A DAD'S LIFE:Emotional blackmail, dog's abuse, but we didn't crumble
THE EASTER holidays are over. Someone finally paid the ransom and the missus and I were released, blinking, back into the light. Whoever it was – an anonymous benefactor apparently, though I’ve tracked down scraps of a name, “Dept Edctn” – thank you.
We are used to the imprisonment, occurring as it does three times a year. It was the intensity and duration of the interrogations this time round that caught us out. These were fuelled by our captors’ regular ingestion of a foodstuff pedalled by every supermarket in the vicinity at knockdown prices. “The Egg”, as it was known, took hold of them, driving them on, negating sleep requirements and fraying already short tempers. The dealers, shady villains by the names of Dunnes and Lidl, flooded the market with cheap product for a short period obviously in the hope of developing long-term users. We fought back for as long as we could, but our efforts proved futile.
Expectations grew as the sugar frenzy mounted. At times we were unsure whether we would make it to the other side, but finally the market resumed some semblance of regulation and, following extreme withdrawal symptoms, normal service – if there is such a thing – seems to have resumed. Our captors have begun to recognise the parameters of the Geneva Convention and treat us with a little dignity.There is still much wailing and little perspective, however. Short sharp highs are followed by prolonged lows, through which we hope they will pass before all reason has left them.
Into this mix, like a double measure of Creatine powder in a fruit smoothie, the grandparents threw a curve ball: a fresh litter of puppies. Cursed with pups as we have been in recent years, I wouldn’t have cast them a second glance. Not so the bairns.
The grandparents, seeing an opportunity for mischief and feeling the fear of accidental dog-breeders, started to muck about. They encouraged the onslaught on parents, laughing at the notion that we, the most uninterested-in-pets couple in the world, have wound up, under duress, with two beasts and might possibly be convinced to take a third.
The problem was the kids didn’t get the joke. They started with halfhearted requests to keep “just one”. These were breezed off with mere waves of the hand and pointed fingers at the two often-neglected mutts already in their care. But as the pups’ day of reckoning came, as owners were lined up and numbers dwindled, the passion of the demands to increase our personal petting zoo reached a fervour. Still, the olds didn’t fully understand the beast they were creating and egged the children on.
One dog remained. Unhomed. George. On Easter Sunday over at the offending prankster grandparents’ pad, as the rest of us concentrated hard on eating as much cow and chicken as possible, the elder child spent the day outside, cradling wee George and working herself into a lather. On a number of occasions she sent her younger sister inside with a varying list of requests and promises. They would do all the walking and feeding. The other dogs would receive increased attention so as not to feel left out. The landlord (who isn’t happy with our existing pack) would be assuaged by the kids building a kennel.
Then it turned emotional. “He hasn’t been picked so far. He’ll be scarred if we don’t take him in. Look at his lickle face, he’s soooo sad.”
I remained made of stone, but it was not easy. Only my previous experience of interrogation under duress saved me. The elder sobbed all the way home and soaked her way through the pillow before finally managing to sleep.
For the past week we have been hit by notes, long begging letters placed at strategic points – on the bathroom mirror, on pillows. I have never experienced a bombardment like it. All of my rational mind, all practical experience, screams “No way!” Yet, but for the fact that the landlord will not allow more pets, I would have crumbled long ago. Their will is stronger than mine. They have no concept of surrender. If only they had grasped that charm, rather than rage (the result of the burgeoning egg habit) may have won the day, they could easily have twisted me to ignore his diktat.
As it is, schools have reopened, the siege has lifted. We can breathe again.