Gurriers (41 page)

I was shocked and stunned but not in any position to dwell on the matter, not until 12 minutes later and ten miles away in Ashbourne Industrial Estate, sparking up a well earned cigarette having made the deadline. That poor dog!

I vowed to go back there after dropping the airport, read his collar and reunite him with his family.

“Four Sean.”

“Go ahead.”

“How’re you getttin’ on, Sean?”

“Half way between Swords and the airport; made that deadline in Ashbourne!”

“Good man! When ye drop tha’ airport I have one in Coolock for ye…”

Oh, shite! I thought. This would take me away from the dog but maybe I could come back after the pick-up.

Aidan’s voice snapped me back to reality, “Another direct there, comin’ straigh’ into Clontarf. Giz a shou’ from the airport for details.”

I could never go from Coolock to Finglas and then back to Clontarf with something on board that was meant to go there
direct. I’d have to bash out the job and then ask to be sent back out Finglas way. Of course, this was pretty odd behaviour for a courier who prefers south, but the poor dog needed rescuing.

Couriers say that the work will always bring you away from somewhere that you want to go but it is the way of things, although I think it’s more statistics than legend!

I wanted to bash out the direct and then get to the dog, but I got another pick-up in Coolock going to Clonskeagh and a Raheny going to Merrion Square, which was supposed to be picked up after dropping the direct but no way was I going to drive past the pick up only to drive two odd miles back on myself to skimp on the three or four minutes delay.

As a result they had already been on the phone by the time I got to Clontarf, filling our airways with “hurry up” and making my grip on the throttle wrench it that bit harder and faster.

After the screamer was gone, Aidan had two jobs coming from a solicitor in Fairview: one for Baggot Street and a Sandy-ford to go with my Clonskeagh. This was developing into a juicy run aiming me south with some lovely dockets under my belt, but I had a dog to save!

Dog or no dog, the work kept coming and pushing the poor mutt further and further down the priority scale. It was almost lunchtime before I even set foot in the base, having gone south loaded up with eight jobs and bringing five back in with me: four for Dublin two - one of which had a return part going back to Stillorgan and one for Blanchardstown that I had picked up in Montrose on the way in.

Six Dave, Eighteen Gerry and Sixty-nine Darren were all seated around the table as I stomped into the base, far too grumpy for someone that had made as much money as I had that morning. At this stage I just had the return for Stillorgan and the Blanch on board. I marched straight up to the hatch.

“Alrie, Sean! Here’s a tough one: ye can either give me the Blanch or tha’ return for Stillorgan!” Aidan thought he was being sarcastic, doing me the favour of offering me another run south. He was genuinely confused when I handed him the Stillorgan.

“You gettin’ a taste for the nor’side or wot?”

“I’ve something to do in Finglas. Ye’re not going to send me through the park or anything, are ye?”

Finglas could be on the way to Blanch, but not if there was any work in or through Phoenix Park.

“Nuttin’ to go wi’ it ye’. D’ye wanna grab a quick bie an’ we’ll see wha’ happens?” Aidan asked, still sounding confused.

“Sure. Cheers Aidan!”

Ten minutes later I returned with a snack box- lots of chicken bones for the dog involved in that decision!

Gizzard was now at the table also and Charlie was in the kitchen making tea. I was in better form now and took the opportunity to start a conversation.

“Jesus, it’s busy today! I’ve over two pages done already!”

“They’re all comin’ back off their hollyers an’ realisin’ tha’ there’s a load a shi’e tha’ they shoulda sorted ou’ before they went off,” The Gizzard professed wisely through a mouthful of something. “Tha’ an’ the fact that you’re a jammy bastard tha’ falls into the work no mah’er where ‘e fuckin’ goes!” He turned to me with a grin, revealing that the something crammed in his gob was a sandwich of some description.

“Here, Sean. You sit down an’ eat yer lunch, I’m finished mine.”

“Cheers Dave.”

Nobody started talking as I settled myself at the table so naturally, which happens when one is comfortable in one’s company, the thing that had been on my mind all day just popped out of my mouth.

