Stray Dog

by Gareth O'Callaghan

  I didn’t go to as many of his gigs or exhibitions. So I didn’t have to think about the women who would watch him dreamily as he sang their favourite songs, or him explaining to the art-loving women about his brush strokes and colour blends.

  It wasn’t jealousy, nor was it insecurity, I believe. I really know that now. It was disbelief on my part that such an amazing man could just walk into my life and stay.

  6

  Sonny came to love Chopin and howled out to the catchy piano melodies late into the afternoon. John sat in the open French doors, his scarf tucked in under a heavy pullover, painting a scene unfolding in our back garden.

  A nest of bird eggs had been hatching over a couple of days in the softening spring climate. Six grey wagtails chirped noisily, non-stop, for their mother to bring back worms and crumbs, and seeds and bits, to nourish them.

  The noise drove Sonny mad, so John had to turn the stereo up and drown the chirping with the sound of the solo piano. We must have had the only dog in the world that knew all of Chopin’s waltzes almost intimately!

  I had become worried about John, about his lack of concern for draughts and soakings from spring showers and late nights, and his lack of dietary control. He was even forgetting to take his medicine when he was meant to. But he just laughed and shouted at Sonny.

  His specialist phoned one evening. John had gone out to collect new strings for his mandolin. It was the evening I grew to dislike this doctor for his ruthless lack of humanity. This man, having listened to me regaling him about the new dog we had adopted, and the new man I had found as a result, just laughed.

  He said, “Don’t be getting your hopes up.”

  I was shocked and felt angry. “Explain what you mean by that,” I said.

  He took a deep breath. “Jo, I’ve been dealing with cases like John’s for almost fifteen years now. He’s nothing special. Obviously every case is different. John is simply outliving our expectations. A change of season, improved weather, longer days, more daylight – all these things can lead to greater hopes and beliefs that outcomes will be different. The body responds by adding an extra month or two. That’s all.” He chuckled again, as if trying to soften his tone. “It’s certainly not your dog that’s helping your husband to live longer. If it is then I want to be Doctor Doolittle!”

  I threw the phone down as I heard the key in the front door.

  Sonny bounded into the sitting-room and dived onto the good couch. John strode in behind her. “Who was that?” he asked.

  “The hospital.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Just to know how you’re getting on.”

  “And what did you tell them?” He smiled and sat down and stroked Sonny’s head.

  “I told them you were doing fantastic, that you had even surprised yourself.”

  John grinned and winked at me. It had been years since we had winked at each other. “I’ll show them,” he said cheekily.

  “You have an appointment next Thursday,” I said reluctantly. I didn’t want my John going anywhere near the hospital. He was coping beautifully. Anything they were going to tell him now he didn’t need to know. He should have died five months ago if their “rough guess” had been right, but he didn’t.

  He was fitter and healthier and more positive now than I had ever seen him. He ate heartily, sang his favourite songs and even offered to iron the clothes for me. (We had a joke in our house that we had a “magic chair” in the kitchen. Since neither of us liked ironing, we just left bundles of clothes on the magic chair in the hope that the other one would iron them.)

  John started to do odd jobs around the house. He replaced old light fittings and painted the bathroom the shade of lavender he knew I loved. And, that night the consultant rang, we made love – something neither of us had suggested doing for a long time. That night raised both of us to a new level of love and connection, the likes of which I can’t ever recall.

  The strange truth for me was that the reason for his new lease of life, and for our new life together, was sitting on the armchair beside him gasping for water. This dog had not only extended my husband’s life, but also put the magic back into our friendship as a couple.

  7

  The visit did not go well. John’s specialist sat stony-faced. There were charts and a pad sitting in front of him. “Still no change, it would appear, John.” He sat still in his starched white coat, his hands almost in prayer, his fingertips stroking his chin. He wanted to hear John’s reaction.

  John laughed in disbelief. “But I’m putting on weight. One stone, three pounds in four months! Surely that’s a sign that I’m doing really well?”

  The doctor shook his head and checked the first chart. “But this chart clearly shows there’s no change.” He pointed to a shadow on the x-ray. It’s still there … and it’s getting bigger.”

  John swallowed hard and squeezed my hand.

  The doctor picked up a second chart with pieces of paper attached to one corner. He waited for a minute, as if to make sure he was certain. He cleared his throat. “Actually the tests we did two weeks ago show that it’s spreading, I’m afraid.” It was all he said.

  John stood up slowly, pulling me with him as he walked sideways to the door. He nodded at the doctor and we left. The car was quiet all the way home. Usually John would play a tape of Chopin for Sonny, and our white shaggy dog would howl along and stick her head out the back window and bark. Today she just slouched on the back seat. John sat beside me and stared out the window. Sometimes he sighed, with the aimless intent of someone who seemed to have given up hope.

  John went upstairs and got into bed, just like he used to when he had been first diagnosed. He was turned to the wall, asleep, when I checked on him.

  Sonny lay under the kitchen table while it got dark outside.

