraces of love.” Reading such disarming prose, one can only wish to be written about in such an affectionate manner, even and especially at moments when one feels as though one has also just engaged in rear-penetration.

It’s not only about sex between wet-nosed creatures that Ackerley devotes much of his book toward contemplating; he also discusses at length the finer points of his four-legged friend’s bowel movements. He leads into the topic by way of a priceless entry in the journal of General Bertrand, Napoleon’s Grand Marshal at St. Helena: “1821, April 12: At ten-thirty the Emperor passed a large and well-formed motion.” So that one should not construe it as nothing more than a show of unusual familiarity with historical autobiographies, Ackerley explains his choice of introductory excerpt thus: “I am not greatly interested in Napoleon’s motions but I sympathize with General Bertrand nevertheless, for Tulip’s cause me similar concern.”

Tulip’s motions, both fecal and urinary, are the succeeding pages’ staple source of amusement and illumination. Like Tulip’s problematic sex life, her excreta are fodder for Ackerley’s lucid retrospection. Having spotted Tulip depositing waste on a sidewalk with her owner just nearby, a passing cyclist yaps, “What’s the bleeding street for?” At this Ackerley snaps, “For turds like you!” This exchange is emblematic of Ackerley’s unabashed partiality for Canis familiaris over Homo sapiens that runs through the greater part of My Dog Tulip. He was after all a cantankerous Englishman and she a self-important Alsatian.

My Dog Tulip is incontrovertible proof that, as with many a pet lover, the only person who understood Ackerley was a dog—or, rather, a bitch. But quite apart from being a series of illustrations of the bond between Ackerley and Tulip, the book is a tribute to friendship between creatures of various permutations. It’s a delightful quasi-monograph that says a great deal about the potentially transformative power of all relationships, regardless of taxonomy and even in spite of a peculiar preoccupation with peristalsis and procreation.

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Paperback, 190 pages. NYRB Classics, 24 August 2010. Introduction by Elizabeth Marshall Thomas. Cover design by Katy Homans. Cover image and screencap from the film My Dog Tulip by Paul and Sandra Fierlinger. ISBN 9781590174142. Available at Fully Booked.

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