“Ye’ll never guess what I saw on the way to Ashbourne this morning? A dog standing at the side of the road that had been in the exact same spot yesterday! In the middle of nowhere, where the Tolka Valley Road meets the Finglas Road.”

“That’s the tramp’s dog!” Gerry exclaimed, underwhelmed as was everyone else.

“No. No, he had a collar on and there was no tramp in sight
anywhere!”

“An old black sad lookin’ mutt?”

Dave seemed to know him, so I turned to him, seeking some glimmer of hope for the animal. “Yes that’s right - with a collar!”

“That’s a few cable ties an’ a Christmas decoration. The tramp made it before he died.”

“Died?” The word hit me like a punch in the guts.

“This the tramp’s dog in Finglas?” Charlie entered the room and the conversation

“The tramp died drunk in his sleep a’ tha’ corner an’ the dog hasn’t budged since.”

“No way! How long ago was that?” I was stunned.

“Abou’ two months ago.”

“Nah, it’s more than tha’! I’ was jus’ after we got back from Le Mans.”

“No, we were well back by then. It was just after Al had his crash.”

The debate over the chronology of events drifted away from me as my whole attention focused on the plight of the poor dog. Months! I had been driven to save this animal when I thought he had just been there overnight, but months? I ate in silence, still somewhat overwhelmed.

“You’re a proper softie, aren’t ye, Shy Boy?” The Gizzard’s remark brought me back.

“Wha?”

“Takin’ the Blanch’ instead of the Stillorgan an’ eatin’ the first snack box I ever saw ye get. Bones on the way to Finglas for the poor dog!”

“You’re so sharp, Gizzard.”

He gestured broadly using both hands to encompass the whole room in his acclaim before I continued.

“That you’re going to cut yourself real bad some day!”

“There’s no need for tha’! I just made an observation! It’s not even an insult for ye to be such a jelly baby. It’s one a the things we all like about ye. Tha’ rie, lads? Here, have this bit o’ me sambo for the dog.”

“Here’s a bit o’ burger, Shy Boy!”

“Here’s a bit o’ crust. What? It’s all that’s left. I was fuckin’ starvin’! It’s alrie for youse bastards wi’ yisser engines. I have to fuckin’ pedal all day. How was I to know there was goin’ to be a food collection for some dog in Finglas?”

“Fuckin’, Woolly Willie!”

“Fuck off, Charlie!”

Ray burst into the canteen just as I was gathering the scraps together. “Fuck’s sake, Shy Boy! D’ye want a lend o’ money or sum’in?”

Within the hour I was gingerly approaching the dog with an assorted bag of goodies that had his nose twitching eagerly. I settled myself on a large stone about four feet away from him, took off my helmet and stretched my feet in front of me. By the time I delved into the bag I had his full and undivided attention.

“I suppose I was wrong yesterday when I said that you’d be found before I would. Jeez, you’re hungry boy! Here, just help yourself.” I emptied the whole bag beside me for him to devour. “I didn’t know how hungry you’d be, boy. Charlie said that some people from the estate up the road feed you. He said that they tried a few times to give you a good home but you keep coming back here first chance you get, back to grieving over your dead tramp, refusing to get over your loss. He said that you were with the tramp since you were a little pup. That wasn’t today or yesterday either, was it, boy? I suffered a loss myself recently, not from death though. I suppose that’s the ultimate loss. She is still alive and well. I could get a letter to her or something, try to persuade her to change her mind, but where’s the honour in that? She made a choice and that choice went against me. I could go begging her to change her mind but it wouldn’t work; she would feel bad about hurting me and I would feel bad for begging. A man has to keep his head high for his own sake when his heart is being broken on him, boy, no matter how hard it is.

What I have to do is move on, same as you do. She’s not coming back to me any more than your tramp is coming back to you, boy.

Boy- that’s a bit impersonal if we’re going to become friends.

I’m going to call you tramp! Ok tramp?

