Scraps for the Dog
- Jul 24, 2020
- 8 min read
by Tony Cartlidge
There you are as usual, lazing in the yard, barely raising an eyebrow as people slip past the gate. Only your nose twitching at the gap in the fence. If you’re even awake, that is. You could sleep for England, you could. Except to suction up a bucket of water or scratch, you don’t seem to move for days. You’re like those things that our Yvonne told us about in America, where she went with that fella of hers. Insects that sleep for 20 years and then wake up and cause a racket before they die. Cicadas. That’s what she said, cicadas. Oh, I said, like Bandit. Bandit only wakes up for food, water, and Keith the butcher. She had ever such a funny laugh, Yvonne. I can still hear it.
I wonder what happened to Keith. Remember him, Bandit? Haven’t seen him for ages. But you, you could smell him from miles away. Even before he blew his horn. Even before his van clattered into the street. Even before the whiff of beef and pork and lamb chops came breezing over the estate, you were there at the gate, drooling at the promise of black pudding knots and the fatty rind of boiled ham rolled in orange breadcrumbs. And when his van came down the street, you were there, weren’t you, boy? I bet if he came now you’d jump up out of your grave and chase him down the street. But I suppose he’s long gone now, too. I suppose he must be.
It was amazing how you could climb the back-yard fence. It really was a thing to see, with your knees and paws knuckling and clawing up the wood slats, your arse wobbling from side to side, and your helicopter tail. Some days I swear you flew over that fence before Keith had even left the next street over. And for such a fat dog, you’d still hit the ground with your feet already running, like Muttley in the cartoon the kids used to watch, galloping in place before zooming down the street. He never beat you, did he? You were always there when he opened the back of his van. Just sat there, grinning like a lunatic. As soon as the neighbours saw you jump the fence, they’d have their scarves on and housecoats off and be down the street before Keith even blew his horn. And they’d all stand around, petting you, scratching behind your ears as they waited.
They all had different names for you as well. Black-eye, or Blacky, because of the patches of dark fur over your left eye. Zorro, for the same reason. I didn’t know what to make of you at first. Big Jack brought you home from the pub one night, wrapped inside his coat. He was so drunk he hadn’t noticed you’d pissed down his shirt. Where’d you get him? I asked. And he said he’d won you in a game of cards and was going to sell you to someone in the street. Over my dead body, I told him. I’d never had a dog before—we couldn’t afford a dog—but I wasn’t going to let Jack hawk a puppy round the street for more ale money. No. And I called the kids downstairs—kids, ha! Little Jack was probably 16 by then, Yvonne almost a teenager—kids, I said, your dad’s bought you a dog, and I forced him to hand it over. And when he passed out in the armchair still wearing the pissy shirt, I left him there. The kids lost interest after a few weeks but by then I suppose you were my dog and I made it a point to let you sleep on the bed when he was away so when he did come home he’d spend the next day scratching and sneezing as he drove his lorry. Serves him right, I thought.
At the butcher’s van, most people just called you “the dog,” as in, “got any scraps for the dog?” The first time I heard it, there must have been four women in front of me that asked, and I couldn’t figure out what they’d said and why they pointed at you. “Quarter of boiled ham, two pork sausages, 3 large eggs, and some scraps for the dog please, Keith?” Waves her hand at you. “Four slices of black pudding, half a pound of bacon, lean. Oh, any scraps for the dog please, love?” And everyone would look at you. And then by the time I get up there and order frying steak for Big Jack, I remember it was payday, and some pork ribs for Little Jack, who’d just started on the roofing after 21 months on the dole. And Keith says, “And I suppose you’ll be wanting some scraps for your dog as well?” And I say, “What dog?” and he just points at you. “He’s your dog as well, isn’t he? He’s everyone else’s.” And I was gobsmacked. “He bloody-well is my dog,” I said. “You cheeky beggar. And yes, I’ll take some scraps for the dog.” And when I left you stayed behind until Keith served his last customer and closed up his van. You always came home chewing something, didn’t you? He was good, really, Keith. Pricey, but a decent sort.
That first time, when I got home, I unwrapped the package and it was the trimmings off the meat, bits of pork and lamb, stringy fat, a few chunks of steak, the stuff he wiped into the countertop gutters with his rag and I thought, what do I do with this? Well, I suppose I did what everyone else did. I boiled it with some spuds, onion, carrots, turnip, and a couple of Oxo, and made scouse. And when Jack came home from whatever alehouse he was allowed in that week, he had that for supper and forgot about his bloody steak. And you and I had it the next day when he was away for work, driving his lorry and whoring around.
