by Anita Notaro
‘You’d be fucked actually,’ Clodagh said, deadpan.
‘You know what I mean.’ I felt flat again.
‘We love you, you don’t need to change.’
‘Yeah well, you’d better get used to it, babe’ – I mentally picked myself up – ‘’Cause this is the new me.’ I did a twirl, seeing as she hadn’t yet commented on my Juicy Couture tracksuit. ‘And quit wrecking my buzz.’
To her credit, she didn’t laugh. ‘OK, hon, let’s see where this takes us. I’ll come along for the ride.’ She gave me a hug. ‘But only if I can make a list.’ She winked.
‘Screw lists, I’m having an adventure.’
‘You’re on, so. How about we start by doing something this weekend?’
‘Great. Maddy’s coming round on Saturday to help me organize the shed. We could go out after?’
‘A shed, eh? Very unconventional.’ She gave me a look, then ducked to avoid the cushion I threw at her. ‘I’ll meet you in Ron Black’s at nine.’
Next day I had a new client. He was called Denis Cassidy and I was thrilled, because he’d been referred by our local vet in Stillorgan. I wondered if he was cute, single – young even? Rich would be a bonus. He was, in fact, sixtysomething and hadn’t a bean, if looks were anything to go by. But his dog was a hoot, a tiny Jack Russell cross with a tail that would take your eye out.
‘Mr Cassidy, sit down. I’m Louisa.’ I decided to play it straight with the name with my older clients, in case they thought ‘Lulu’ was too flaky. ‘And who is this cutie?’ I tickled the dog’s neck then straightened up and coughed, realizing I was talking to all dogs as if they were babies.
‘This is Bartholomew,’ he said with pride.
‘That’s an unusual name, why did you choose that?’
‘I wanted something grand, you see. I hate my own name. All my life I’ve been called Dinny or Denny or Dinjo. At school I was Denis the Menace.’ His eyes twinkled.
‘I once had a dog called Gnasher.’ I’d no idea why I told him. ‘He was a bit of a rough diamond.’
‘I’m a bit of a gouger too, you see.’ He winked.
‘I doubt that.’ I laughed. Bartholomew had taken up residence on the brand-new Louis Vuitton-imitation canine couch, all brown and caramel check and fake leather. After he’d sniffed it for a moment or two he decided to christen it. I tried not to look too horrified or move too fast as he cocked his leg on my €100 fake-designer bed – and Denis was a bit slow out of the chair – so by the time we got to him he’d peed for Ireland and was wagging his tail in delight.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Denis looked really upset.
‘No worries, he’s just being a dog.’ But I’d gone off him bigtime, I decided, as I scooped up a load of tissues I’d bought in case any clients burst into tears – a hangover from my old life when all I did was mop up after people. Not so different now then, I decided, although the smell was a bit gassier and I used not to have to wipe the seats. I took the bed to the bathroom and ran it under the tap then left it to dry on the radiator.
‘I’ll pay to have it cleaned,’ Denis said feebly when I returned. ‘Bad dog,’ he said sternly, but he was stroking the mutt’s head as he scolded, not the recommended way to deal with bad behaviour.
‘So, what can I do for you, Mr Cassidy?’ I said with a smile, ignoring the dog’s wagging tail, having decided the little bollix could sit on the cold floor.
‘Denis, please. I’ve never been called Mr Cassidy in my life, except when I was stopped by the cops and breathalysed last year.’
‘Oh my God, what happened?’ It was every oulfella’s nightmare in rural Ireland these days. Denis had told me he lived near Ashford in County Wicklow so I imagined he was a farmer or something, judging by the dirt under his nails.
‘Told him he’d have to catch me first and sped off,’ he cackled.
‘What?’
‘He was on a pushbike, you see, and it was dark. And my back number plate was missing.’ His face was that of a bold child who’d gotten away with robbing an orchard.
‘Good for you.’ It was a totally unprofessional thing to say, but it was out before I could stop myself.
