Читать книгу Stray Dog - Gareth O'Callaghan - Страница 5

John spent most of the following day lying on the couch. He stayed in his pyjamas, under the duvet. He looked very tired. His eyes moved between the television and the French doors that opened out onto a small veranda.

It was the start of spring. Small birds sometimes pecked on the kitchen window. They picked at the nuts that he had left out carefully in the homemade wooden bird-house.

“The garden is getting its life back,” he said softly. He pointed to the small chestnut tree at the bottom of the garden. “Look at the buds,” he said with the wonder of a small child.

I was always fascinated by the way John looked at nature with such raw energy and excitement. It was as if every living plant, each small green fleck, took on a real life of its own. It was as if it acquired a soul when it came into being. Our chestnut tree was no exception. He seemed to look beneath the surface of everything that breathed and drank to stay alive. And he always saw something much deeper, more beautiful and everlasting. And yet, after twenty years of living together, I had never been able to share his raw connection with life and nature. It was a part of him that I felt excluded me. What I didn’t realise until midday that day was that I had been excluding myself all along.

Shortly after eleven, John complained of feeling sick. He told me the pain was so bad that he could not get comfortable on the chair any more. He had taken his painkillers at eight. He wasn’t due another dose of morphine until two. I wanted to give him an extra dose but he waved his hand and forced a smile.

“Will I help you up to bed?”

He shook his head and held his stomach.

“Will I get the doctor?” I asked nervously.

“No.”

He was in agony. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes closed. His fists formed a knot around his tummy. I felt helpless, as if I was going to cry.

The sound of a car screeching to a halt and a loud howl made me jump. We could hear the piercing yelp of an animal from the street outside. I ran to the front door.

No sooner had I opened it than a white, shaggy dog ran in between my legs, past the staircase and into the sitting-room where John was lying.

I closed the door quickly in case a second dog might follow. Perhaps there had been two of them fighting. I heard a car drive away at speed. I hurried into the sitting-room to find the shaggy dog crouched across John’s legs, whimpering and shaking.

“Out!” I shouted.

The frightened dog crouched even lower, shivering and yelping. Her left leg was bleeding. She licked the wound and stuck her head into the crook of John’s arm.

“Leave her, Jo. She’ll be OK. Let her just catch her breath,” John said softly. He stroked the back of the dog’s head.

I watched as John whispered to the dog. He smiled as the dog looked up at him.

“Here, come and pat her,” he said to me.

I shrugged my shoulders. “What if she bites?”

John smiled. “Of course she won’t bite you. She has just been knocked down. She needs to be loved, not thrown out. Get me a bowl of water and a clean towel. We’ll tidy her up a bit.” He felt the dog’s leg gently. The animal whimpered and crouched again. “She can still move her leg. I don’t think she’s too badly hurt.”