  I sat alone in the drawing-room of our house that night, late into the night. And I wondered what it would be like to be really alone. What must it be like not to have the one you love call your name, or touch you and kiss you and let you know how loved and wanted you really are?

  I had never been a very spiritual person, but I knew something was changing in recent weeks and months. Now, in the silence of the house, I could feel a presence fill the room around me.

  Before all this I had been used to living a single life within a relationship with a man I loved. Each of us did our own thing, but we relied on each other for those little moments we needed to be connected for. Now everything each of us did was completely dependent on how the outcome would affect the other. Now I was living half of another’s life, and he had become an inseparable half of everything I was.

  But that could not happen without the presence of something so much greater that kept the connection between the two of us alive. And we felt connected, whether we were making love, or together in the park holding hands, or at opposite ends of a room, or on opposite sides of the world.

  8

  I checked my watch. It was after four o’clock in the morning. I’d fallen fast asleep. Sonny was stretched across my lap. I gently patted her back and scratched her head the way John did, knowing she liked it.

  This dog was amazing in so many ways. Whatever we had done for her, I was starting to believe that she had completely turned our lives around and put them together again. I hated to think about where John might be now if it hadn’t been for the gale-force energy she had breathed into our lives. And in doing so, she had made me think about my life with John and stretched my spirit to get closer to his.

  I’d lit a candle and placed it on the coffee table close to the mantelpiece. It gave off a soft glow, and its flame flickered and danced against the wall above the fireplace. It lit up a painting of a bridge in Paris where John had sat for hours one afternoon, sketching and colouring until he was happy with its likeness.

  We sat together, dog and human, listening to the songs of George Benson. “The Greatest Love of All”. It was one of my favourite songs. I stroked her long, matted
ears and she nestled into my tummy. She was like a small child – helpless in many ways, but bold and quick in others. While I listened to the songs of my youth I found myself talking to this beautiful animal in a way I’d never have believed I would. “I love you,” I told her.

  She stretched up and licked my face.

  “Thank you for what you have done for our John. I really think we might have lost him a good while back if it hadn’t been for you coming into our lives.”

  She watched me with a gentle, attentive look. It seemed to tell me this dog was more clever than I’d given her credit for. It almost seemed at one point as if she wanted to respond in words. It was as if she was pushing herself to say something in reply to me.

  “You know, I think we’re going to have to say goodbye to John very soon,” I said gently, as if not wanting to hurt the dog’s feelings. But I needed to say it to someone. I needed badly to bring this hurtful fact into the open so I could feel like I had admitted the truth to myself. Then it occurred to me that I was talking to a four-legged animal like I would my best friend.

  This pet of ours couldn’t talk, never mind fully understand the feelings behind the things I was telling her. Yet she was like a best friend. She felt like someone I could talk to when my real best friend was too ill to listen. She whined softly. It made me tremble. She did know what I was saying to her. She could feel the distress in my voice. She shivered a little and put her head back down on my stomach.

  We fell asleep together as the candle flickered less and eventually died.

  Bright sunshine was streaming through the crack in the net curtains when I opened my eyes. The radio was playing in the kitchen, and the music and DJ filled the house with energy. It felt early but I knew it had to be later. It must have been after five when I fell asleep. A blanket covered me. I could smell sausages and black pudding and hear the fresh, sizzling sound of a fry. It was a breakfast I hadn’t tasted for years. Sonny’s barking echoed around our small back garden. She was warning the birds they were on someone else’s patch.

  John pushed open the door. He was carrying a tray. On it was a full Irish, a pot of tea, four slices of toast and butter and marmalade.

  “I would have done that for you,” I said with thanks.

  “I wanted to make it for you. I haven’t done it in years.”

  I could hear sadness in his voice. We both knew what he meant. It was something he wanted to do because he wouldn’t be able to for much longer. I fought back the tears and reached for his hand. “Thank you.”

  9

  In the days and weeks that followed, Sonny turned our small house into a warm, loving, welcoming home. Her barking and occasional escape out the front door made the children on our street quite curious. They would return Sonny and stand at the front door and chat to me.

  It was the first time since we had moved here that I chatted with our other neighbours. It was one of those streets where people kept very much to themselves. This had distressed me since John became ill. I wondered what I would do if I woke in the night and he needed urgent help.

  The children called every day and took it in turns to walk Sonny on her lead in the park beside our house. I told them I couldn’t get out as often as I would have liked because my husband was very ill. I told them I needed to stay with him as much as I could. Three of them called at the same time every day – a little girl with curly blonde hair and two small boys. They would ask if I needed anything from the local shops. Soon I had a small shopping list ready for them when they called.

  Within days I had a call from one of their parents, a lovely woman who was worried that her daughter might be annoying us by calling too often. I assured her she wasn’t. I explained to her that John had cancer. The woman told me her name was Nancy. Soon we were close friends. She cooked meals, put out bins and tidied rooms if I needed her help. Word was getting around. Days later others were calling, asking if I needed anything, if they could sit with John while I took a break. Before long I realised I had a small group of new friends who genuinely were concerned for both of us.

