59. The Guide Hound of Claddaghduff

The last time my family went on holiday to the west, we stayed in a bungalow in Claddaghduff - which is the village nearest Omey Island. Big brother Patrick joined us for part of the holiday, and one night he and I decided to walk down to Sweeney's pub for a drink. The lane is just about tarmac, but it's pitted and rough and there weren't any street lights. Patrick had brought his headlamp, so we set off following the beam. Before long we noticed that the beam was no longer showing us the road, it was lighting up a hairy canine bottom. We called the dog to us and recognised him as belonging to the family next door. We tried to send him home, but he wouldn't go. Instead, he ran ahead of us, his bottom always in the beam, and guided us safely to Sweeney's.

A couple of hours later, after some Guinness and some excellent music, Patrick and I headed home. And there once more was the hairy bottom. The dog had been trained, or had learned, to guide his master (or anybody, really) to and from Sweeney's pub. Good dog. Brilliant dog.

Last weekend I drove back up that lane, and easily recognised the bungalow and the stone house next door which 16 years ago had a family of 12 living in it - along with that exemplary hound. As we were turning the car round, a small dog appeared in the road. It wasn't the same dog, but it was very similar - scrappy and strong. He ran alongside the car for a while and I'll tell you the temptation to get out and see if he would guide me to Sweeney's was powerful, even though it was daylight. But we left him standing on the lane, waiting for his next opportunity to do his duty.

I have told Blue this story. She doesn't think much of it. I think she's jealous.