“Can you do Genghis a favour?” Fionnuala and I were in the swimming pool balcony while the children were at a lesson.
The muffled, echoey soundtrack of swimmers and coaches and whistles and splashes was lulling me to sleep and I only half-heard the name. But somewhere deep in my subconscious, his heartless, stony face was staring at me.
“Well, it’s a favour for his friend McGowan, I suppose,” Fionnuala elaborated.
“He’s minding McGowan’s dog, and he’s going to Shania Twain on Saturday, so will you feed and walk the dog while he’s away?”
There was already a lot to unpack there. “Why can’t you?”
“Because I’m not comfortable with that dog.”
McGowan was a tubby bachelor with wavy hair who always made me repeat my sentences by saying “Eh?” in a sneering voice. I had no doubt he had heard; he was making me beg for his response.
His spectacular, coiffured hair also annoyed me. It was incongruous, discordant – I pictured him perched at a hairdresser’s in a floral gown – yet he clearly believed he was superior to me. I was a qualified teacher with a young, vibrant family and a gorgeous, successful wife. He was a sad and lonely digger driver, laughing in the bar with all the local hard men, in his cowboy boots and ghastly jeans.
“Look, I’m asking you to do me a favour. Does that make it simpler?” Fionnuala was almost pleading.
“No, if Genghis agreed to look after McGowan’s dog, then he doesn’t get to go to a concert in Dublin.”
“But his new girlfriend surprised him with the tickets.”
“He can explain, surely? He’s not a baby and neither is she.” I was getting a dig in at his new American girlfriend. She was not unattractive and was besotted with Genghis – and Genghis played her like a violin.
Eventually I went to the house in a huff, dreading the task awaiting me. Fionnuala had said she feared McGowan’s mutt – named Scruffly, bizarrely – and as I opened the door, I expected a growl, but there was only silence. I moved into the house softly calling “Scruffly” and as I peeked into the kitchen, there it was.
If a dog can smell fear, then Scrufflys nose must have clogged up. The thing stood in the gloom facing me, and I thought of Sherlock Holmes when asked about the Hound of the Baskervilles: “The devil’s agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not?”
It was a Japanese Akita – a large, muscular cross between a husky and a serial killer – and its silent, baleful stare made Genghis look like a Care Bear. It neither moved nor blinked and behind it on the counter was the dog food that I was to transfer to the bowl at its feet. I froze and wondered what to do.
It was a Japanese Akita – a large, muscular cross between a husky and a serial killer – and its silent, baleful stare made Genghis look like a Care Bear
“Here Scruffly. Good boy.” Again, the dog stood like a statue, and fear wasn’t the only whiff the beast was picking up. I cursed McGowan and his stupid hair, and his predictable choice of thug-dog. What had he to guard that was so precious? And I cursed Genghis for not looking after the animal he said he was going to look after.
I backed away, thinking that I would let the mutt out and it could ablute while I sorted its food and water, and sure enough it stalked after me and slipped noiselessly outside. When I opened the door again, he was sitting on the step and I gestured to come in.
He looked at me, dropped his head slightly, and politely passed me by, then devoured his food in an instant. I gave him some more and again, the slight, mannerly head drop before he ate. I sat on the sofa and he lay down at my feet as we watched the chaser devour the contestants and I thought: what a cool dog.
“He’s edgy. I don’t trust him.” Fionnuala had the BBQ on. “But you’ll have to go back in the morning.”
“Genghis owes me.” I reached over her shoulder. “And McGowan, and you.”
I bowed politely and devoured a hotdog.