The halcyon days

The dog show is making a welcome return to Tyrone Farming Society’s flagship event this year and it has been suggested that a certain hound should be lined up for entry.

The 181st Omagh Show is due to take place on Friday and Saturday June 30 and July 1 and from previous experience, even if a person misses the dog show, there are still oodles of attractions on offer, from horse jumping to tug of war to live entertainment. It being a farming event, there’s also various trade stands as well as sheep shearing and such. Come to think of it, maybe I could have one of the shearers give Waff the once over.

Though the question remains: Is Omagh Show ready for the Waff? I have my doubts.

And yet, I remember having my doubts once upon a time (circa 1986) when, as a freckled youngster in stonewashed jeans, my grandmother took myself, the rest of the weans and a dog named Patch to a different dog show. I remember like it was yesterday…

Patch was a Border Collie, black and white with a splash of golden brown on his chest. He was actually a stray the family had adopted when he followed us home from school one day and wouldn’t leave. Most importantly, he never whined a day in his life.

The day before the dog show at Gortin Community Centre, myself, my brother and my grandmother corralled Patch into a big cast iron bath and washed him with a bar of carbolic soap. A hair-dryer was then applied alongside a vigorous brushing and he was brushed and better brushed until his coat shone with an inner glow.

As well as he had turned out though, I still harboured doubts. I imagined turning up with Patch only to be met with a coterie of uber-groomed, posturing, handbag dogs, the sort you might see at an off-shoot of Crufts in Milan. I pictured bow-ties and coiffured hair and I doubted aul Patch would get a look-in.

I recall too that on the sunny day the show took place, one of the local vets judged the various entries (thankfully there were no bow-ties or coiffured hair) and as we all lined up with our respective charges, Patch was shaking with excitement.

Moments later, it seemed – and unbelievably – aul Patch scooped the top prize – best in show.

We walked away from the community centre that fine day with stunned smiles and most importantly, a top prize envelope containing a king’s ransom in cash – five one pound notes.

Those were the halcyon days of 1986 though, when freckles were frecklier, ice-cream was sweeter and your dog didn’t whine his way around the house like some kind of freakishly morose car alarm.

This is 2023. My dog isn’t called Patch and the world is cowped.

Nevertheless, it has been suggested that I take the hound along to this year’s show, if only for the craic of seeing the other entries and finding out how our own charge might be judged by people in the know.

“I’m in the know,” I raved at one of the little humans when Waffle’s entry was suggested. “And I know he’s a divil dog!”

Anna persisted, “Maybe he could win something.”

“Yeah, I relented. “Maybe he could. Maybe he could win the prize for Most Annoying Dog or Best Dog for Pretending to Pee When he doesn’t Really Have to Do A Pee.”

“He’s not that bad,” said Anna, reassuringly.

“Not that bad?”

“He’s getting better as he gets older.”

“Aye, like a fine whine.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

The reality is: I know exactly how it would pan out, taking Waffle to the dog show. He would whine the whole way into the town in the car. He would whine when he sees people and other dogs. He would whine at the judges when the judging took place (causing said judges to apply ear defenders just so that they could think straight) and he would whine when I tell him repeatedly to shut his fuppen mouth unless he wants it broke. I am under no illusion. I know how it would turn out and it would be loud and infuriating.

“Please!” Anna pleaded.

“Pl-no!”

“Don’t be acting like the big man,” she countered. “We’ll get Mam to take Waffle.”

The big man?

Where did it all go wrong, dear reader? When did this dog insinuate itself into everyone’s good graces despite the fact that he’s some kind of canine sociopath? And most importantly, why am I being lathered in a guilt complex because I don’t want to suffer a stroke at Omagh Show?

Anna disappeared for a while, most likely, I assumed, to giving Waffle some reassuring rubs that he’s not a divil dog at all and he’s actually the best dog to ever have lived and would win all the prizes at the dog show.

When she reappeared she scowled as if it were I who harboured divil tenancies. She folded her arms across her chest and pouted.

“Mam says that if you take Waffle and us to Omagh Show that you can get beer after.”

“I’ll get my coat.”