Our first dog Safi used to sing. There were many variants, but two basic melodies, though it would take either a considerable amount of generosity, or a canine ear, to call it that, and what other dogs thought of his music we were never able to ascertain. The first was performed by him whenever we travelled by car and left the motorway to slow down along some country lane. Realising we were close to our destination and that he was about to be set free among the trees and streams, he would, well, there’s not really any other word for it, lift up his voice and sing. It wasn’t exactly harmonious, but it was definitely joyous, and we all enjoyed it. It touched something visceral in us all, a place of freedom, release from the city, liberation from the human equivalent of being kept on the lead. We loved it. Years later, we still say to each other as we drive up to Nicky’s parents’ home among the apple orchards in Kent, or stop by some favourite New Forest glade: ‘Remember how Safi used to sing when we got here.’

If that was his Beethoven, his second kind of melody was, without wishing to insult them, his Rolling Stones. He loved to hang on to those tough long ropes tied from thick boughs in woods or over streams for children to swing on. The moment he caught sight of one he would be off. With a flying leap he would catch on to the rope with his teeth and sway backwards and forwards, his paws waving like a hyper, but not very good, dancer at a pop concert, while something between a yowl and a whine emerged from his mouth so loudly that on several excruciating occasions the unrepeatable sound drew a small crowd to the sight. The only way to get him back was to grasp his collar, prize his teeth apart and keep holding on to him until we were at least a hundred yards away. This was especially embarrassing if the rope hung over water and a group of teenage spectators had gathered to watch.

Our other dogs have, thank goodness, been more circumspect. Well, that’s not exactly true. Our second dog, Mitzpah, reputedly a pure-bred Welsh border collie whose relatives sorted sheep in the valleys, would bark at anything, except when someone came to the door or when he himself wanted to come back in from the garden. We loved him dearly, but ‘annoying’ would be too mild a term to describe his choice of when and where to be vocal. He could bark and bark, then bark and bark some more. He had his favourite places, like outside the bathroom or on the stone steps into the garden. We did sometimes wonder, though, if he could see into a dimension we could not and had taken it upon himself to frighten off ghosts hidden behind the walls or stuck for ages in our toilet, the door to which soon bore scratch-markings from his frustration at being unable to enter and chase away whatever spirit he seemed to be convinced abided there. But should a burglar have attempted to enter, we were convinced that Mitzvah would have greeted him with eager-eared silence.

Nessie, our third and current dog, as much loved or, arguably, even more than her predecessors, generally prefers paw language. Her choice of vocabulary is not always subtle. Stop stroking her and you are liable first to be tapped, then scratched and finally all but spanked by her front paw. She has a different tactic at nighttime. If she gets too cold sleeping on our bed, (our determination not to let her do so lasted less than twenty-four hours) she creeps up to you, whether you are awake or asleep, and licks your ear. We don’t need google translate to understand that this meant ‘lift up the covers because I want to crawl into bed next to you.’

However, if we are brazen enough to leave her anywhere even for a few moments, she goes vocal to a degree which makes up for all her previous reticence. If I dare to tie her lead to the post outside the shop, which I do only when we are seriously short of basics, before almost literally running round the store so as not to abandon her for more than sixty seconds, I can be certain that nobody has nabbed her because her yelps and yowls are audible down every aisle. If I’m ever in a dog-friendly café and need the loo, she follows me to outside the door where she whines so pitifully that I can’t help but embarrass myself, and probably everyone else in the establishment, by keeping up a steady ‘I won’t be long; yes I do love you; no I haven’t forgotten you,’ from inside my cubicle where I can’t complete my essential business fast enough.

If each of our three dogs had their preferred mode of self-expression, one means of communication has nevertheless been shared by them all. It has nothing to do with their vocal cords and everything to do with their eyes. It’s how they stare at you while you’re eating. Squatting motionless next to you, except for an occasional hopeful wag of the tail, totally focussed, with a pitiful and pleading look you would be forgiven for thinking they had perfected in the mirror for months, they gaze up at you unflinchingly as if to say: ‘How can you stuff your face like that when I haven’t eaten a morsel for weeks? Plea-ea-ea-se!’ Bad listener as I sometimes am, how can I fail to hearken then?

But all this is only the tip of the tale. This is merely the dog vocabulary we humans can readily understand, the equivalent of ‘bon jour means good morning’ in an old-fashioned guidebook for first-time tourists in Paris. See two dogs together, as when our children and their resident hounds join us, and there is a sophisticated language of interactions which we can only guess at by inter- or misinter- preting their behaviours. The old notion that what distinguishes homo sapiens from all other species is that we alone have language needs to be taken back to its kennel and left there. The actual truth is that there are innumerable languages among countless species; only we just don’t understand. ‘That’s right,’ I mentally hear my dogs assenting, ‘You just don’t understand!’

Can I please add – if you do love animals:

I have been working with two dear colleagues, Rabbi Charles Middleburg and Rabbi David Mitchell, on a prayer book for animal companions. This has been in the making for several years and we are now in a position to publish. We’re are officially launching a pet companion’s prayerbook to support us and our beloved fur-balls through every moment of joy and sorrow. 150+ pages of prayers, readings and meditations for every magical and heartbreaking stage of loving a pet, as well as appreciating the animal world.

However, we need your support to sponsor a small (or even large) section in memory or celebration of your beloved animal companion. The crowdfunding is live. https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/izzun/an-animal-siddur

Please be in touch if you would like to sponsor a line, a pawragraph or a page

Dear Friends,

Happy New Year.

It’s a big New Year for me, stepping back as rabbi of my beloved community at the New North London Synagogue, but continuing with an increased role as Senior Rabbi of Masorti Judaism and with a greater commitment to interfaith and environment work. It’s a chance, and a challenge, to reflect, rethink, and learn new ways to appreciate and care for the sanctity of life.

I listened with mixed feelings to the fireworks as 2025 ended and 2026 began. If they mark true hope, may the sky sparkle with their stars. But I feel more at home welcoming the secular year, as we do the Jewish New Year, with prayer.

May this be a year of compassion and generosity.

May our common humanity unite us, more than our differences divide us.

May justice and law protect everyone against hatred and violence.

May all rhetoric of racism, supremacism, hatred and contempt yield before the understanding that those we ‘other’ are human too.

May our societies and communities come together in concern and kindness for those who have no home, no food, no access to healing, no hope.

May we recognise our kinship and interdependence with all life and cease from all needless destruction.

May we listen to our companions on earth, the rivers, trees, insects, birds and animals.

May we learn from all life and bring healing, not hurt.

May we live from our heart and conscience. May we be guided by the God-given spirit that breathes in us all.

May this be a year in which we appreciate the fragile, vulnerable beauty of life, a year in which we are moved to wonder and respect.

May this we a year of wisdom and compassion.

This my prayer for 2026 and after. Do I believe it will all come true? Sadly, no. But it marks the path I am sure we must pursue, the path of true, active, committed hope.

May we be blessed with inspiration, determination, courage and companionship as we strive to follow it into the perilous future.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy New – Gregorian – Year

Jonathan Wittenberg