The bundle was soft, warm and wet. Very wet.
This Vinny Fitzpatrick could confirm, as a gush of wee dripped on the meaty hand he was using to cradle the six-week-old pup.
“Look,” cooed the Dogs Trust handler, “she is making a connection already.”
Vinny was not so sure. “No, she’s not, she’s just making a mess,” he said, holding the mangy mongrel at arm’s length as it peed noisily on the lino floor.
Vinny had last had a dog when he was a nipper and the family’s beloved terrier, Sparky, was mown down by a 44A. But the trauma of recent weeks had left him in need of a companion and, at Macker’s suggestion, he’d ventured out to the Dogs Trust HQ off the Ashbourne Road.
“You need someone who’ll shower you with a dose of TLC, and won’t do the dirty,” said Macker.
As the pup, known as Connie, relieved herself with an even more substantial message, Vinny allowed himself a wry smile. When it came to dishing out dirt, Angie had a rival, he thought.
The last few furlongs of Vinny’s life had been difficult, and he felt his hide had been whipped more often than the gee-gees at Cheltenham.
Unlike the Irish jockeys, Angie wasn’t getting a suspension or fine for being overenthusiastic in the saddle. In contrast, she had secured a promotion as the Head of PR and Marketing for Winston’s Bookmakers.
The hefty pay rise came in tandem with a new ‘des res’ in leafy Surrey where Rodger ‘The Dodger’ Winston, lived in palatial splendour. They had set up home, along with the twins, Oisín and Aoife, who had been enrolled in a posh school in Maidenhead.
To make access easier for her cuckolded husband, Angie said she’d be back to Dublin once a month – her daughter Emma was staying put in Mount Prospect Avenue – so Vinny could see the kids for the weekend.
Vinny felt there was little skin on that deal for him and had checked his legal position over a pint with Ben ‘The Beak’, Bradbrook, a Circuit Court judge and Foley’s regular. While The Beak felt Vinny’s case was strong, not every judge, he warned, would back Vinny to be a winner.
“Not if Angie made reference in court to your drinking habits, gambling addiction, and, ahem, the matter of your arrest regarding your connection to a house of ill-repute,” said The Beak.
Vinny felt his bile rise. “She wouldn’t dare,” he spluttered.
“She might,” nodded The Beak “and you could lose all access to the kids and get hit for costs, on the double.”
“It’s perhaps best to take it on the chin, and move on,” added The Beak.
As part of the ‘moving on’, Vinny had a new canine pal, Connie, a chestnut mutt with four white paws, and a white blaze on her nose, which reminded Vinny of Champion Chase winner Sire De Grugy.
She was cuddly, foxy and the possessor of an extremely loose bladder. After 72 hours of relentless splash and dash, Vinny was on the brink of returning Connie to Dogs Trust by express delivery when the bowler pawed at the back door on Saturday morning, tottered off towards the bushes, and squatted down to relieve herself.
“Doggone, a miracle,” said a bemused Vinny.
Parochial hall
This day, the third Saturday in March, was always significant for a small GAA club, Dollymount Gaels. Traditionally the club hired the parochial hall beside St Gabriel’s as part of their spring fundraiser.
From 4.30, just after the Scotland-Ireland rugby game, there was bingo, karaoke and pizzas for the kids, followed at 7.0, after the England-France game, by a local folk group, The Bowsies, who warbled for free.
To help stir up a decent gathering, Fr Leo Lavelle permitted the locals to bring their own gargle on the condition the hall was left spick n’ span after and there were ‘no shenanigans’.
As the go-between the club and the church, Vinny was on call from early afternoon, which meant a long stint for Connie in the back yard.
Dollymount Gaels was a club on life support, totally dwarfed by neighbours, Clontarf and Scoil Uí Conaill, but somehow it survived.
At its core, were a committee who kept the show on the road. With just one adult team, and four juvenile, it wasn’t much of a show.
Thankfully, the turnout was strong. Over 30 chisellers arrived with a fiver, and as many adults too, who stumped up a tenner for the privilege. There was a bonus too when Charlie Vernon arrived with a cheque for €500. Vinny reckoned the club would clear a grand, which would kit out this year’s Féile team in gear.
By 9.30pm, it was time to pack up and head for the boozer, if not home. Vinny had stashed six cans of stout in the fridge and was looking forward to flicking from the golf in Florida to Match of the Day – being on his own again had one or two advantages.
It was then that Mena Bean Uí Chatháin, took to the stage to say a cupla focail.
Rapier tongue
Known as Philo, the club secretary, she was a tiny woman with a rapier tongue who knew the GAA rule book cover to cover. Philo thanked Fr Leo for the use of the hall, Vinny for his unstinting work as co-ordinator and all “the kids, and mams and dads too, for supporting your club”.
As Philo continued, Vinny pottered about, picking up discarded crisp bags, empty bottles of pop and beer cans.
As he filled a rubbish sack he bumped into a pillar; at least he thought it was a pillar. Stepping back, he recognised the massive shoulders, crew-cut head and sticky out ears of Lugs O’Leary, the meanest critter in Dublin 3.
Vinny’s nemesis was clapping loudly as the speech finished. “Well said Philo, that a girl,” he barked, his fiery eyes gleaming.
Suddenly, a light went on in Vinny’s mind and he back a couple of weeks in the sanctuary of St Gabriel’s Church where two voices, a man and a woman, shared a dark secret.
At the time, Vinny had a fair idea of who they were; now he knew. Philo Keane and Lugs O’Leary weren’t just sharing membership of Dollymount Gaels; they were sharing more; much more.