And that was it, then, wasn’t it? I suppose it became a habit. Every time Jack came home drunk, he got scouse, and you and me got steak. And every Tuesday and Saturday, rain or shine, you climbed the fence and waited for the van like you were every family’s dog. Even after you got old and you couldn’t lift yourself, even years after I buried you, people still asked for scraps for the dog and received them without question. Keith even used to stop his van and leave a bag of scraps at the gate. It was like you were still there—here—with Big Jack and Little Jack. Her next door who’d never even had kids said, “14 is a good age for a dog.” But 14 is no age at all. Not for anyone.
I see the curtains twitch when I sit out here, saying the same things every night. I don’t care. We don’t care, do we boy? I might be daft but at least I’m not senile. Not like him next door who’s been dying for donkey’s years and hasn’t lived in the meanwhile. But you lived every day like you wanted to, didn’t you boy, and then went quickly in your sleep, right there in your favourite place. Where else would I bury you? Did it hurt when you got sick? God, I hope it didn’t hurt. You never looked like you were in pain. At least I can still talk to you because I didn’t have to cremate you like them two. Not right, is it, boy? If you can’t afford a plot you end up as a bag of ashes. What can you say to a bag of ashes? Hello Jack? Hello son? It just feels silly. Bones are what we owe the land. Not ashes. But I suppose you’d know that, being a dog an’ all.
God it’s awful though, isn’t it? A mother should never have to bury her children. I mean, Big Jack, I’d have happily buried him years before his heart attack, but Little Jack falling like that? And him with no family either? So Little Jack ended up next to Big Jack, right here next to you. Bags of ash. You don’t mind, do you? Big Jack being Everton and Little Jack being Liverpool and all that? I bet you’re sick of them fighting, aren’t you, boy?
Still, at least we didn’t have to deal with Yvonne. I didn’t even know until months after it happened. Her ex must have found my address to send me the letter. Remember, I read it to you? Overdose, it said, and if I’m honest it wasn’t even a shock. I mean, I cried my eyes out, didn’t I? Like I did with you. You heard me. We were all upset. But really, I was only surprised it didn’t happen sooner. We hoped, of course, tried to help her, all of us, but what could we do? One of Little Jack’s girlfriends managed to get her into the methadone place, and Big Jack borrowed money from all over until he couldn’t go to the pub anymore, at least none round here. But as soon as Yvonne came home, we knew. You could see it in her, like that spark was gone. And you, when she was lying in bed for days, withdrawing, you stayed with her and slept on her bed to keep her warm. But it was only a matter of time before she’d be back on it, worse than ever. We tried, of course we did, but you can’t lock a grown woman up, can you? It was everywhere on the estate. How could she avoid it? You only had to walk down to the flats to find it, and within weeks she was living there. At least she visited every now and again. Looked like a wraith, though. Scared you, didn’t it boy? Unrecognizable. But you knew she was still there, inside. And then she took off and it was like the wind had scattered her.
She’d call every few months, and early on I begged her to come home and she’d always laugh and say no. I know it sounds awful, but a part of me was relieved. Sometimes she called to say she was clean and everything was great and that she’d met some new fella who was looking after her and if I could just send some money it would help her get settled. And I knew she was lying but I sent her what I could anyway, which wasn’t much. And Big Jack got to eat more scouse, and you and me didn’t get any steak, did we boy? She always asked about you, though. She always did. And when you got sick I was dreading having to tell her. But she’d already called for the last time by then, so at least there was that.
Oh well. I suppose I should go in. The neighbours already think I’m going batty. I’ve heard them. “Staying out there talking to ghosts every night. Should we call Social Services?” Social Services, my arse. Did I tell you the hospital called? Want more tests. Gave me a drink to take before I go in tomorrow. What do you think? I’m 83. Everyone’s gone. Should I even bother? Who’s going to bury me with you lot? I’m not going into some anonymous hole in the ground on my own. Why shouldn’t I be buried here? I’ve been in this house for 51 years. What harm would it do to stay? They’ll probably just bulldoze the house and build shops anyway. Might as well cancel the rent, go have a night out at the bingo, and come home, dig a hole, and crawl in. I keep you company and you keep me warm. What do you think, eh boy? More scraps for the dog?
Born and raised in Liverpool, England, Tony Cartlidge now lives in the USA with his wife, KD, their three dogs, and an assortment of birds. He is a graduate of Indiana University’s MFA program. His work frequently reflects on poverty and working-class issues, and has appeared in The Guardian, Pithead Chapel, and Hothouse.
