The divil went down to… Drumquin

One of Waffle’s latent qualities is that he never sheds and in that sense, he’s hypoallergenic. In other words, he’s allergy friendly.

Whilst none in our house are overly prone to allergies, Waffle’s not shedding means that there’s nothing to hoover up, even when he’s been running round the place with the zoomies on a Saturday evening when I’m trying to kick back and relax.

According to our groomer, Rachel, Waffle actually has two coats: The outer fur coat that loves to get wet and stink up the place and the inner coat next to his skin. In comparative anthropomorphic terms, it’s as if he’s wearing a jumper over his t-shirt.

However, whilst I said that none in our house are prone to allergies, there was one occasion when I myself was struck down by an allergic reaction – either that, or I had become possessed by an evil spirit.

You will undoubtedly have seen it in the news, but Drumquin priest, Fr Kevin Mullan passed away earlier this month. With a humour as dry as tinder and just as quick to light, I had come to know Fr Mullan quite well over the years. He married myself and Herself, he baptised both our children and in a professional capacity I had interviewed him many times over the years on various matters. Last summer too, one hot, balmy evening, he called at our house just as I was mid-kick back and relaxed. On the evening in question and despite the heat as we sat outside in the sunshine, he wouldn’t take any refreshment, no matter how much persuasion was applied. What he did have though, was plenty of time for the Waff.

Waffle will make friends with just about everyone he encounters and so the hapless hound was only too happy to let Fr Mullen scratch his ears when the two met on that balmy Saturday night. Fr Mullen too, clearly enjoyed playing with the Waff, perhaps all the more as he missed his late dog, Misty.

I’m not sure what breed of dog Misty was (think small, white and terrier-ish) but when he or she was in their pomp, they and their owner were inseparable. There were even occasions, probably around Christmastime, when Misty was even permitted to languish on the altar at Mass. Where Fr Mullan went, Misty went too.

Rewind back almost 20 years and prior to that aforementioned tying of the knot, I was invited to visit Fr Mullen one Saturday morning; if memory serves me, there was certain marital red tape which had to be navigated. Anyway, arriving at the parochial house at the pre-determined hour of 11am, I was greeted at the door by Fr Mullan eating a slice of toast. Preliminaries exchanged, I was thus guided into the sitting room and told that my host would return when the tea had been drained and the toast finished.

Settling myself on the sofa, I was only a little surprised when Misty rounded the doorframe at a trot and made a bee-line for the sofa, hopping up beside me as if it was the most natural thing in the world to welcome visitors to their master’s home.

Now, if we remember that Waffle is hypoallergenic (doesn’t shed, is allergy friendly), it would be fair to say that Misty was not.

Scratching Misty’s ear as she sat on my lap, I immediately began to notice a tickle in the back of my throat. This tickle quickly bloomed into an unbearable itch and soon I was red about the gills and coughing my head off.

“Get-outta-the-road-dog!” I might have said between coughs, shooing Misty off my knee. However, I can’t remember exactly what I said because it felt as though my throat was tightening and I couldn’t stop spluttering.

You know when you’re in a restaurant and a drink of liquid goes down the wrong pipe and you’re suddenly trying to quell the coughs and all the associated social embarrassment? Well, imagine you’re in a priest’s house, your head is beetroot and the coughing is so relentless, that you have to exit the house for fresh air.

Before I knew what was happening, I was standing at Fr Mullan’s front door, Misty at my heels hacking loudly in the morning air.

And I hacked and I continued to hack. I simply couldn’t stop.

Fr Mullan appeared at my elbow and asked if I would like a glass of water. I confirmed betwixt coughs that I would, although I remember harbouring doubts that the only thing which might make a difference would be some antihistamines.

Nevertheless, the glass of water appeared and I drank the blessed water with much eagerness, if only to quench the panic rising in my chest. Miraculously, the cool liquid soothed the itch and after a few lingering barks, I set the glass on the window sill and ducked inside.

“We’ll get the divil out of you yet, Mr Devlin,” Fr Mullan said as I entered.

Sitting regally on the sofa from which I had moments earlier departed, the parish priest reclined with Misty at his knee and a small smile on his face. He added, “Or we’ll try at any rate.”

Thereafter continued the process of pre-marital red tape navigation and to this day, I couldn’t tell you what was said or what happened. I know one thing though: I stayed well clear of the dog.