Dogs and Souths
July 1, 2008 § Leave a comment
Just finished: The Dog of the South.
There is, in fact, something named The Dog of the South in the book: it’s a bus, owned by Dr. Reo Symes, who was using it as both vehicle and home until it broke down. But it plays no large part, only showing up for a few pages before Reo and Ray leave it behind and head farther south. So why that title? What else could it mean? I think, at least in part, that it’s just a provocative, mellifluous title, but there may be something more, too.
There is a dog: Guy Dupree’s chow, whose fur Guy cuts with scissors to spare him the Belizean heat. Again, not a major concern of the book, although he’s good for a few laughs.
Of course, by “dog” we could also mean hangdog, or underdog, or dirty dog (see title of post before last). So it might be a reference to Dupree, who is something of a dog: he steals his friend’s wife, car, and credit cards, and seems more or less a horrible human being. I love this description of him by Ray: “…he would always say — boast, the way people do — that he had no head for figures and couldn’t do things with his hands, slyly suggesting the presence of finer qualities.” But Dupree has no finer qualities, unless his revolutionary scheme is somehow unexpectedly brilliant.
Or there’s Ray: you couldn’t call him an underdog, since he’s a rich man’s son, but he does seem to match that phrase “beaten like a dog,” he follows the trail of Guy and Norma like a bloodhound (not a terribly skillful one, but nevertheless), and at the end he shows a dog’s persistence and loyalty, forgetting his car and nursing Norma back to health.
The “South” seems more straightforward, but there’s some complexity here, as well. The book starts in one South — the American — and ends in another — the Southern hemisphere, as well as what’s come to be known as the “global South.”
But do we ever really leave the American South? It pervades the book in interesting ways. Ray, we learn, “studied the Western campaigns of the Civil War under Dr. Buddy Casey” at Ole Miss. This, and the tapes of Casey’s lectures that Ray liked to listen to, become something of a running gag. The South’s Christianity follows Ray down to Belize: he himself is disinterested, it would seem, but Mrs. Symes insists on evangelizing to him, pestering him about the metaphysical questions he otherwise steadfastly avoids, preferring discussions of his rickety car. And then there are the natives in Belize, the blacks and Indians Ray meets.
The movie house in Belize shows a film of a Muhammad Ali fight, and the next day Ray finds his young aide-de-camp, Webster Spooner, “dancing around the tomato plant and jabbing the air with his tiny fists”:
“I’m one bad-ass nigger,” he said to me.
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m one bad-ass nigger.”
“No, you’re not.”
He was laughing and laying about with his fists. Biff Spooner! Scipio Africanus! I had to wait until his comic frenzy was spent.
When Ray finally finds Dupree, he says, “This is not much of a place…. I was expecting a big plantation. Where are the people who do the work?” (The people who do the work, it turns out, have absconded, shooting the cows on their way out.)
It’s subtle, but it seems to be there, in this and other places: this is a much more Southern book than it first seems, a thoroughly Southern comedy. And I think Portis sees some interesting connections between the South and the south below the South.