Getting the Nod From Himself

By Tom Moloney

When Etcetera was born in 1167 he was just another mongrel pup. Unlike his mother and siblings he escaped death by drowning at the hands of a cruel farmer. The Abbott of Killeedy Abbey found him exhausted on a ditch and claimed him as his pet. While out for his constitutional on the morning of May eve, 1169, he innocently ingested an elixir that changed his existential status to that of an immortal dog. For eight hundred and fifty years, he has overcome death by ingesting the same elixir once every ten years. Now, however, a crisis has befallen Etcetera. The European Union has decided to ban one of the ingredients used to keep him alive. The impending ban is having the effect of placing him, as he says, on 'Death Row'. He feels that telling his story is his only hope. Although capable of total recall, he has 'to be selective, giving time and space to those particular decades when the lives lived of the dogs that I once was might be of most interest to posterity.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limerick Writers Centre
• Release date: Mar 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463300978

Tom Moloney

Tom Moloney lives in Broadford, County Limerick with his better half -Bernadette. He has two beloved sons, Edmond and Thomas, in whom he is well-pleased. Nothing taxes him apart from Revenue. He describes himself as a poet-barbarian, knocking at the gates of the canon. He juxtaposes his life between two shops. By day he 'fumbles in the greasy till'; by night he turns to 'the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.' He has published two collections of poetry My Register and Killing Time. Getting the Nod from Himself is his first venture into prose fiction.By the same author:My Register - poetryKilling Time - poetry

Book preview

OWNER MAN HAS a habit of watching the Nine O' Clock News with one eye on Ann Doyle, the other on the obituaries in The Examiner. After folding the 'paper, he lays it on the coffee table beside him, invariably sighing, I've said it before, Glen, and I'll say it again, there's no escaping Death. I'd look at him and pretend nothing. He'd never elaborate, merely take a deep breath, tinkering with the zapper, ready to flick should Ann's News sound like a re-hash of the same old stuff.

Owner man had that other eye as usual on the 'paper when the News came on last Thursday night. Ann sat in the studio, doing her best:

good evening and welcome; the headlines tonight: police are following a definite line of inquiry into a fatal stabbing in Foxrock in the early hours of this morning; Pope Francis has condemned the execution of a man by electric shock in Texas; and, following all-night talks in Brussels, involving European Union Agriculture Ministers and the Commissioner, a new Directive to eradicate ragweed is to come into effect."

Ann couldn't really have known it but her headline about ragweed was another murder story, or to be precise, a death sentence on me. I piddled on the carpet where I was sitting. Owner man heard the leak, zapped off the television, got up to check if what he thought he'd heard was for real before calling-out mother (his wife), come in here and see what our house-trained little Glen has done.

Mother is a gentle, stoical and patient human but I could see her face going pale at the sight of the wet under me. Putting her two hands to her mouth, she stopped short of acting out of character, at the critical moment saying, Glen, what came over you, darling? This isn't one bit like you. My only defence was to keen. Oh-kay, we mustn't fret; anyone can have an accident. I think the best thing is for Glen to go to his room straight away so that mother can clean and disinfect the carpet.

I keened again but she repeated, room!. As I left, I overheard owner man say, I know this sounds ridiculous but I could swear it was something the Doyle one said that caused him to do that.

Ambrosia is reputed to be the food of the gods. And where does ambrosia come from? Exactly! The act of eradicating ragweed may very-well be the first phase in ridding the civilized world of gods, whether the One True One, the false ones, the big ones, the little ones, the half-ones, the insane who imagine themselves to be gods or me who doesn't claim to be a god but who, centuries ago, was given what is common to all gods - immortality.

THE TRANSFORMATION

AS I WAS RETURNING to Killeedy Abbey after my morning constitutional on May eve, 1169, Brother Anthony greeted me: Etcetera, the Man who made Time made plenty of it. His disposition was like one who didn't have a care in the world. I figured that listening to bird songs since daybreak as he swayed with the scythe, cutting the lawn, had caused him to be away with them and to absent-mindedly call me Etcetera. As for his cant about time, well, I took no notice, merely confirming to myself that Nature was well on her way to having a good day.

Brother Anthony's sense of spaciousness contrasted with a burst of outrage minutes earlier at the piggery from Brother Paul when he said, Etcetera, you little bollox, why can't you keep quiet? I should point out I was just after barking, having heard him scold a pig for dumping in a spot that Brother Paul had brushed seconds earlier. When Brother Paul addressed me as 'Etcetera' I put it down to stress. Brother Paul was an ex-soldier and sometimes acted like one. I knew better than to bark again, instead turned my back on him and the pigs and the smell and continued on my way.

