Dog-friendly Ireland: Cónal Creedon's memories and advice for travelling with a dog

I’m reluctant to proclaim my own ‘charm on dogs’, it’s an accolade that demands third party confirmation and endorsement. But now, as I enter my final quadrant it is true to say that throughout the long and winding road of life, I have always had a dog by my side.    

Maybe I’m guilty of what-about-ery, but the new normal of Covid-tide has insidiously permeated every aspect of life, not least the natural order and organic nature of pet ownership.  

Yet there was something primordially magical when social restrictions caused society to redefine itself, and we contracted into small tribal groups. The nation went dog crazy, as we channeled our ancient hunter-gatherer instincts, each new-age nuclear family with a mandatory mutt on tow. We became text-book experts in every breed created by man. And so the search began for a bespoke, non-shedding, hypo-allergenic, low-maintenance perfect pedigree.

A new word, ‘Staycation’ entered the lexicon, and with a dog in the back seat of every car, ‘Pet Friendly’ became the hottest ticket in town.  Now don’t get me wrong, all my life I have nurtured special relationships with certain hotels, pubs and restaurants, and from time to time, they oblige and allow my dog in out of the elements, sometimes they even put out an ashtray of water. These non-contractual arrangements have been established over time through mutual trust and respect. But ever since ‘Dog Friendly’ became another box to tick on a TripAdvisor website, what once was a very special privilege has overnight become a right. So much so, that recently, me and my dogeen Jude made a hasty retreat from one such establishment – when the most unmerciful dog-fight erupted between a Lab-a-doodle and a Cock-a-doodle — skin and hair of the non-shedding variety flying. Meanwhile, the newly converted dog owners, having a high stool day, supping cocktails and insisting that if Ireland had weather they’d never go abroad — So, I whispered a silent prayer for more rain.

But maybe the big wheel of life is turning. Maybe now that Covid is on the retreat the need to accessorise with a puppy might  abate. Anecdotally, my local vet recently mentioned his difficulty in finding homes for a litter of Jack Russells, he added that this time last year the same pups would go for 500 euro a pop — but now you can’t give them away for love nor money.

Hand on heart, I have never actively wanted a dog, and I certainly never paid for one — they just seem to find me.    

My current canine companion is a thirteen year old, totally self-contained, daft as a platypus, cute as a button, biscuit brown Border Terrier look alike. Jude is the name she goes by. She has a highly tuned ear for traditional music, and is known to wander up the street to the Sin É or the Corner House to catch a few tunes at the teatime session.    

Before that there was Patsy, named after the Cork City FC player, Patsy Freyne. She had the sweetest temperament; blind from birth, yet never expressed any awareness of her disability. A philosophical, stoical dog who just took life in her stride.    

Then there was Finbarr. Her mother was a Corgi and her father was from Rathpeacon and I’ll leave it at that. Finbarr was the happiest dog in the world, she literally smiled her way through life. Back in the 1990s she was a star of RTÉ’s children’s television programme, The Swamp —  with an ego to match. And yes the apocryphal tale is true. There was an occasion when a taxi arrived from RTÉ to collect Finbarr – she hopped into the back seat, and off she went like the Queen Mother, chauffeur driven across town to the studio.

Dogs come and dogs go. But their passing is invariably marked by a solemn vow to never invite such an emotional attachment with the inevitable pain of loss into my life again. Yet, as if pre-ordained by some greater power, no sooner has one dog’s bedding been dumped in the landfill — and a new bundle of furry joy somehow manages to inveigle her paws under my table and into my heart. And so I fall in love all over again. But the first cut is the deepest.

Let me tell you about Tshirt; a husky of undetermined parentage. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was my Confirmation and my sister Rosaleen arrived down from Dublin with the cutest little puppy dog. Tshirt was her name. From that very first moment when she jumped up into my arms, I was smitten.

Me and Tshirt were inseparable. We rode with Jesse James across the western plains. We defended Cork from the Vikings. We drove the Black and Tans back across the Irish sea, like St Patrick drove the vermin. And will I ever forget that day on Pine Street, when me and Tshirt scored the winning goal in the FA Cup Final.  

