criminals in prisons, in order to assist them in their rehabilitation. Davey Senior hadnât owned a petsince he was a child growing up on the Georgetown Road, when heâd won a goldfish at the town fair, and on his return from the fair his brother Dennis â son number six to Daveyâs number seven â had promptly flushed the fish down the outside toilet. When Davey Senior had protested, Dennis had fought with him and forced his head into the toilet bowl, to allow little Davey to try to save the poor fish, a fish which Davey had decided to call Lucky. Even now, fifty years later, when he drove past the sewage plant up past the ring road Davey found himself wondering about the fate of that fish: he wondered if maybe it had made it out into open seas. * Daveyâs brother Dennis had eventually ended up in prison and he remained altogether a bad lot, and Davey had therefore a rather pessimistic view about the relationship between man and beasts: he believed that Mr Donellyâs rehabilitation scheme was probably unworkable. But a pet was still an unequivocal good, according to Mr Donelly, and a doddle.
âSheâs easier to keep than your mother,â he liked to joke, sometimes, to his children.
Sheâs called Rusty, the dog â Mrs Donelly is Mary â and sheâs sixteen and her eyesightâs gone, more or less, so Mr Donelly lets her watch TV with him in the evenings, with the Ceefax subtitles on, and he gives her a hot-water bottle in winter. Sheâs part of the family, part Airedale and part Irish Terrier, which is a cute combination, and a few years ago she won a rosette in our town dog show, in the category The Dog With The Kindliest Expression, and rightly so. Her expression is, in fact, much kinder than a lot of the people in our town, so she may not just be The Dog With The Kindliest Expression, she may, in fact, be in possession of our townâs Kindliest Expression, full stop â quite an achievement for a mongrel. Mrs Donelly wonders sometimes if Mr Donelly loves that dog more than he loves his own children. Itâs possible.
When he arrived back home from their customary walk â down to Bridge Street and Main Street, past the Quality Hotel, then up High Street and into the Peopleâs Park â Mr Donelly settled the dog into its basket in the corner of the garage, a basket tucked in underneath all the jars and the tins and the tools and the wood offcuts of a lifetime, which might come in handy one day, squeezed in tight between a workbench that used to be the Donelly kitchen table, and Mr Donellyâs little Honda 50 with its grey and white trim and its seat bound with masking tape. Mr Donelly hasnât been out on the Honda for nearly two years, since heâd taken a tumble on Gilbeyâs roundabout. âThe Nicest Things,â they used to say, âHappen on a Honda,â which may have been true thirty or forty years ago, but now there was so much traffic, even on the ring road, you were lucky if you made it unscathed up to the DIY stores or the Plough and the Stars, and then made it back home again safely.
âIâm not identifying your body when you fall off that thing again and end up dead in hospital, all squashed,â said MrsDonelly. âItâs time to hang up your helmet, mister.â You didnât argue with Mrs Donelly.
The helmet hung on a nail over the dog basket.
Saying goodnight to the dog and locking up the garage, Mr Donelly made his way towards the house, his childless, empty house. He squeezed past the wheelie bin with its stick-on number â another ridiculous council regulation, as if anyone would want to steal it â and past the pile of flagstones that heâd borrowed, or requisitioned, in an act of defiance, from the council when theyâd been doing the road-widening scheme at the bottom of Main Street, and he peered in at his kitchen window. The kitchen was spotless, as always, the way
âSheâs easier to keep than your mother,â he liked to joke, sometimes, to his children.
Sheâs called Rusty, the dog â Mrs Donelly is Mary â and sheâs sixteen and her eyesightâs gone, more or less, so Mr Donelly lets her watch TV with him in the evenings, with the Ceefax subtitles on, and he gives her a hot-water bottle in winter. Sheâs part of the family, part Airedale and part Irish Terrier, which is a cute combination, and a few years ago she won a rosette in our town dog show, in the category The Dog With The Kindliest Expression, and rightly so. Her expression is, in fact, much kinder than a lot of the people in our town, so she may not just be The Dog With The Kindliest Expression, she may, in fact, be in possession of our townâs Kindliest Expression, full stop â quite an achievement for a mongrel. Mrs Donelly wonders sometimes if Mr Donelly loves that dog more than he loves his own children. Itâs possible.
When he arrived back home from their customary walk â down to Bridge Street and Main Street, past the Quality Hotel, then up High Street and into the Peopleâs Park â Mr Donelly settled the dog into its basket in the corner of the garage, a basket tucked in underneath all the jars and the tins and the tools and the wood offcuts of a lifetime, which might come in handy one day, squeezed in tight between a workbench that used to be the Donelly kitchen table, and Mr Donellyâs little Honda 50 with its grey and white trim and its seat bound with masking tape. Mr Donelly hasnât been out on the Honda for nearly two years, since heâd taken a tumble on Gilbeyâs roundabout. âThe Nicest Things,â they used to say, âHappen on a Honda,â which may have been true thirty or forty years ago, but now there was so much traffic, even on the ring road, you were lucky if you made it unscathed up to the DIY stores or the Plough and the Stars, and then made it back home again safely.
âIâm not identifying your body when you fall off that thing again and end up dead in hospital, all squashed,â said MrsDonelly. âItâs time to hang up your helmet, mister.â You didnât argue with Mrs Donelly.
The helmet hung on a nail over the dog basket.
Saying goodnight to the dog and locking up the garage, Mr Donelly made his way towards the house, his childless, empty house. He squeezed past the wheelie bin with its stick-on number â another ridiculous council regulation, as if anyone would want to steal it â and past the pile of flagstones that heâd borrowed, or requisitioned, in an act of defiance, from the council when theyâd been doing the road-widening scheme at the bottom of Main Street, and he peered in at his kitchen window. The kitchen was spotless, as always, the way
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