My dog loiters like an untipped lavatory attendant.
What? I shrug. Our relationship has evolved over the years. We communicate, using subtle body language
You’re going out? Again?
I don’t remember marrying this diminutive quadruped. And that would be your fucking business?
Oh, be like that.
What’s with the passive-aggressive stuff? Just bite me like you normally do and then we can get down to serious interspecies violence.
Excuse me while I go and shit on your lawn. Couldn’t you tell me where you intend to enjoy yourself tonight? It’s the least you could do, considering the fact that my night involves curling up in a basket and licking my crotch.
Don’t knock it, I say. Many humans would envy you for that.
Where are you going?
My heart softens a little. I’m going to Dolans, I say. For their birthday.
Sharon Shannon? sneers the dog. You’re not into trad.
Ah, it’s ok, I say. Don’t forget, Irish traditional fed into American country, which in turn blended with Delta blues, ultimately giving the world rock ‘n’ roll.
That’s shit, the dog replies. You’re not into trad. Did you hear about the fella who parked his car in a rough part of town and left his accordion in the back seat?
No, I sighed, but you’ll probably tell me.
When he came back, the window was broken. And there were two accordions in the back seat.
Hysterical, I reply, aiming a kick at the hound, but missing. I’m going out.
I’ll pull things out of the bin.
You will not. Would you prefer to spend the night in the garden?
All right, but you’re a heartless man.
I blunder into town, eventually arriving at Dolans where we all enjoy the virtuosic talents of the wonderful Sharon Shannon, but let me make a small confession, since the dog hasn’t yet learned to read. It’s true. I’m not a huge fan of trad, and yet Sharon transcends all that. When Sharon cranks it up, suddenly I’m won over and who wouldn’t be?
I’m a convert. I’m enchanted, and most especially, I want to run away with Sharon Shannon, but I suppose that will never happen.
When I get home, the dog is leaning against the front door, wearing an apron and wielding a rolling pin.
Don’t, I warn. Not one non-verbal word out of you.
He barks a little sneer. Someone goes to Heaven, he says, they get handed a pair of wings and a harp.
The dog studies me just a little too long. You’re getting a pair of horns and an accordion.