The Philosopher and the Wolf by Mark Rowlands: Wolfosophy - A new way of applying critical thinking

Now, like any sane gadgee long in tooth and short of hair, the word philosophy conjures up a wurld of thinking pain. How many angels that yer do not believe in, tying up bootlaces an clog dancin' on te head of a needle? And this book is hard core philosophy - otherwise why would the good folk at Granta* put it out in paper an' ink? Now take a committed philosopher (now by committed I mean white starched canvas straight jacket with lots of buckles and clips) and let him adopt a wolf cub (by wolf I mean dog out there on the edge of what is left of wild-a head as big as Boris Johnston's gut and paws like pile drivers). Add both are alpha males (by alpha male I mean serious pissing competitions and anything you do, I will do better - Yon Rowlands does push ups on one finger, the hound cartwheels of a vertical wall all the while howling at the moon.) Testosterone (wolves have two anal glands) soaks through these pages like treacle in a molasses factory. Boot, BOOT! This is a seriously good book that had me thinking on that many cylinders I had to go out in garden and melt down a few tin cans to replace the ones that burned out.

A stolen photo of Brenin the mutt

Aye, the bloody philosophy nearly made me snap me knicker elastic in frustration. And Mr Rowlands drops the heavyweights of philosophy - thems that can hold a single thought for a decade and more if need be - inta joost about every bloody other sentence. Kant, Heidegger, and Nietzsche and a rash of dead Italians. Mrs Belgo Geordie raised an eyebrow at me (short fer "if yer carry on like that yer heading' fer an equal opportunity battering with me thong!"**) readin' out loud and me constant groanin' and saying "Me, I'm too awld fer this carry on. Why can't the man joost tell us about yon wolf not that Heidegger were able to unbend a paper clip through exposing it ta pure sheer boredom of his crystalline one thought on a matter of philosophic principle." See, I exhaust meself joost writin' aboot thinkin' aboot it. Only quantum physics has ever destroyed more brain cells from implosion thinking. Mind Im not a fan of social darwinism - tha we exist to procreate (have bairns then die, or only the strongest survive-go on then, explain Trump) so yer Levis get passed on; summat missing in the quality of life and nature that makes that look like a puny construct ter hang yer egg and testicles on.

Boot, I am getting lost again in the constricting and confusing corridors of old age. So I will return to why this was sooch a good read. Page turning and things that make yer look at yourself in mirror differently. I had not imagined meself as an ape although Mrs BG said if the chest beating, puffed oop self importance, hairy banana stinking hide fits then wear it. Sniffingly she granted me tha I don't eat me own fleas - yet! And it'll be a kerosene bath if I do and smartish. Mr Rowlands philosophy is to oonderstand why a wolf is a wolf and a man is a slightly advanced ape. One lives in the moment and has no great relationship with regret, envy, greed, cruelty, malicious one upmanship and a burning desire to vote for neo liberals. A Tony Abbott*** in a wolf-pack woud ha been pissed on from a great height, laughed at and ostracised from the communal hunt fer caribou steak and squirrel. Better still he would niver ha' been granted alpha male status - so would never, ever, ever had sex in his four legged life (least not with a Labor card carrying female wolf) and therefore would not be procreated and becoome extinct faster than an iceberg melting through global warming. The other is a prick on the make. Mooch like wor Tory Tony.

Wadda ya mean Ive gotta big head stolen photo

So there is much rumblings of dark philosophical weapons trained on the wolf as a sentient being. Observation of what makes this apex predator tick. Particularly away from remote timberlands and tundra. Sooch as yon man's sitting room. It is fascinating although sometimes as annoying as grit in the eye. Yer settle down fer a bit of wolf chat and along cums Neitzsche who never chased down a rabbit in his life! Boot, there is enough wolf stuff, which is oop there with Siberian Tigerdom, to qualify this as a grand read. The book punctures the myth of homo sapien being owt special - well other than Bobby Robson, of course. That animals are beasts with no purpose other than to serve Lord Man or be his hunting fodder. On this proposition Mr Rowlands stares yer down as he does class 101 in critical thinking (scratching' yer noggin while having thought at same time). Aye, I felt spears of chalk whizzing past me lugs, trying' not to stare out winda or count the hairs sprouting outta the nuns nose- a nostalgic moment of me early learning experiences. He (Mr Rowlands not nun with the hairy nostrils) unpicks the arguments of human superiority like me specialist gutting me prostate. Clinical, humming a little song that he had to stoop down to explain summat so obvious. Animals are intelligent, emotional, sentiment beings with complex inner lives and social interactions. They are just different-not better, not worse, not lesser, well probably sumwhat better. Aye, Mr bloody teacher Rowlands I got the point and then screamed for mercy. Boot would yer stop. Would ya heck. No, relentlessly yer went on and on page after page. Yer proved the point, nailed me balls ter yon mast, rubbed salt inta them, lacerated them for a bit of tenderising then dipped wot were left inta burning tar.

