The Truth about Cats and Dogs

The Roland Garros finals are upon us. In just a few hours it’s likely that I will be obliged to mail my favorite pair of suede shoes to Maria Sharapova (long story), which is annoying, because they aren’t even going to fit her. It’s likely they would fit the newly-made doubles champion, Sara Errani (we are both women of a certain stature), so I’ll be rooting for her in the final. It seems the sensible thing to do, and it’s only fair. Maria already has the number one ranking and the better dress. I’m not always a fan of the pova-prêt-à-porter collection, but I think they got it right this time—her tennis-gown will go really well with my suede shoes. 

I’m going to go ahead and not discuss Sam Stosur, it’s better, I think, if we don’t look for awhile. Maria’s and Petra Kvitova’s semifinal made for a fantastic collection of long levers, but it was not a particularly fantastic match. In fact, none of the semifinals were what you’d call classic-epic-Tsonga-dramas, although Rafael Nadal did demonstrate that it is possible to win tennis matches from the seated position, which was neat to see, unless, of course, you happened to be watching the match from the David Ferrer position.


Ferrer recently told reporters that he found the nickname ‘warrior’ to be simplistic and not particularly well-suited to him. He also let them know that they could call him Little Beast if they'd like, but that his actual name remained David Ferrer. He does however, like the nickname Ferru, because it contains the element of iron. Unfortunately for David, the steely resolve that saw him advance to the quarterfinals without losing a set and then defeat Andy Murray in four of them, abandoned him in the semis. 

It would be fair to say that I was not gleefully anticipating this particular Rafa-Ferru bash, having as I do, a soft spot for David. I was worried we’d see yet another tight first set, which David would barely lose, followed by two mortal thrusts to Ferrer’s normally cast-iron solar plexus, accompanied by a brisk snapping of the heart strings. Instead, David took the breaking of his heart into his own hands, or rather, onto his own strings, and he did it very early in the match. Ferrer had an opportunity to break Rafa’s serve at 2-1 in the first set, but instead of putting an easy ball away, he put it right back on Rafa’s racquet. The near-miss seemed to rouse Rafa’s sleeping scarlet fire and Nadal held serve, and promptly broke Ferrer at love. After that, David won fewer points than days have passed in June on his way to losing the first set. When Ferrer donned the light pink shirt of surrender to start the second, I knew it was over. And a short 6-2, rain delay, 6-2, 6-1 later, it was. 

Nadal on the other hand, played fantastically. Even his backhand was lethal. And when the backhand is on high-alert, RAFALAND is secure, at least for the moment. Therefore this moment seems as good a time as any to discuss a matter that has been on my mind for quite some months: Rafael Nadal and Household Pets.

As most tennis fans know, Rafael Nadal is scared of a wide variety of stuff in life. Just this Wednesday, for example, a reporter tried to get him to admit to being scared of fish.* Nadal refused to confirm rumors of fish fears and reminded his interrogators that he had little time for fishing on account of all the tennising. However, we do know that Rafael Nadal is afraid of the dark, of deep water, of flying in helicopters, of being alone, of driving fast, of his sister being hurt, of his house burning down, of shots, and perhaps most famously—since the publication of his autobiography— of dogs.

The fact that Nadal doesn’t like animals, ‘especially dogs,’ was inked into the tomes of tennis-lore the moment the buzz about Rafael’s autobiography began its faster than a speeding scarlet fire flight around the internet. Sources from ESPN to Tennis.com, to blogs like Busted Racquet on Yahoo sports and Yardbarker.com, reported that Nadal mistrusts animals, ‘especially dogs.’ I’m here to tell you that Rafa’s especial aversion to canine critters is mere myth and fallacy.

To correct this now ingrained assumption, it is necessary to return to the source material, Nadal’s 2011 autobiography, RAFA:

RAFA tells us that when Nadal was fourteen years-old he flew to South Africa for a tennis tournament. Neither his Uncle Toni nor his parents accompanied him. He writes that South Africa was, “the farthest by far I’d ever been from home” (Nadal & Carlin, 2011, p.66). He was enchanted with South Africa, and had a joyful time romping on the soccer field the morning of his final (much to the chagrin of tournament organizers), and over the course of the tournament he was taken to visit some baby lions:

“It was a thrill to be near these wild animals—but not too near. We were taken to a place where we could hold and stroke some white lion pups, but I didn’t touch one myself. I’m not comfortable with animals, not even with dogs. I doubt their intentions. But I remember South Africa as a thrilling trip, in which I also happened to win a tennis tournament.” (2011, p.66)

Thusly and therefore, upon closer examination of the evidence, it’s clear that while Nadal is wary of mammals in general, the species he singles out is not the standard, Canis lupus familiaris. He writes that he is not ‘even’ comfortable with dogs, not ‘especially uncomfortable’ with them. Indeed, the way the sentence is phrased, one could be forgiven for thinking that were he to be comfortable with any animal at all, it would be, in fact, a dog.

Conclusion: It’s not dogs that are so terrifying, but cats. Big cats.

Being trained in Jungian psychology I might be inclined to hear Nadal’s fear of animals as deeply archetypal, as a fear of his own instinctual self. I might guess that there was a young lion pup straining to break free on that adolescent trip to South Africa, particularly because the trip represents the only time in the book where tennis and family take a back seat to Nadal’s own experience—and he’s ‘thrilled’ by the trip.** It might be that I’d suggest Nadal get a dog of his own, so as to become more comfortable with the unpredictability of powerful emotional experience (and also with having one’s water bottles and stuff knocked over). I might even connect Rafa’s fear of animals in the outside world to a fear of the animal within:

“Then, suddenly, he’ll breathe deep and kick into life, pumping his legs up and down and then, as if oblivious to the fact that his rival is just a few paces away across the room, he’ll let out a cry of ‘Vamos! Vamos!’ There’s something animal about it. The other player may be thinking his own thoughts but he won’t be able to help casting him a wary sideways glance…” (2011, p. 19)

But today, I won’t do any of those things, because on his journey to his seventh Roland Garros final, Nadal hasn’t seemed afraid of much of anything, be it animal or mineral.

Roar.

*The fishing question is about thirty seconds from the end of the interview.

**Thrill is an interesting choice of words because its etymology is to penetrate or to pierce.“To pierce with emotion.” Being thrilled can be an exciting experience to be relished, but it can also be a frightening proposition—a lot like a shot, or a dog bite, or making Uncle Toni mad. 

Photos: Getty, Nadal News via AP, Reuters, Getty