Esther McCarthy: The ways that dogs play pivotal roles in our lives
Mccarthy Bodhi, With The Play Clan At
“Go in and tell him his sandwich is ready, will ya?”
He cocks his head at me inquisitively. I’m at the kitchen island, and I realise I’ve just asked Bodhi, the dog, to go and tell my son it’s lunch time.
There are two explanations for this:
I choose to believe the latter.
Dogs have always been a big part of my life. According to McCarthy family lore, I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for the bravery of Shep No 3.
The shaggy, sweet, black and white Shetland sheepdog was our shadow when we were kids. He walked my sister and I to Glasheen primary school each morning.
He was part of every game; a handy wingback if we were short for a game of soccer, a goal post if we weren’t, and a great ball boy when Wimbledon was on and the neighbourhood kids went tennis mad for two weeks.
He was a fierce liability in Kick the Can though, his tail poking out, we’d be spotted straight away. He protected us from bigger kids, and once chased off a teenager who was trying to knock us down on his BMX.
Shep would lollop along whatever we were doing, he’d pad to the corner shop with us, waiting patiently outside while we traumatised the shopkeeper with our penny sweet requests.
We made it worth his while, he always got the end of our Mr Freezes, or a lick of our icecreams.
Shep was our best friend. He was a great listener and always agreed with me. That’s rare in a male, let me tell you.
So the story goes, that when I was five, I was climbing trees down the green with a rubber duck that was a present for my sister. One of the boys grabbed the duck and threw it into the stream.
There was a tree trunk across the river, I tried to cross it and fell in. I vaguely remember the panic but I’m not sure if the recollections are more from the family retelling of the story over the years than real memories.
Anyway, the stream was behind our back garden but there was a big wall, so you’d have to go around the front of the house to the end of the road and then through the green to get to the Glasheen river, which is exactly what Shep did when he heard me screaming.
My aunt and uncle (who are only seven and eight years older than me, making them 12 and 13 at the time) were supposed to be keeping an eye on me, they saw him running at full speed down the road and followed him.
He jumped into the river and I grabbed onto his shaggy, reliable back and he climbed up the bank, dragging me behind him.
We both limped home, soaked and scared that we were in trouble. Turns out everyone was so relieved we were ok, Shep got a bone and I got to sit on the good chair next to the fire for the evening. He was called a ‘good boy’ a lot that day.
Shep lived a long and I hope happy life; we didn’t own a lead for him. He was king of the road, his only stress was the beef he had with another dog called Kelly down the road.
He was about 16, when he went to the door to be left out as usual. He stopped and looked up at mam for ages, she said she felt he was telling her something.
His eyes were mournful, and his eyebrows were doing that thing they did, she said. It was years before Zoolander came out but it was like a cross of Blue Steel and Magnum. He had broken his leg a couple of months before that, and he had slowed down a lot.
“Go on away out, Shep,” she eventually said. He took one last look at her and limped away down the road, and we never saw him again. I was 12, my sister was 11 and we were devastated. We mourned him like he was one of the family — because he was.
When you’re a child, you have a unique relationship with your dog. I can see it now I’m the mam. My boys adore our fella in a way I don’t. Like, he’s great and all, but it’s not like the absolute fierce way I loved Shep.
Bodhi is another responsibility for me, as the mam in the scenario. I worry about pet insurance, defleaing, picking up his shite, cutting his gross toe nails, and checking the left over gravy for bits of onion before he gets it.
My kids have that pure uncomplicated love for him and from him. He’s their confidant/co-conspirator/pillow/fart fall guy. No one will ever be as happy to see them as he is.
He goes swimming and surfing with them. He goes in the car for the GAA drop offs, his head hanging out the window, delighted until it’s time for them to abandon him.
He sneaks into their rooms at night, he’s their go-to if they’re hurt or sick or sad. He’s part of our family, simple as.
Plus, he’s the only one that listens to me, even if he can’t tell them the lunch is ready,