Whoever, I need ta make clear, Mr Rowlands dus not subscribe to the malarky of the wolf as a paragon of the noble beast - far aboove the droppings of oos the morally flabby ape with a superiority complex. The description of Mr Wolf, still a bairn mind, tearing the house apart, urinating and scenting everything in sight, eating cushion, furnishings, wire and pipes (and we've established this dog can climb walls and with those great big bloody paws - knock holes thru plaster board like a nipper putting his finger in custard.) Then give a big, full chops wolfish grin when the other alpha male returns to his den in wreckage as if to say fair cop guv! I was testing the environment for weakness and playability-like wolves don't do boredom - they go the distance and explore. And explore means seek and destroy. "As for yer plate of pasta it were there before yer went ter answer telephone. What cheese sauce on me chops? Prove it-wanna see me pearly white, sharp teeth? Didn't think so." This kind of "its me" behaviour 'take it or leave it' would not go down well in the average suburban dog occupied dwelling. In fact Mr Rowlands established wolf and dog parted long ago. "Fetch a stick! Are you mad? Fetch yer own stick and if it was so damn important in first place, why did you chuck it away, oh superior being." (I think we can assume wolves do sarcasm but probably not irony).

Mr Rowlands learned through trial, error, bitter experience and research to understand the wolf he had taken on. From there on where Mr Rowlands went so did his very large dog and there are passages in the book not dripping existentialist thought, where he describes how this worked. Who would have thought, the wolf as a chick magnet in a rugby club in the deep south of America or a barometer as to how boring the class Mr Rowlands was teaching was. The dog would sleep but if its head hurt from trying to follow philosophical inside turning out matter - it would get up and howl mournfully and probably urinating far and wide and destroying what ever was in reach of its cavernous mouth. It was also not beyond stealing student lunches out of their bags but in a discreet, I'm a invisible four foot high canine sort of way. Like a Mad Max version of Clouseau on steroids going undercover - "see that large dog? That's not me. Come on work with me, yer are budding philosophers".

Me own wolf who thought he were a whippet circa 1976

Mr Rowlands has also provided a lesson in personal humility. He knows he is only one of a handful on the planet's apes who can salivate over a good philosophical proposition or conundrum. He knows the rest of us get watery eyes and would rather eat brussels sprouts dipped in boot polish for eternity while being made to listen ta Margaret Thatcher reading her autobiography on cracked vinyl than engage in sooch stuff. But fair go, the man is keen on looking straight inta mirror, facing big brain onta his drinking problems, being a bit of a rugby playing nerdy philosopher geek and an almost relationship free zone. His wolf training program shows his mental and physical toughness. Jogging, he knows as his wolf lopes effortlessly along he has to run every bloody step and stay in charge of the pack.  In seeing the world through wolf eyes he says he comes to know hisself better. Not always in such a pretty light. He skewers oos (people) with the insight tha first position for folk is deceit, manipulation and greed (what's in it for me) - and not just the neo libs but also those of oos who see ourselves as progressive. We scheme for an imagined future, rarely happy with what we have. Regrets are many and sometimes toxic in how they manifest. Look at factionalism within the left. "Greens? I'd rather eat broccoli with me boot laces tied to me gonads." See! Pathetic. Self destructive and as a specie we can no longer argue we are not destructive to the environment and those other sentient beings that surround us and sometimes interact with us. Wolves joost don't want to get ahead and become the President of the United States.

