What a dog! by Jennie Hart

 

Jock had been abandoned but my dad adopted him. Dad was not just alone, he was lonely. When mum was alive we had had German Shepherds, partly to guard the shop we lived above, but mostly as companions.  I used to ring dad after mum died and often he would coax his German Shepherd, Sheba to the phone and she would bark into the mouthpiece. Sheba died, so the arrival of Jock was a wonderful gift.

He was mixed breed with a big dollop of black and white cocker spaniel. His ears dangled, his short legs ensured he was close to the ground; he had an irresistible smile; well, more of a laugh, showing perfect canines and molars; he had beautiful brown eyes that eyed you with longing.

Jock had a reputation; he was a philanderer; like a sailor with a girl in every port only he got about town by bus. There was no stop outside dad’s house but Jock was favoured. When a driver spotted him sitting by the kerb-side, he would halt the bus and Jock would clamber onto the platform. He had been spotted by passengers getting off at the other end of town in order to meander back home, no doubt calling at a girl-friend’s on the way.

Jock led a happy life, cheering up dad, investigating the streets and snuggling up to the cat, until one terribly sad day. Dad’s house stood next to a coal yard and Fisher the coal man would drive his vehicle up and down the track to the yard, several times a day. Dad’s back gate led on to this track, and when he opened it to bring in his milk, Jock would sneak out to look for adventure -  exciting smells or doggy acquaintances.

On a sunny day, Jock liked to lie on the warm, dirty tarmac of Fisher’s drive, enraging Fisher who would wind down his window to shout at the animal. One day Fisher was backing his lorry up the drive and did not shout out. He ran over Jock..

My dad was not a confident man, he’d had a shocking childhood but had been sheltered from the routines of daily life in his later years, like going to the bank or paying the rent; Mum took care of those things. When Mr Fisher carried in the seriously injured Jock and dropped him on the floor in front of dad, and then left, saying ‘You should look after your animal’, dad was traumatised. He didn’t know what to do. He had never called a vet and was too distressed to call my brother. When Brian called in after work, Jock still lay at dad’s feet and dad was crying.

Jock was barely alive but Brian carefully lifted him into his van and took him to the vet but he couldn’t be saved. That was dad’s saddest day since losing mum, but he never talked about it after that.