Everyone else in the Abbey with whom I came into contact that morning was calling me Etcetera as if they had never known me as their in-house Mutt. When I was four weeks old, I learned to become an early adaptor. And so, as the Abbey monks greeted me with Etcetera, I never barked or gave any other indication that my name wasn't Etcetera. I just fell quietly into line, keeping my head down and my tail tucked neatly between my hind legs, reassuring myself that as sure as cogito, ergo sum I would, sooner or later, unearth what was afoot.

WAS IT THE UNSEEN HAND OF BEING?

EVER SINCE THAT May eve morning I have secretly lived the life of an immortal dog. As I write, the second decade of the twenty-first century is at hand. Needless to say, I have no official documentation to confirm I was a mongrel of the twelfth century. You'll just have to take my word for it.

Even though I am well-used to my unique status, living the life of an immortal has never bored me. On the contrary, it has been a solace as I observe Death perpetually beckoning the rest of the living world. I have lived on and on and on through the centuries, quietly confident that Death would never come out of nowhere, clicking his fingers at me. Be that as it may, I have never taken my special existence for granted. Every morning when I wake up and see the crows perched on the rooftops, get the seasonal whiff of slurry from down the road, observe the sun, the wind and the rain taking turns to roll out the weather, I've considered myself lucky not to be following old friends with whom I have barked, wagged my tail, sometimes growled; friends who fear no more the heat of the sun or the furious winter rages; and so on.

There's a breed of fantasy to what I've just typed you must understand. It really belongs to yesterday. For sure, all my yesterdays have lighted friends the way to dusty death. But the light still shines for me and even though today has dawned over the horizon, Death is prowling my way at last, a summons in hand from the Bureaucrats in Brussels. If the European Union unwittingly passes a particular Directive, then as night follows day, I will join the mortals.

As Mutt all those centuries ago, I accepted the actions of others, without a second thought. However -and I can't explain it - as soon as I realized that things were not as they seemed and that I was no longer Mutt, I became more focussed, had more cop on, was less reactive. Realization even dawned that I could inhabit the body of a different dog every decade by doing what I did the first occasion I mysteriously changed from being a mortal Mutt to the immortal Etcetera. Since that watershed day, I have juggled many lives in the bodies of dogs, remaining at arm's length, always conscious not only of who I really am but what I left behind on the morning of May eve, 1169 when, in the body of Mutt, the Abbott's pet, I walked to the shade of the eastern boundary ditch of the Abbey orchard. Feeling bilious, I tore away a few blades of coarse grass, the standard canine remedy through the centuries for the relief of digestive upset; in this instance, caused by chicken (mostly skin) from the previous evening's dinner.

Brother Doody was the in-house cook. He always saved leftover meat for me, separating it from the slop for the pigs. Whenever he'd serve me chicken for dinner, I'd stand over it for a moment, debating whether the pleasure in front of me was more enjoyable than horrible imagining. Hunger invariably won that dialectic. On the particular morning, May eve morning 1169, the horrible imagining duly turned up.

I began to chew the coarse grass, anticipating that the blades would work on the bile. Believe it or not, the taste was not what I'd expected. The blades of grass released a juicy sensation, unusually creamy and, for some inexplicable reason, activated a memory of how my mother's milk tasted when she was weaning me. All too soon though the juice was gone. I felt no need to tear more grass. As always, a few blades were enough. On this occasion, however, I sensed for a nano-second that something had happened beyond the standard. I shrugged it off as the effect of a few fast-acting blades of grass. I shook myself, routinely sniffed the ground as far as a nearby apple tree where I cocked my leg. Even now over nine centuries later, I vividly remember kicking a clump of grass when I had finished. I was already feeling better and carefree again. Not yet did I realize that I was a new dog although, within minutes, anyone I'd meet would call me by what I thought was a new nickname or non-de-plume.

I have pondered intermittently over the centuries as to what exactly could have happened in the orchard on the morning of May eve, 1169. I keep coming 'round to the same conclusion: that an elemental force, in conjunction with a constellation of events, interfered with my orb as I pulled at the dewy grass topped with cuckoo spit. The Unseen Hand of Being coded me into a space reserved for immortals on registering that I had ingested the milky cocktail. As it so happened, the blades of coarse grass were protecting a piece of common ragweed, ambrosia of the Gods, the sap of which, when chewed in combination with a cuckoo's spit and coarse grass between dawn and mid-day on May eve sent the signal (erroneously so on this occasion) to the universe that the diner carried the immortal tag.

If there has been a catch to my immortal status, it is this. I have not been able to share my secret with anyone. Any time I have ever tried to do so, a barrier (what I can only describe as a silencing of my being) has come between me and my listener. And even though we'd be physically present to each other on the couple of occasions that I tried to unburden my secret, it would be as if my barking out loud was on another plane, closed-off, out of earshot; until now. Now it seems, following the European Union's Directive to eradicate ragweed, some Deep Throat from within the Organization of Being has mysteriously lifted the gagging order, allowing me the vital opportunity to recount who I really am and to explain my plight, believing my readers have the power to shout, "Stop; this dog cannot die just because the European Union wishes to eradicate ragweed! This dog is a rara avis; he must be given the legal status of a protected species; for nine hundred years he has been a historical witness to everyday life. We can truly say that we will not see his likes again."

