With my background, I’m most definitely a dog person, there was never going to be any question of that. In October 1975 when my parents married, they united two great cat hating families. On my mother’s side, the Tynan’s kept racing pigeons and as such viewed prowling felines as a threat to their loft. My dad, well he just hates cats.
Even when I tried, as the sane, reasonable member of my family, to break from tradition by bonding with some kitties, it never felt right. They always had air of superiority and entitlement. They would come to me when they wanted attention and when they were done they would jump out the window and saunter along the garden wall without so much as an “I’ll call you.” Frankly if I wanted to be treated like that I could go back to some of my previous romantic relationships.
Cat people are a strange bunch. They are kind of like the submissive in an S&M relationship. They put up with outlandish demands for the promise of some kind of affection which may or may not come. This doesn’t make them bad people, although the phrase is not “crazy cat lady” for nothing.
Having failed in attempts to reach out to cats, I have to accept that it’s me and dogs all the way. It’s been that way since I was a kid. One of my earliest memories is of having an Afghan hound named Max. I recently found out that my dad got Max from one of former Taoiseach, Charlie Haughey’s daughters in lieu of payment for some work he did for her. A different kind of under the counter payment if you will.
After Max was Queenie, a black and white Jack Russell. I don’t remember much about Queenie accept that the ground was covered in frost the morning she died. It made it harder for my Dad to bury her in the back garden while I sat indoors watching a Tom Sawyer movie on TV.
Queenie always gets promoted to my first pet when doing the “What’s your porn star name?” game. The idea being that you use the name of your first pet and your mother’s maiden name when deciding on suitable pseudonym for any appearance in X-rated movies. This is not a slight on Max’s position as my first pet but ‘Queenie Tynan’ always had a more comedic ring which I feel is imperative with an erotic alias.
Then, when I was in First Class in primary school, the biggest canine relationship of my life began. One November evening my father brought me out for a walk. We went up towards Mount Argus where he had been working that week. He wanted me to meet the lady who he was working for, an older lady whose house smelt funny.
This was hardly surprising considering she shared it with a cat and a dog. Having been told by countless cartoons that these creatures where natural enemies, I was stunned to see how they cohabited peacefully. I remember asking my dad about it and he laughed out loud. He sometimes still tells the story of my amazement at the cat and dog living happily together.
The dog, I was to discover, had recently given birth to a litter of pups that the lady of the house was eager to find good homes for. Again in lieu of cash we were going to get a dog. We wrapped him in a blanket and a hot water bottle that the lady wanted us to take for him and carried him home in a cardboard box. When we got him back to our house I named him Jock.
Jock was the family dog, but I always felt, from the time I carried him hope in that King Crisp box, that we had a bond that meant more to him than the rest of the Holohans. A small two tone Jack Russell, white with a light brown stubby tail and saddle patch on his back, he was beautiful inside and out. He had a habit of tilting his tan head to one and looking me up and down, his deep black eyes half wondering where the food was and half asking if I was ok.
He was a real constant through my teenage years of confusion and self pity. Like Greta Garbo with acne and unpredictable erections, my adolescent self regularly just wanted to be alone. Sharing a small house with a family of five and room with two brothers, solitude was not always easy to come by. So I would retreat to our back garden, sitting either on the steps in front of the door or under the trees that grew wild there. Jock, sensing my anguish would come over to me, nuzzling my hand with his head to let me know he was there for me. He got me.
Without wanting to ruin the emotion of the article, in the interest of disclosure, I should point out that sometimes when I was sitting down in the garden, instead of trying to comfort me Jock would occasionally attempt to hump my leg. He was a dog, what can you expect. Don’t judge him for it.
The night Jock left us was hard on the entire family. I had just finished school so he would have been about thirteen years old. Something happened in his brain which meant it was kinder to let the vet stop his pain. As I sat on the steps of the vet’s surgery, with my friend tucked under my coat, I said goodbye. I’d been there to collect him when we got and I was there to try and make his last hours less scary. I never had to do anything as hard before or since. So far I’ve been fortunate not to experience the loss of a human family member but Jock was a member of my family and the grief felt was as powerful as anything I can imagine.
After Jock’s passing, I really didn’t feel like I would want another dog. It wouldn’t be right. But like I said at the top, we are a dog family and soon my dad wanted to get another dog. I wasn’t so sure I was ready so kept my distance from the new pup at first. Jackie, a black furred cross breed was cute but she wasn’t Jock. Eventually we bonded one night where I was up late reading and she came over and rested her head in my lap. She was alright.
I could keep talking about the dogs in my life but that would involve telling you about the deaths of two more beloved pets and frankly I don’t think I can take it. It’s been quite emotional writing this. Who knew I was such a big softie?