‘That’s what everyone says. These new drink-driving laws have ruined rural life.’ He thumped the table. ‘I’m a responsible driver. I have two pints and go home the back roads and, anyway, my old jalopy wouldn’t go over 30 miles an hour if you filled it with whiskey, even. Most of my neighbours won’t go out any more, they’re terrified of losing their licence. Have the police nothin’ better to do than harass old folks like me? I asked a young fella in uniform the other day. He was about twelve years of age and givin’ a ticket to Mrs O’Reilly, just because she was blocking a line of traffic for a second while she nipped in to get her pension. It’s a scandal, that’s what it is. Anyway, tell me about what you do, Miss?’
‘Well, em, I’m, em, originally a psychologist, but I have studied with a world-renowned expert on dog behaviour. My certificates are internationally recognized and I did a BA in . . .’
‘So you used to practise on humans, then?’
‘Yes, I suppose, although prac—’
‘I prefer dogs myself, most of the time.’
‘Me too.’ We smiled at each other, and I like to think both of us knew then that ours was a relationship that would endure, although Denis gave no indication of what he was thinking. In a way, he was the father figure I’d never had. I shook myself quickly, realizing that I wasn’t about to go there.
‘So, eh, maybe you’d like to tell me about Bartholomew?’ I asked him after a second or two.
‘There’s something botherin’ him,’ Denis told me after a while. ‘He’s just not himself.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He’s moody.’
‘Moody?’
‘Yeah, a bit like a woman. Never know where you stand with him. One minute he’s licking your face, next he’s ignoring you, that class of thing.’
‘I see.’ I didn’t.
‘So, do you think you can help?’
‘I’ll certainly try. Perhaps next time I could come and visit you at home?’ It was something I’d been avoiding, feeling I had enough to cope with, but I was beginning to understand that part of my job was going to mean travelling, to see my ‘clients’ in their normal environment. So here was my first opportunity, and I suspected I was going to have to do the same for Ronan O’Meara and his gran.
‘That’d be great,’ Denis said, and immediately got up to leave, as if he was afraid I’d change my mind. ‘When?’ was all he said.
‘Eh, soon. How about next week?’
‘Could you come tomorrow?’
‘Not tomorrow, no.’ I scanned my diary. ‘But perhaps Friday? Does that suit?’
He nodded. ‘As long as it’s after twelve. I collect the oul pension on Fridays, and Maureen Kearns, the neighbour who brings me, always insists we have coffee afterwards. She’s fierce posh like that.’ He scratched his head as if he couldn’t figure that one out either. ‘Do you drink this new coffee, Miss? That frothy stuff with cocoa powder all over the place and very little in the cup that you can actually swallow?’
‘I prefer tea actually.’ I laughed at the face he made.
‘Grand so. I have plenty of that. And a packet of gingernut biscuits to dunk in it.’
‘I look forward to it.’ I scribbled down his address and telephone number and we agreed a time.
He left happy, and left me even more intrigued. Like most of my new clients, there was more to Denis the Menace than I’d discovered so far – that I knew for sure.
6
I WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO MY NEXT APPOINTMENT. LUSCIOUS Louis was back, along with Mike and Pedro. Louis was wearing an exquisite charcoal suit; Mike looked like he’d slept in his shirt.
‘Hello there.’ I made straight for Louis. My God he really was a ride, and quite macho-looking too. I wondered if I was the only woman who secretly thought that cute gay men could swing either wa
y, if they met the right woman. I’d wasted quite a bit of time on this notion over the years, and it hadn’t happened yet.
‘Cool room, I love the colour.’ Louis was off exploring, so my plan wasn’t about to come to fruition this time either, I reckoned.
‘Aubergine melt,’ I told his back. ‘I had a bit of help from an interior designer. Apparently, dogs feel more at ease with certain tones, at least according to Giorgio’s website. It’s something to do with their acute sense of smell, apparently. Did you know that colours smell different?’ I asked them.
Louis looked interested, while Mike looked like he was waiting for the punchline.
‘Me neither,’ was all I could think of to add.
‘Fascinating,’ and ‘What a load of shite,’ Louis and Mike said in unison.
‘I can’t believe you fell for that, he must be American,’ Mike continued. ‘Pedro here only gets excited by the smell of pee and wouldn’t recognize aubergine melt if it appeared in his Pedigree Chum.’
‘I suppose that’s from his days in the hospice – the urine association?’ I sympathized.
‘No, it’s because Mike’s aim is always off and he never quite manages to reach the bowl.’ Louis’s lip curled. ‘And Pedro follows him everywhere, so he invariably licks it up. Gross but true.’