MEA CULPA, OWNER MAN

I AM LIVING perilously. And yet I cannot remain passive. Given the order of things, my canine physiology excludes me from the right to earn a wage so as to become financially independent; which means I cannot buy a personal computer. However, Fate is rallying to my cause. A good omen has already presented itself. I have succeeded in getting my paws on a laptop that owner man has adjudged to be past its sell-by-date. It will offer me the means to record moments of my long life, moments that may be of particular interest to readers, not necessarily moments of historical importance but ones that give insight to a life lived, a life still living, etcetera. I'm hedging that when enough humans read my story, the tide of democracy will swell to a level that will drown the Plan of those faceless men in Brussels.

For all my luck in accessing a laptop, I sit uneasy in front of it, inputting what you are reading, knowing that I have broken the seventh Commandment. I swear over my dead mother's body that if I had the monetary means I'd buy a laptop for the project at hand. Still, I have to choose between saving my immortal status or adhering to the letter of the seventh Commandment. As soon as I have no more need for the Compaq and should I be spared from my present predicament, I will return it.

I am somewhat consoled that owner man won't miss the Compaq. His grown-up sons have given him a new laptop as a birthday present. They must have overheard him complaining both to himself and to me about the old one. Owner man's new laptop has the jazzy-sounding name of 'Samsung'.

As soon as owner man realized that his Samsung had a smoother operating system than this old Compaq, he discarded the latter on a shelf that already contained a build-up of discarded newspapers, all full of articles he imagined he'd find time to read or re-read sometime in the future. I have developed a jaundiced perspective about that type of behaviour, having observed its squirrel-like nature through the centuries. I mean, apart from yours truly, time waits for no man, or dog. And I know of nobody who has had enough time to complete everything he wanted to complete in his lifetime.

On the day that owner man discarded the old Compaq, I was at his feet, thinking to myself, if I ever need to use a laptop, I could maybe use this one. That day has come sooner than I might have imagined.

I remember owner man saying to the Compaq the day he dumped it on the old newspapers, sorry, old soldier but I'm afraid I'm going to put you down somewhere out of the way as soon as I transfer your documents and desktop stuff onto your replacement, Joe Samsung, my new black friend. D'you think Joe is an appropriate name for my new baby? I have decided to call him Joe in the hope that he will be a quiet, hard-working and loyal worker, not unlike Saint Joseph. I hope you don't mind me retiring you. Remember that retirement is one of a sub-set of realities huddled together under the umbrella of the iron law of existence. Me working with Joe Samsung will have, by default, a positive aspect inasmuch as you'll have a long rest. If you had a hand, I'd shake it. However, all I can do is unplug you. You never know but if things don't work out between me and Joe, I may have occasion to call on you. So, don't go off developing Alzheimer's.

I looked for a possible reaction from the Compaq as owner man lifted it up and held it as if it were a cup he had finished drinking tea from and was scanning for any old spot on which to offload. In the event, he abandoned it on a shelf full of dried-up newspapers. At the time, I felt for the old Compaq. I mean to say, nobody likes being told that he's past it, that he's being put out to grass, that he's being perceived as a piece of scrap, that there's a new kid about to take his place. Being made to retire like that is a polite way of saying, find a corner somewhere out of the way and, preferably, out of sight where you can disintegrate without causing any fuss to the rest of us. But then, that's life. Still, something deep inside tells me that decency towards and respect for anything elderly touches both the giver and the receiver, bonding the respective individuals above and beyond the arbitrariness and the coldness of utilitarianism. I think that owner man could have maybe given the old Compaq a hug, an end-of-career present; say, a memory stick, perhaps gone the extra yard by asking 'mother' (his good wife) to bake a cake and why not, have thrown a small, informal party as recognition for all the service his old Compaq had given.

No doubt you'll have heard that people in glasshouses shouldn't throw stones. Well, owner man mightn't have suffered from full-blown Alzheimer's but he was serially absent-minded. I truly believe that he blanked the old Compaq from his mind soon after placing him on the shelf of newspapers. Of course, it is fortuitous for me that he did; as you can see. And so, while owner man was on a five-minute toilet break last night (I heard the flushing), I put my two jaws around the old Compaq and ran off with it, dribbling from the heightened tension as I laboured with its awkward frame all the way to my bedroom.

I maintained my focus on the mission at paw and after placing the Compaq on the oak bureau that stood in the right-hand corner of my room and which hitherto I had never found any use for, I locked the door, dropped to the floor on my four haunches, trying to take in fully what I had just done.