Mr Rowland also provides a very compelling dissertation on evil, the nature of in oos. What it looks like, smells like and the actions it manifests. In particular the scenting out of weakness in others, torturing and picking on those different from ourselves. The lack of empathy but bucketloads of self pity and self importance. The blind ability of those who are nothing special to see themselves as superior. We enact cruelty without mooch persuasion and booger all regret or loss of sleep. He shows we have the capacity and drive to plan cruelty and harm others where there is no need. Wolves will attack a perceived threat or pick off a weakened animal from a herd. But they are not cruel, in the way cats and people are. Likewise, the wolf doesn't do regret and by observation from yon philosopher - has little deceit, manipulation or greed as we express it. They don't seek pleasure as an end in itself but enjoy it when it comes along. "Eee, that nice white she dog Alsatian on heat...oops puppies" - the wolf finding oot it has a gourmands cheese tooth; mind that comes after he was forced into piscetarianism. It were a bit rough making the mutt forgo cans of jellimeat deluxe for tuna bake and cucumber sarnies joost because Mr Rowlands went veganatarian. Aye, he's big in the do no harm to animals world and I applaud him for that, although he's oop there with the marine corp of that world. But introducing a new specie of a cheese eating wolf...

An tha brings me nicely to me own insight from this book. A better appreciation on what I have rather than what I may have in the future if only I am the very best at stealing, cheating and plundering. That morality is proven in action. That we tend to deceive ourselves on a daily basis. In particular he makes the vicious point that as story tellers we always present ourself in the best light - no matter how bad the deed. And our book of excuses for what we did, do and are going to do? A legend of fantasy fiction dedicated to the under sixes. Belgo Geordie as infantile fantasy fiction with baroque embroidery? Moi! Outrageous! Aye, I looked briefly in me own mirror and reflected there were traits not perfect. Boot as I said I'm not a fan of social darwinism an I can see folk doing good for no other purpose than that itself. Like every time there is a bush fire in Australia the folk who rally around and help out those who lose most of what they have. And those who lost all, still able to carry on with courage and dignity to rebuild.

Wolfosophy, Mr Rowlands sees as more healthy option for what remains of the planet. More than living in the moment it is the engagement with its environment, every aspect because it is what sustains it and gives life. Almost Zen. Philosophy a la Rowlands however, does not let us, the mighty apes, off lightly. Rather he drops our pretensions from a great height to see if the pretty pattern on the concrete path makes any more sense. See yer think West Connex and Super Bowl are human triumphs? Mr Rowlands with all the compassion of a big brain philosopher thought his way to the conclusion that the fantasist ape was heading down the gurgler in a handcart with bells, whistles and insufficient postage to cover the journey. Its joost a matter of when. And sooner than later as it appears, and history backs this oop; we niver learn and inbred gamblers we are always ready to crash and burn on the roll of a dice. Wolves seem pretty content to be wolves if left to get on with it. Aye wolves (like Siberian tigers in 'Soul of Siberia') come out well in this tale.

Mrs Belgo Geordie read this before me and said it was a grand read, Well she would being more wolf than ape. Boot she read it with concentrated silence under a silvery moon and then vanished inta thickets of her habitat like a shadow melting between trees in twilight. Me Ah were still attemptin' ter scratch me left ear with me right paw as me knuckles grazed tha ground and tryin not ter sit on me balls.

Somewhere out in the wilderness of will remain post homo sapien summat more progressive will be howling at the three moons and thinking of a supper of nice ripe cheese, but hey caribou steak with squirrel chips will be joost grand!

Other creatures who don't like being ordered about fer no good purpose

*Granta-the pointy headed thinking literary publishing house that sells books by the handful-I know, as I have a lot of them on me shelves and booger all of em make sense to the struggling brain but leads to lots of satisfying scratching of nuts, armpits and baldy bits of the head an groin.
**Thong in Australia is what New Zealanders (quaint right wing voting hobbits crossed with fence posts) call "jandals" or others "Flip Flops". New Zealanders (smug bastards living in the most beautiful country on the planet) interpret thong as the female equivalent of a mankini, preferably macramed outta dental floss and embroidered with a tasteful placed small sea mollusc shell sooch as miniature dwarf pauau or a feather from a boord sooch as a fantail or notail. Australians call this kind a thing a cheese cutter and it does not coom with any accessories. It is frequently lost in the waters of Bondi Beach-its loss unnoticed by the wearer boot apocryphally  surfers in this location (or 10kms down the coast) have been observed flossing on their boards while waiting for the next wave...
***Anthony Abbott is a pom, who briefly reigned as Australian prime minister where he fed his female advisor bits of food of his plate and taking every photo opportunity to be seen in brief speedos (Male equivalent of New Zealand thong known in Australia as budgie smugglers-an item of clothing beloved by Belgo Geordie when he goes to yon beach except his are Geordie Amazonian Parrot smugglers). Tony Abbott were recently head butted by an anarchist who saw themself as a more superior form of life and was seeing off a weakening alpha male heading towards extinction. Bloody Darwin and his theories!