What does dirt truly mean? Perhaps the answer lies not in abstract definitions, but in the presence of a muddy dog, offering a perfect metaphor for a life untethered by societal expectations.
Hugo Rifkind, in his reflection on the nature of dirt, recalls an old debate with a flatmate over the washing-up. The argument wasn’t about the washing, but the manner in which it was done: plates left covered in soapy bubbles, with no effort to rinse them off. The flatmate’s stance was clear: “Soap is not dirt,” he claimed. “It’s the opposite of dirt, and thus clean.” But as Rifkind points out, this philosophical query lingers: What, exactly, constitutes dirt? Is it inherent, or simply a matter of perspective?
Rifkind turns to the world of dogs to explore this question further. Dogs, particularly those with mud-caked paws, present a unique challenge to our understanding of dirt. For many dog owners, dirt on a dog’s fur takes on an entirely different meaning. It’s not simply an issue of cleanliness—dirt on a dog is often seen as an expression of the dog’s very essence. Unlike humans, who view dirt with distaste, dogs seem indifferent to it, embodying an acceptance of their own messy nature.
This philosophical musings on dirt are not new. The Finnish philosopher Olli Lagerspetz, in A Philosophy of Dirt, writes about his discomfort upon encountering a carpeted floor in a hospital delivery room. He observes that the concept of “dirt” suggests a deviation from an ideal state—an imperfection. This reflects Plato’s notion of ideal forms, untouched by the mundane needs for cleaning or sterilizing. Freud too had his views, seeing an aversion to dirt as a manifestation of deeper psychological fears.
For the ancient Greek philosopher Diogenes, who admired the simplicity and freedom of dogs, dirt wasn’t a source of shame but rather an essential part of life. Diogenes lived much like a dog, embracing its unburdened existence. This contrasts with the more rigid views of philosophers like Plato, who admired dogs for their ability to distinguish between friends and enemies based on instinct rather than intellect.
Rifkind’s own dog, however, defies these philosophical ideals with his random affections and his particular fondness for—unfortunately—horse manure. But this chaotic approach to the world is precisely what distinguishes dogs from humans. They are unconcerned with societal expectations and cleanliness, finding joy in the simplest of things, even mud.
Ultimately, a muddy dog serves as a reminder that our squeamishness around dirt is a learned behavior, one that restricts us from fully embracing life’s freedoms. In a world obsessed with perfection and appearance, the muddy dog stands as a symbol of liberation from vanity and societal norms. It invites us to reflect on our own fastidiousness and consider whether it might be an obstacle to true joy—before, inevitably, tossing the dog into the bath.
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