‘Don’t they say piss is rich in something?’ Mike wanted to know.
‘The only thing yours is rich in is alcohol.’ Louis sighed. ‘No wonder poor Pedro is so stupid, he’s probably half cut most of the time.’
Oh God please, I prayed silently. Not another couple who need counselling. I decided to move on pronto. ‘Sit down, please.’ I indicated the couch.
‘The dog bed’s a bit past it,’ Louis commented, as Pedro sniffed excitedly then rolled around on it. ‘Doesn’t quite match the rest of the room.’
‘Yes, well, it’s brand-new but one of my other clients – Bartholomew – peed on it, and I put the fabric on a rad to dry and unfortunately it sort of melted and went all hard . . .’ I’d been furious when I discovered it.
‘Some bastard peed on the dog bed? Now that’s gross.’ Mike laughed.
‘No, no.’ I shook my head. ‘Bartholomew is a dog – a Jack Russell cross. Denis, his owner, was mortified, actually.’ I decided this pee thing had gone far enough. ‘Anyway, Pedro seems more than happy.’
It was true. The Collie was trying to flatten the bed by thrashing it to bits, and doing quite well, actually.
‘Ignore him, it means he loves it.’ Louis gave the dog an adoring look. ‘He’ll settle in a minute, won’t you, honey bun?’ He got down on all fours and proceeded to roll about with the dog. I went off him straightaway, thankfully, as soon as he started asking, ‘Who’s your Daddy?’ in a black rapper voice.
‘And therein lies our problem.’ Mike stretched and yawned. ‘Louis thinks the mutt is human. It’s killing me.’
‘Right, well . . .’
‘I don’t, honestly, Louisa . . .’ Louis made to get up.
‘Last night he came home with a high chair for him – specially made – so that he could eat with us.’ Mike mouthed, ‘I swear,’ at my incredulous face and raised his eyebrows. ‘He has his own clothes rail, tracksuit and sun visor. The only difference between him and Louis is that Louis has a walk-in wardrobe.’ They were behaving like an old married couple; I decided they were definitely partners. ‘Last week I got into trouble for not making him sit in the baby seat in Louis’s car and strapping him in.’ Mike scratched his head. ‘He weighs a ton because we feed him avocado and bleedin’ chickpea purée or something and when Louis’s away he claims I’m giving the dog diarrhoea simply because I open a can . . .’
‘I refuse to feed Pedro anything I wouldn’t eat myself.’ Louis looked sullen. ‘How would you feel if you had to eat pig’s intestines and blood and stuff?’
‘Like I do every Saturday morning when I have black pudding for breakfast?’ Mike grinned.
‘OK, guys, let’s take it from the top.’ I pulled out my notebook and went into school-mistress mode. ‘What’s the basic problem?’
‘I told you, Louis thinks he’s human – the dog, I mean.’
‘I do not. You just ignore him. Last week I came home and he was drinking the remains of your beer from a bottle you’d left on the kitchen floor, because there was no water in his bowl . . .’
‘That’s because we’d run out of Evian and you won’t let me give him tap water.’ Mike caught my snort. ‘You think I’m exaggerating? Come and stay with us for a weekend some time.’
‘You never wash him and, once, you forgot to feed him for two days.’
‘That is not true.’ Mike threw his hands in the air. ‘I just didn’t roast a pheasant for him and serve it with parsnip crisps.’
‘You fed him one of those own-brand cheap-as-chips tins. He had the runs for two days.’ Louis folded his arms and angled his body away from Mike, always a bad sign in a relationship.
‘Look, I’m not doing this any more.’ Mike stood up. ‘He’s a dog, for Christ sake. He does not need lavender oil on his pillow and his own armchair.’
‘He’s just afraid of what people think when they see him out with Pedro . . .’
‘Too right I am, when he’s a Collie wearing a pink tutu and a swastika or whatever you call those diamond collars . . .’
‘Swarovski, asshole.’ Louis was furious. ‘You’re just showing your ignorance.’
‘Ah fuck it, I’m outta here.’ Mike headed for the door while I was pretending to take notes.