The score: 17–All. The Angelus bell was calling us in for our tea. I caught the ball on the volley, sending it in low and hard across the goalmouth. Tshirt darted in from the wing and drove the winning goal home with her snout, sending a rattling racket along the steel shuttering of McKenzie’s gate.    

Tshirt  was one of the pack, and each day she’d be waiting for me at the school gate — happiest running through city streets with the Downtown Dirty Faces. Every day with Tshirt was an adventure.

Now there was that time, 

Twelve o’clock Mass, St Mary’s was packed to the rafters. At the back of the church, the usual throng of bare-headed men huddled in the vestibule. Up front, additional rows of seating placed inside the altar to accommodate the overflow. And that’s where I was that particular Sunday, seated on the altar — nearer my God to thee.    

Fr. Moynihan, a commanding orator, was in full flight. A minor kerfuffle emanating from down by the holy water font went unnoticed. And that’s when I saw it. Tshirt’s bushy tail swaying in the air, like a swath of Pampas grass, waving its way up and down the centre aisle. Her whining of anxiety rising in pitch and frequency caused an ever increasing consternation among the congregation. Fr. Moynihan drove on his eulogy despite all adversity.    

Tshirt reached the altar and stood erect on her hind legs. When she saw me,  it was like the cry of the banshee. And with a hop, skip and most unmerciful jump she was inside altar rail, doing helicopter spins across the polished marble floor in front of the tabernacle. Then howling and yelping she cleared the front row of seats and leapt into my arms.

"Lord God Almighty!," roared Fr Moynihan. "You!," his voice echoed from nave to sacristy. He pointed his knuckled finger in our direction. “Take your beast and leave the house of God this instant!”    

Me and Tshirt walked the walk of shame down the centre isle and out onto Pope’s Quay. We headed home, our fate and our faith in the balance. Deep down, I knew that life was long and eventually I would make my peace with God, and the fear of the burning fires of hell was too far off in the distance to worry about. 

But my greatest concern was how would I explain to my mother that me and Tshirt had been excommunicated.    

Excommunication had been doing the rounds in our house ever since my father’s cousin Red Mick Riordan the Communist had parted ways with Rome. I worried how my mother would react to the news that me and Tshirt would be joining cousin Mick with a one-way ticket to eternal damnation.

 For weeks we waited as the sharpened blade of the excommunicators axe swung above our heads, but no disciplinary sanction came from Rome. Fr. Moynihan made a unilateral decision to grant a reprieve. The whole episode was hushed-up, swept under the carpet – because what the Pope don’t know won’t bother him.      

It’s a sad fact of life that we humans have a tendency to outlive our canine soulmates. And many years later when T-Shirt died I cried. I cried because I was saying goodbye to my friend, and I cried because I was saying goodbye to my childhood.    

My father comforted me. That’s when he told me that Uncle Jeremiah had a ‘charm on dogs’. He said that on the night Uncle Jeremiah died, his trusty companion Prince, the old blue-eyed collie, made her way out to the middle of the street and howled a lonesome lament. Then one by one every dog in the village echoed their plaintive cry. The sound of weeping dogs spread beyond the village, from farmyard to farmyard, all the way to Gougane. From townland to townland and parish to parish,  the sound of weeping dogs could be heard throughout the night until dawn the next morn. They were saying goodbye to Uncle Jeremiah, goodbye to one of their own.  “and you don’t get a more heartfelt requiem than that”, my father said. “So don’t dry your tears, It’s good to cry.” 

And so, I cried some more.

Cónal Creedon is a critically acclaimed novelist, playwright and documentary filmmaker. His latest book is entitled ‘Art Imitating Life Imitating Death’ – An Exploration of ‘Guests of the Nation’ by Frank O’Connor, is due out in October. www.conalcreedon.com

Cónal's recommendations 

Five pet-friendly towns and villages:

1. St Annes Park. Dublin.

2. Fitzgerald's Park, Cork. 

3. Connemara National Park, Galway. 

4. Bray Harbour, Wicklow.

5. Ballyvaughan village, Co Clare.

 Five places where Cónal’s dogs are welcome:

 1. Seaview House Hotel, Bantry.

2. Dunmore House Hotel, Clonakilty.

3. Inchydoney Island Apartments, Clonakilty.

4. Sin É, Public House, Coburg Street, Cork.

5. Corner House, Public House Coburg Street, Cork.