The transience of youth

Last week, I spent some time with a friend near the village of Blackwater in Co Wexford. The weather was fine, the beer was cold and there was an excellent seafood restaurant called Mary Barry’s which resulted in me eating way more than was advisable.

Steve’s house turned out to be a ten-minute walk from Blackwater and a five minute car journey to the beach and as such, we spent a lot of time at both.

Before you ask, Waffle didn’t make the trip south; he had to stay home and guard the hens whilst whining (obviously) and being hairy (he needs a haircut).

As well as being the purveyor of fine food and drinks, Steve also happened to be looking after his father’s dog, Charlie. Charlie is a 13-year-old Labrador, off-white, as calm as the waters off Ballinesker Beach and as adorable as apple pie. He also remembered me from the last time I visited when he was in Dublin, or at least I suspected as much when he kept nuzzling against my thigh as we sat at the picnic bench in the back yard.

Having not seen him since before Covid, I could tell Charlie had been clocking up the years merely by the look in his eye.

Fringed with silver but with less sparkle, he looked like a dog who had seen much and liked more of it than he expected.

I could tell too from his slightly stiff gait that his rambunctious days were alas behind him, although he more than enjoyed the forays to the beach and wasn’t afraid to take a dip in the surf.

Like Waffle, Charlie craves attention and every evening as we sat down to savour the last few rays of sunshine, he would come a-nuzzling. Unlike Waffle there wasn’t a whine to be heard – an endearing characteristic for me right away; while Waffle is as yet a yehawing young whipper-snapper, Charlie is an elder statesman and his demeanour proposed the very epitome of collected canine cool.

On one hand, I was slightly sad to see Charlie so aged, and yet by the same token he seemed as happy as I remembered; he was still able to chase the tennis ball – albeit sporadically –across the beach,

On the first evening in Wexford I was slightly surprised to learn that Charlie wasn’t permitted into the house proper but rather was confined to the veranda and adjoining conservatory.

“He spreads hair all over the house, if I let him in,” Steve explained.

“And?” I countered. “We can hoover it up in the morning.”

“You don’t understand,” Steve added, as though speaking to a sleepy child. “He’s shedding a crazy amount at the moment. The hair gets everywhere.”

Ignoring Steve’s direction (the big wean that I am), once the host’s back was turned I opened the door to the conservatory and beckoned Charlie inside. However this foray to the interior lasted only moments because, no sooner had he crossed the threshold, he shook himself vigorously from tip to tail, sending a shower of hair over the floor and nearby sofa. I could only see the magnitude of the deluge because of the slanting sunlight streaming through the conservatory windows. It was like the worst case of dandruff I’d ever seen and to make matters worse, the hair seemed to cascade around in the air for a while, like dandelion puff on the wind.

“Out you go, Charles,” I told him softly and then ushered him back from whence he came.

Charlie’s shedding thus forced me to consider Waffle’s mysterious ability to not shed. For a dog who, to me at least, seems perpetually bumbling and inept, Waffle’s innate skill of being able to hold onto his hair seemed somewhat absurd – fortuitous but incongruous.

The next day at the beach, after we had barely climbed out of the car, Charlie answered the call of nature.

“For godsakes!” Steve blurted. “That dog ruins everything!”

He was annoyed, I soon discovered, because he knew he would have to lift Charlie’s poo.

“For godsakes,” I returned. “He only did a dump. I’ll pick it up. It’s no big deal.”

Later in the evening as, once again, Charlie was prohibited from entering the house I suggested to Steve that if he considers Charlie to be high maintenance, he wouldn’t last five minutes as Waffle’s custodian.

“He doesn’t shed,” Steve astutely pointed out.

“Yes,” I agreed. “But he still poos. And he has also been known to chunder from time to time in the back hall. No dog or pet is without obligation.”

“I know that. But I’m also tied to the house when I have Charlie. I can’t do anything, go anywhere, see anyone without first considering what I’ll do with Charlie.”

“That’s called commitment.”

As the weekend wore to a close and we said our goodbyes, I considered that this might be the last time I would ever see Charlie. So I gave him an extra scratch behind the ears as a final farewell.

On the long road home I thought of Waffle waiting at the house and I pictured him bouncing and barking as the car eventually pulled into the drive.

Admittedly, from time to time, I may have paraphrased Steve when he said, “That dog ruins everything.” And yet, from spending a short time with Charles, I have come to the conclusion that it’s all down to perspective. Dogs will always poo or shed or whine or chunder; it’s how we deal with those idiosyncrasies that define how well our relationships work.

Also, as is evidenced by Charlie, our dogs won’t be around forever.