We’re going to become mates, tramp, and it’s going to help each of us through his own loss. I’m going to stop here for a visit every time I’m out this way with whatever food I can get my hands on until some fine day when you’re in a house and I’m in a relationship, and then me and my new girlfriend can call in to see you in your happy new house and all will be well.

I have to go now but I’ll be seeing you real soon.” A promise that I took just as seriously as any promise that I ever made to a person, and not just for the mutt’s sake either - it was great therapy for me to pour my heart out to the animal.

And so a friendship was born. I never sulked about going north again, especially close to lunchtime, when I’d stay and eat with the dog instead of high-tailing it back into the base for lunch. I stopped at tramp’s corner almost every day and sometimes stayed as long as half an hour, depending on the urgency of whatever work I had on board and how much I had to say to him.

The following Friday in the pub when the lads were talking about Le Mans I had a brainwave.

“Gizzard, d’you go to Le Mans every year?”

“Last five in a row, Shy Boy!”

“D’you have a good tent?”

“Nah, piece o’ crap. I’ve been meanin’ to buy a new one for the past few years.”

“Why don’t you give me the old one and then you’ll have no choice but to treat yourself to a brand new one?”

“What do you want a tent for?”

“It’s for a friend.”

“Why doesn’t your friend buy a new one?”

“Hard times; it would make a big difference to him. Look,
here’s a tenner towards your new tent for it!”

“Keep your money, man, I couldn’t charge anyone for this thing.”

“Will ye bring it in here tomorrow when ye come in to get your bike?”

“Yeah, yeah I suppose so.”

The next Wednesday the Gizzard caught me napping at a red light on Stephen’s Green, coming behind me when I was totally lost in a daydream. This was the worst possible time to be at his mercy because he had just come in from his first trip through Finglas of the week and was considerably less than impressed to see that his previous “away home” was now a doghouse.

He crashed into me from behind at a speed that was a bit too fast to be a joke, beeping his horn a perfectly timed fraction of a second before impact. It was tyre to tyre, of course, causing no damage to either bike, but the jolt hit me at the very moment that I was jumping out of my skin at the beep, causing me to roll backwards enough to nearly lose it.

“A fuckin’ doghouse, ya bastard!” he bellowed as he pulled up beside me.

“Calm down, Gizzard. You needed a new one!”

“Shoulda took the fuckin’ tenner! Some little bollix is prob’ly goin’ to rob the fuckin’ thing anyway! Watch yer man over there.”

I looked in the direction he had nodded but could see nobody. I was just about to turn back when I saw my keys flying through the air away from me.

“Bastard!” I took a split second to shake an angry fist at him as he sped through the now green light before scrambling to retrieve my keys.

As it happened, some bollix did rob the tent after Tramp had only got a week’s shelter from it. However, the tent inspired action from some of Tramp’s other friends who made a shelter for him that was far better. Whoever they were, bless them, they hammered four fence posts into the ground to form a square
about six feet wide, with the back two set a little lower to make a drainage angle on the flat wooden roof. They had then stapled some clear plastic sheeting on three sides to form the shelter. The roof was also covered with plastic, coming down and overlapping the sides to render the whole thing waterproof.

I wasn’t the only courier that fed Tramp, but I was known for putting up the tent and also for the amount of times I was seen sitting beside him. I was getting beeped and waved by couriers that I didn’t even know while sitting there. One little shit on a step through even barked at me once when I passed him a little bit too fast going through heavy traffic on College Green. Because of this the courier grapevine credited me for building the shelter. Despite my emphasising to the contrary many times to many couriers, I’m sure there’s still those to this day that add shelter building to my participation in this story.

September came and went with the usual veer of the weather towards colder and wetter conditions. Every time I sat beside Tramp’s shelter - on a simple makeshift seat made of a gathering of rocks topped with a piece of wood - I noticed that more blankets had been added to his cosy looking pile in the back corner of his shelter. It was good to know that other people shared my concern for him, as the onset of winter gradually darkened the horizon.