  Once again it was all down to Sonny. She had worked her way into the lives of the children. In turn, their parents had come and found me just when I needed people badly.

  I had always believed I could do everything on my own. I believed it was not necessary to rely on others to get on in life. John had become my rock of support. He was there when I needed a second opinion. I could just look around and know that he was there for me.

  Now I know that was just a serious case of taking someone else for granted. I know that simply because I felt that John loved me, I thought I could assume things about our relationship. It never occurred to me that this man would not be there forever. I always thought I would die before him. It was what I would have wanted, but maybe that’s just an excuse, a cop-out.

  The longer a relationship endures the easier it becomes to assume that it will continue. The last thing I was expecting was that John would die. I often told myself that he might come home some day and tell me he had met someone else. I think it would have been painfully difficult to hear him say those words. But it would have been easier than to hear a man in a white coat tell me stone-cold that my partner was going to die on me.

  10

  One day I was walking Sonny in the park. It was fresh and windy but the sun shone. Nancy had offered to sit with John while he had his afternoon nap. His energy levels were still good over the last couple of weeks. But I had detected a definite change. His appetite was poorly again and he wasn’t sleeping well. I boosted my hopes by reminding myself that at least the pain wasn’t as bad as it had been. He would sleep most afternoons from three to five. I would use the time to get some fresh air, to walk and to put things in my head into perspective.

  Sonny loved the park, chasing squirrels and barking at birds and bicycles. I was amazed at how quickly she could suddenly tear after something she’d heard rustling in the ditches and the rough hedges. She would stop, dead still, then bark and break into a wild sprint.

  But then, just as I had fixed her in my sight in the distance, she was gone. She had vanished. I looked around, searched everywhere. I listened for her barking and the way she would howl at small animals she might hear or see in the undergrowth. But there were no sounds. There was no familiar barking, just the noise of the traffic and the occasional blast of wind in the trees that surrounded me as I searched for her without luck.

  I cried all the way home and cursed God for messing things up so nicely. I suddenly became aware again of how brittle and uncertain our lives had become. It was as if Sonny had bonded our existence with glue. It felt like she had patched things up for us during a period of fear and the unknown. She added simplicity to our lives that had helped us to deal with the horrible prospects that lay ahead. I realised that whenever Sonny wasn’t close to me, the awful truth about John’s health and the few weeks I had left with him became all too painful.

  And what would I tell John? He’d always said, “Keep her on the lead.” But I couldn’t in the park. It didn’t seem fair. She needed to be released. She needed to do what the other dogs loved to do. Anyway she had become so strong she could dislocate my shoulder if I tried to hold on to her. She needed to run unleashed for the hour she was free.

  I tried to imagine a variety of excuses, but there were none. I dreaded the moment I would have to tell him. He was waiting for me inside the door when I arrived home.

  His reaction shocked me. He smiled and said, “She’ll be back.” He hugged me tightly.

  “But what if she’s been taken by someone?” I asked in disbelief.

  He shook his head. “I’ll bet you she’ll be back here within a few hours.”

  I wanted to ask how he could be so sure, but I didn’t. I just prayed and hoped he would be right. I called the local police station. They told me there was little they could do. I rang the pound. They told me they would watch out for her. They knew her and would call if anyone sighted her.

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bsp; I wrote out small notices, placed them in local shop windows and waited for it to become dark. And then I became very upset at the thought of my little baby out there on her own on the cold streets, hungry and lost. She really had become the centre of our lives.

  “She’ll be back tomorrow,” John kept saying as he coaxed me to eat something that night.

  And he was right. The following afternoon Sonny came home.

  The young boy wouldn’t give his name. He was about fourteen, tall, dark-haired and familiar looking, although I couldn’t place him. He smiled, out of breath. He seemed in a hurry. He struggled to keep Sonny in his arms. As soon as I opened the door, the dog jumped down and shot in past me, landing on John’s lap with a thump.

  “Where did you find her?” I asked him.

  “She ran into our back garden and barked. I heard a screech. She must have run out on the road in front of a car. Lucky for her she didn’t get knocked down. I knew she was Sonny because I saw my friends taking her to the shop last week.”

  I took some coins out of my pocket and handed them to him. He looked with wide-open eyes, then shook his head. “No really,” he insisted, “it’s OK. Thank you.” He backed away, closed the garden gate and was gone. I went after him but he had turned the corner by the time I’d reached the street.

  All the things I never thought would happen were starting to unfold. My sister, whom I hadn’t spoken to since I’d got married, phoned me. Penny apologised for not getting in touch. We’d had a terrible row because I hadn’t asked her to be my bridesmaid. We’d married in Rome. I explained we couldn’t afford a big wedding but she took it personally and didn’t talk to me until that afternoon that Sonny came home.

  She had heard from one of my neighbours that John was ill. She cried when I told her how sick he really was. She promised to call the following weekend and spend some time with us.