The cock crew

During the Last Supper, Jesus predicted that one of his homies (disciples) would disown him before the rooster crowed the next morning. Erstwhile fisherman and the disciple who would go onto become the first Pope, Peter, was fingered by Jesus as the man who would do the denying.

Matthew, in his Gospel, lays out the scenario…

Peter replied, “Even if all fall away on account of you, I never will.”

“I tell you the truth,” Jesus answered, “This very night, before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times.”

But Peter declared, “Even if I have to die with you, I will never disown you.” And all the other disciples said the same. [Matthew 26:33–35]

Alas, aul Peter should have known better than to gainsay the Son of God. But those were different times and most likely, it had already been prophesied.

Following Jesus’s arrest, Peter did indeed deny knowing him three times. But it was only after the third denial that the cock crew and he recalled the terrible prediction.

I was thinking of Simon-Peter last week following an altercation with the Hound. Well, it wasn’t really an altercation so much as a series of altercations and it started with Waffle being so excited upon my return from work on the Friday that he peed all around the kitchen floor.

“Get away ta f…” I told the hairy fool, as his bouncing excitement turned to afeared cowering. I bit my lip, drew him an icy stare and reached for the kitchen roll and Zoflora spray.

The next day, Saturday, with our leaky altercation already consigned to the mists of time, I was walking around outside the demesne, taking the air with the Hound at my heels. As was my wont of a fresh morning I was watching the winds in the trees and didn’t notice my foot stepping onto a large mound of poo. Recognising my faux pas immediately, I cursed aloud and then drew the offending pooper a truly Arctic stare and then hobbled off looking for a tuft of grass upon which to wipe away the worst of the muck.

The next day being a Sunday, after a few home chores had been accomplished, I set myself down to watch the rugby. It was the much anticipated Ireland V Scotland test match and I was very much looking forward to the contest.

Just as the second half was about to kick off, a great shout went up from the other end of the house and, being a conscientious parent, I took off in the direction of the obvious emergency. Upon arrival in the main bathroom, I was greeted with the sight of an entire roll of toilet tissue, chewed up and strewn all round the place. Seeking the source of the vandalism, I noticed Waffle slink around the door.

Instead of a sub-zero stare, I took chase. There may also have been a few choice expletives too as I ran the length of the hall in pursuit only to be foiled when the offending fool took refuge under the kitchen table.

“And you may stay in there, you wee –” I said by way of rebuke.

Moments later, it seemed, I was topping up the fire in the living room when the Hound appeared at my elbow, thinking, no doubt, that there might be a few amiable scratches on the go.

But I ignored him. This had gone on long enough and the series of infractions was lengthening by the weekend. First it was the pee, then the poo and then the vandalism. How much patience does one man have?

I continued to ignore the hairy clown as the rugby unfolded and eventually ended; it was another victory for the boys in green and yet, it was not another victory for me.

Sunday evening wore swiftly on as only Sunday evenings can and with the cunning use of a glass of wine and some left-over stew, I tried my best to hold Monday at bay, all the while ignoring the hairy clown and his wayward attempts to make friends.

“Where’s the dog?” someone asked after a while.

“Who gives a…” I stopped myself just in time.

“Where is he?” someone else asked but I busied myself with my wine and stew.

Waffle, who would habitually be at stew-eater’s, looking up with brightly triste eyes, had instead retired to his bed in the back hall and had curled up into a ball. Now, seeing as how this never happens and how he’s usually tripping up each member of the family until bedtime, him taking to his bed was an immediate cause for concern.

“He’s sick!” someone warned.

“He won’t even get out of his bed,” said another. “He must have been here for a couple of hours. He never does that.”

“Who gives a…” I stopped myself again and just in time.

And then the rooster crew. And everything was suddenly screwed into focus.

Much like St Peter and his late realisation of his triple denial of Christ, the sound of a rooster crowing up the road (the neighbours have a loud rooster who was at that time, actually roaring its foghorn head off), made me realise what was happening.

“Dad, can you come take a look at Waffle?”

But I was already on my way. Entering the back hall, I was confronted by a dog whose very existence was dominated by abject dejection. He had the look of a sentient being who understands in his bones that he will never again appreciate love or belonging and what is more, that he would gladly roll over and willingly kick his canine bucket (after giving it a goodly chew to make sure it no longer functions as a bucket, of course).

“He’s not sick,” I confirmed. “He’s just sad.”

Was this my fault? From the pitifully stern looks I was receiving from all and sundry, there was no doubt who was to blame.

But really? Was I to blame for Waffle’s sudden depression? Was my wilful and continued denial of his affections the reason for this downtrodden demeanour? Or was this simply a form of doggy huffing?

Whatever the case, I can only conclude that Waffle’s feeling were indeed hurt. He had retired to bed after a series of rebuttals from yours truly, effectively giving up on his so-called master.

Reluctantly, grudgingly and swallowing down any lingering resentment, I beckoned Waffle out of his bed.

Reluctantly, grudgingly and swallowing down any of his own lingering resentment, the Hound slowly complied.

The two of us then sat for a spell on the kitchen floor, reaffirming our bond. Thankfully, the pee stayed where it was supposed to be.

The moral of the story, is that the sound of a cock crowing can have a significant and important (though belated) impact on a person’s mental comportment.

Maybe I need to buy one and have him move in with Waffle in the back hall.