Readers Place

What We Think

Matt Haig on his book The Last Family in England:

When I began writing my novel, The Last Family in England, I had absolutely no idea that it would end up being told from the perspective of a pet Labrador.

As I put pen to paper, the only thing I had in my mind was that I wanted to tell the story of a ‘typical’ middle class English family. Most of all, I wanted to look at how threats from both inside and outside can reveal how fragile the family unit really is in the modern world. The first idea I had was to have each member of the family – husband, wife, son, daughter – speak out directly to the reader. The reader was placed in the role of a family therapist, listening to the problems faced by tormented teenagers and unfaithful grown-ups.

It didn’t work. I was boring myself, let alone anyone who might end up reading the book if it ever got published. It was coming across a bit too pretentious, and a little bit too self-consciously ‘worthy’. And then I realised there was one member of the family who I had previously ignored – the pet Labrador.

From the moment I had the idea, I knew it was potentially ridiculous. Weren’t talking dogs the preserve of Disney movies – a sentimental gimmick that might work in children’s literature but not in the realm of adult fiction?

My girlfriend certainly thought so, and instantly gave it the thumbs-down. But I couldn’t shake the idea. It still seemed ludicrous, but also absolutely perfect. After all, a pet dog already plays the role of a therapist, a mute observer listening to family secrets.

I knew that it was risky to put talking dogs, cats and squirrels in a novel but I knew it could work. After all Jerome K Jerome, George Orwell, Paul Auster and Dave Eggers have managed to successfully give voice to animals within grown-up stories and I was arrogant enough to give it a go. And besides, if empathy is meant to be a key requirement of a novelist, why should it be limited to our own species. If we can relate to murderers or medieval knights, why can’t we relate to animals we share homes and most of our emotions with.

Of course, there were some technical problems. Dogs, generally speaking, don’t write their memoirs. Therefore I knew that it would take a certain imaginative effort for people to read 70,000 words told from the perspective of a Labrador sitting in a vet’s waiting room. For it to even have a chance of working I had to make sure none of the animals behaved in a humanised or Disneyfied way. In other words, I couldn’t ignore the way dogs behave. I had to acknowledge where they put their noses, the sexual satisfaction they can find from a cushion or a human leg, as well as the baffling devotion to the people they live with. I also wanted to explore their superior wisdom in matters of love, life and death.

Strangely, I found it very easy to put myself in the mind of a Labrador. Although there is no Stanislavsky method for writers (I didn’t spend two months on all fours sniffing lampposts and eating Winalot), I found that writing as a dog is an incredibly freeing experience. For one thing, it gave me the advantages of both first and third person techniques. Prince can communicate directly to the reader, yet at the same time be distanced from and often ignored by the human characters he depicts.

But what really freed me up was the fact that dogs are truthful. They’re not too big on cynicism and irony and all the other things that often handicap human narrators in much contemporary fiction. They aren’t snobby, and therefore wouldn’t get worried about whether they’re featuring in a ‘literary’ or ‘commercial’ novel.

They’ve also got a sense of fun, and would probably have an unpretentious attitude towards books if they could read. They’d want – like I always do – stuff to happen. Of course, plot is a swear-word for some novelists and creative writing tutors, but when I read story-less books I feel how a dog feels when their owner refuses to throw a stick. Obviously I don’t know what dogs are really saying to each other as they nose each other’s privates, but I doubt their conversation goes like this:

‘Oh, I hate it when humans throw sticks.’

‘Oh me too. It’s just so predictable. It’s been done to death.’

‘I’d much prefer them to just pick up a stick and hold it in their hands and look like they’re going to throw it, but in fact just wave it about a bit and then put it down and say THE END.’

‘Yes, that would be much better. That would make me contemplate the banal futility of my canine existence … By the way, you smell nice today.’

‘Oh thankyou. So do you. Mmmm, I’m getting a leafy, kind of Autumnal bouquet. With maybe just a hint of cardamom . . .’

As well as encouraging me to make things happen, the four-legged narrator also gave me a way to bring my first dog back to life. He was a Springer Spaniel called Murdoch (named after the A-Team, not Iris), and he makes a cameo appearance in the opening scene.

In fact, the sub-plot involving a secret war between hedonistic Springers and loyal Labradors was inspired by Murdoch. This sub-plot is a kind of metaphor for the conflict between family duty and selfish pleasure that most of the human characters face.

The duty-pleasure conflict is something I hope readers will relate to, and it’s certainly something that has been with me most of my life. This war within ourselves between our outward duties and our internal desires always seems to me the most consistent aspect of the human condition – and maybe even the canine condition too.

For more information on Matt Haig go to www.matthaig.com