Mick Clifford: For the love of dog on Father's Day
Back ' Came Picture: Dog In Cocker Car I 'i Was Of And Unseen The Hillman The Was Seven When Father My Out Driveway In Spaniel The Ran The Istock Killed A Front A Hunter Of Straight Family Seat
I was seven when my father killed the dog. I was in the back seat of the family Hillman Hunter and we were heading into town. A cocker spaniel came out a driveway unseen and ran straight in front of the car.
The dog was badly injured but alive. My father, John, went into the house from where the rusty blur had emerged. A boy I recognised from school came out, distressed, to see what had become of their pet. His mother scooped up the injured animal and brought him back inside.
A few days later this boy came up to me to say that he had met my father on the street and told him that the dog had died. My father, he said, showed no reaction, as if he couldn’t care less. I felt a pang of shame that my old man was deemed to be indifferent to the fate of a poor cocker spaniel who met his end under the wheels of our Hillman Hunter.
The years that followed were to mock my concern about my father’s alleged indifference to the canine species. For John was a dog man to his fingertips. I, on the other hand, turned out to be the member of the family with ice in my veins when it came to furry pets.
My memory of dogs at home begins some time after that accident. We had a succession of these mutts in the family, all little white things with the odd black patch here and there, bandy legs, floppy ears, and eyes full of sadness. We gave them simple names, Patch and then Zeppy, and finally Holly.
From this remove I think of them all as Holly.
Holly was at the centre of John’s world. Sometimes it felt as if the rest of us just paddled around the pair of them. One night, when he arrived home after a few pints, John remarked that it was an awful pity that Holly couldn’t talk.
Holly had her own blanket, blue with white piping, that served as a kind of cloak to be laid at her feet as if she were an ancient queen or the saviour of mankind. John would spread out the blanket next to him on the two-seater where he sat by the fire.
From there, Holly looked out on the rest the room, very pleased with her ranking in the family hierarchy.
When driving off to bring Holly for a walk, John would lay the blanket on the front seat beside him from where the dog could look out on the passing world, and, with any bit of luck, maybe comment on it.
The question was never addressed to me directly. For John could see as clear as day that I harboured what I now recognise as cruel indifference to Holly.
She was an irritant, a burden whenever I was detailed to feed her, and occasionally a source of anger when she did her business around the house and I couldn’t find anybody else to clean it up. My well of affection for the mutt was as dry as John’s was deep.
It surfaced between us now and again. If I walked into the room, Holly moved silently to the safety of my father’s feet, beyond the reach of my cruel indifference. On these occasions, John would look at me full of suspicion, wondering where I had gone wrong.
John outlived Holly by a few years. Towards the end, Holly made it obvious she was done with walking, because the joy had gone out of it and life was ebbing away. When the time came for her to be put down, my mother told me on the phone of John’s upset. I felt for him, but not the dog. You couldn’t have feelings for a dog.
We got Skellig the year after John died. As you might guess I wasn’t enthusiastic, but conceded that it would be good for the kids. He’s a Lab, a big dog who craves affection and eats like a horse.
These days, when I arrive home from work I need to know whether he’s had his constitutional. My suspicion is that I’m the only one in the house who really cares about Skellig.
He doesn’t sit in the front seat of the car, but when our last motor was clapped out we got an estate, just to make sure he’s at home down the back. And yes, he has his own blanket and it is coloured blue.
On our long walks I tell him about my past life and how I went wrong but how I’m now in recovery and I love my dog, one day at a time. As of yet he hasn’t given me his considered opinion on my journey.
Early one morning a few months back, as the house slept, I slipped the harness on Skellig to put down the first walk of the day.
The mirror inside the front door caught me in a fleeting glance. I saw him there, grinning across the mortal divide, eyes full of sparkle. You took your time, lad, but there’s no going back now.