You can picture the scene. The deed was done. The adrenalin was spent. I suppose for reason of guilt, the 'murder most foul' scene in Macbeth (immediately after Macbeth had murdered the king) came into my head. As you know, in Elizabethan times, everyone believed in the Divine Right of kings. The notion of murdering a king was looked upon as an unnatural act. Whatever about the Divine Right of kings, us dogs regard our owners as Alphas, our relationship with them analogous to the Elizabethan Divine rights of kings. Apart from that, most right-thinking beings would be inclined to agree that good can never come from bad no matter what. To reiterate, my only defence rests in the argument that I have stolen the Compaq for a greater good: life or death. For sure, I have broken a trust, a sort of Divine Right. What I did last night might not have been high drama. I can, without much bother, however, identify with the tragic Macbeth after he had done the foul deed.

And so here I am, tapping at the Qwerty. I have always been an early adaptor, a quick learner. While watching owner man typing documents, I picked up the know-how. I really wish though that I had all the time in the world to record everything about my long, long life. Believe it or not, I am capable of total recall; an extension of my capacity to absorb texts. I refer to the latter gift in that segment of my life, covering my serendipitous introduction to Being And Time. I regret that I will have to be selective, giving time and space to those particular decades when the lives lived of the dogs that I once was might be of most interest to posterity.

If I may then, I'll turn to documenting a love affair during my decade as happy Ollie. Happy Ollie was an apt name for me that decade because I was as happy as a street dog can hope to be in the persona of Ollie, grateful for what life handed by way of a series of opportunistic situations and as luck would have it, she walked into my Ollie life as I took time-out in Geary's field, chasing, would you believe, rabbits.

ETCETERA - THE DECADE AS HAPPY OLLIE

HAD YOU SEEN me the morning Penelope walked into my life, you’d have been bowled-over by the way I looked, in particular my black and white outfit, covering me all the way down my legs beyond my hocks as far as my toe nails. And my nails were well-pared from the road surface of the village. The best part, however, was my smile. It had an inviting quality, never looking like I had it in my head to snarl at the least provocation. It would not be inaccurate to say that it was engaging. I'd bet if my friendly smile were pointed-out to a human who feared dogs, he'd lose his phobia.

My real mother was drowned by a cruel man when I was four weeks old; ditto my siblings. I escaped at the last minute. I have always looked on that escape as the foundation of my ability to survive Death. At times, I have pondered if I might have been better-off going down with my family such is the sadness the memory evokes, even now, centuries later. For all that, I have developed a coping strategy. I say to myself, believe that it was your natural mother's dying wish that you should survive and go on to live a long and happy life. I cling to that thought believing her prayer to have been answered and for some unknown reason I have become not just a survivor but an immortal one who for all intents and purposes, exercises his right to smile and wag his tail for no particular reason.

Psychologists say that if you act in a certain way your mind falls into line and soon assumes the mindset of what you are doing. Some months after becoming a pet to my owner, Pádraig Pearse, he said, Ollie, I notice you are always wagging your tail for seemingly no particular reason. I wish I knew why you are perpetually happy in your skin. Whatever is making you do it, I'm glad for you. May you always be as happy as you are now.

As you may be aware, dogs lap-up the words of their alphas. I'm no different. Even though I was known amongst my peers as happy - following the intervention of a dog called 'Shot' - it was really from the day my owner made the observation that I identified unequivocally with the word and made it my business to wag my tail at every opportunity.

Pádraig Pearse took pride in telling everyone in the village that I was a happy dog, adding that they needn't be afraid of me. Eventually, the villagers were routinely calling me happy Ollie. I even sought help to fine-tune how to act happy, visiting my adopted mother who was still alive at the time and asking her for any special tips. She gave me the finishing touch alright, pointing out that, while wagging one's tail is all well and good, the instrumental value of a non-threatening smile went way-beyond the tail. And the secret to a non-threatening smile, she demonstrated, was to relax your lips, angle your head while at the same time lifting and focussing your eyes as if to say 'see, I'm happy'. I perfected that technique.

I should say that I also had an eye-catching body about that time; not the result of working-out at the gym three times-a-week, but - and I’m proud to say this - by exercising the natural way, roaming the village, running from one end to the other, from lamp post to lamp post, sometimes without any reason. I’m not boasting here about my toned physique back then, rather I’m trying to build up a mental picture of what I looked like and why on that most auspicious of days in Geary's field when, out of nowhere, or so it seemed to me, Penelope appeared before me.

Even though I unwittingly proved I was fertile by fathering a litter of pups with Penelope, I'd never have classified myself as a stud. On the one and only occasion that I used the word in Penelope's presence, she told me she hated the term, that as far as