‘No, no.’ I leapt up. ‘Please, don’t go. This is a . . . eh, more common problem than you might think,’ I lied. ‘And I’m confident we can . . . avoid a domestic crisis.’ I tried to be diplomatic.
‘Yes, but can you avoid having them both committed?’ Mike started to laugh suddenly. I was biting my lip at that stage anyway. ‘Next on his list’ – he indicated Louis, who had his back to us – ‘is finding a dog hotel where he can call every night to say hello via video link when he’s away.’ Mike winked and explained that there was even one hotel where the dogs could bring their favourite DVD with them, to help them sleep.
‘You’re a cruel bastard.’ Louis hauled Pedro – who was snoring, genitals exposed – to his feet, and was out the door before I could stop him.
‘Oops, better go, he’s hell to live with when he’s upset.’ Mike looked like he enjoyed tormenting people.
‘Excuse me . . .’ Mary, the offices’ receptionist, put her head round the door. ‘Eh, Mr Cassidy just rang to confirm your appointment for later this morning.’ She looked pointedly at her watch, in an effort to rescue me, I suspected.
‘Eh, fine. Thanks,’ I gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’
Mike was halfway out the door. ‘I really have to go,’ he grimaced. ‘Louis is driving and, if I don’t get there fast, Pedro will be sitting in the front seat wearing my shades and I’ll be crouching in the boot wearing a muzzle. It’s a tough life.’ He winked and was gone.
‘Oh, and we owe you money. Fix you up at the next one,’ he shouted over his shoulder. I headed for a giant chocolate intake.
7
TWO HOURS LATER I PULLED UP OUTSIDE A TYPICAL FARMHOUSE IN Wicklow – a plethora of sheds, muck everywhere and a mound of tyres. Bartholomew came to greet me, hurling himself in my direction from about ten metres away and somersaulting in the process, then landing smack on his back at my feet with a resounding thump.
‘Ouch, I felt that. Are you OK?’ I forgave him the bed incident immediately. He wriggled around, got to his feet, shook off the mud and acted as though nothing had happened.
‘Typical man.’ I grinned at him and rubbed his belly.
‘Hello there, you found us then.’ Denis Cassidy was in his working clothes, threadbare cardigan and check shirt with several buttons missing around the stomach revealing a vest the colour of used bathwater.
‘Mr Cassidy, how are you?’
‘Would ye give over with
the Mr, Miss, my name is Dinny.’ He ignored my outstretched hand.
‘In that case, my friends call me Lulu.’ I wasn’t sure why I told him that. He had one of those faces; it made me want to dump my emotional baggage on him instead of the other way round.
He howled with laughter. ‘What class of a name is Lulu?’ He slapped me on the back so hard I nearly hit him in the eye with the apple I’d eaten on the journey down. ‘If I call you that, the neighbours will think I have a fancy woman or somethin’. Mind you, Lulu’s a dog’s name, so that’s good.’ He cackled and turned on his heels and led the way inside.
The kitchen was much as it had been for years, I reckoned. A Formica table was covered with an orangey plastic cloth, the kind with bananas and apples printed inside squares. It matched the shiny red kitchen cabinet, from what I could see. The fireplace was a brown and cream concoction of cracked tiles with a coal scuttle and a packet of firelighters beside it, side by side with a brass companion set in the shape of a horseshoe, the rungs bare except for a half-burned, baldy brush and a blackened, stubby poker.
‘I made you some dinner.’ He’d half cleared and set the table – something that didn’t happen every lunchtime, I imagined.
‘You shouldn’t have . . .’
‘It’s only soup.’ He ladled out a glutinous mass that I knew had come from a packet. Country Vegetable, or something similar, I decided, as identical yellow and orange squares floated to the surface of a thick beige broth flecked with grass-coloured sprinklings. To go with it, he put heels of white batch loaf on a bread board, then left a plate of square pink slices of tinned corned beef in the middle of the table. Saxa salt and Goodall’s white pepper completed the meal. He used both liberally.
I tucked in, only so as not to offend him, and noticed he broke his slice of bread into lumps then dunked it in the soup to add to its wallpaper-paste consistency. We ate in silence, while the TV with rabbit’s ears sat in the corner and spat out recipes for spiced pumpkin and chorizo broth and warm rocket and pesto salad with goat’s cheese.
