The greyhound was looking at him. It had tugged on the leash to make him notice. A big whitish dog with a lot of black markings. Now standing squarely, like a middleweight boxer; and its long thin tail curling down to between its hind legs. So placid. It was strange. Sometimes when you saw them at the track — especially after the race — they were fierce, really fierce; going for each other, fangs bared inside the wire muzzles. Even just now, seeing its shoulders and that barrel chest, the power there, so palpable, the power, it could have stepped right out the fucking jungle. And its walk, that sort of pad pad pad — athletic wasnt the word.
Ronnie felt in his pockets for a loose match but there was none. He hadnt a light! He smiled. But one of the obvious factors was money. It cost a fortune to keep a dog. And you had to look after it properly otherwise what was the fucking point? you’d be as well keeping a stupid wee pet, a poodle or something. Stew twice a day was what the guy had advised, unless of course it was running that night. If that was the case you gave it nothing, not till after the event, not unless you were wanting it to lose. In which case you fed it five minutes before the fucking off!
There were other things he would have to find out about. Although some of it he would really only find out at the actual track, when he was along there giving it a time trial on Sunday afternoons. He was looking forward to that, it would be quite good. And he would be keeping his ears open and his mouth shut. Maybe get to know a couple of folk, and they would keep him straight at the beginning. Which was one of the reasons he had been hoping that bastard Kelly would’ve got involved. Kelly knew guys who were into different things and as well as that he used to like going over to the track. Between the two of them they could start finding out the right ways of working it. There was a lot more to the game than fucking exercise. Kelly was a bastard.
Ronnie paused. He had been walking a wee while, as far as the town hall. He crossed at the zebra crossing, making for Copland Road. His tea would be ready right at this minute and Babs would be wondering. But it was still too early; he was not prepared enough. And his fucking feet were beginning to feel sore. And if he felt like that what about the dog? A sit down would have been nice. He did have the cash for one more pint; also over and above that he had enough for 10 smokes. Not buying the packet earlier had been intentional, for obvious reasons: he would maybe only have had 2 or 3 left by this time, plus if he had crashed them in the boozer for fuck sake he would’ve had fuck all, maybe just the same roll-up dowp! Now, if he watched himself, he could buy the 10 and even put one aside to wake up with the morrow morning, when Babs got the Family Allowance money — the giro wasnt due till next Wednesday.
The leash was jerking. The dog knew how to get his attention alright!
It was across the road: a guy walking three greyhounds at once, two from one fist and one from the other — them all looking well-groomed, taken care of. Sleek. Ronnie nodded. He called over: Nice day!
Aye!
As long as the rain keeps off!
Aye! When the man made to continue on Ronnie called:
You getting a turn?
The man shrugged. He indicated the dog walking alone: This yin goes the morrow night!
I’ll keep my fingers crossed!
The man nodded.
Whereabouts? Ashfield?
But the other guy made no reply to this; instead he continued on with the three dogs without glancing back over to Ronnie. Ronnie shook his head but he grinned briefly. Typical dog owner! They were notorious for it. And any information they did give out had to be treated with caution; in fact you were probably better just to consider it as useless, as not worth bothering about.
He went into a wee shop and bought the 10 fags and a book of matches and he was puffing when he appeared on the pavement. Farther along there was another guy with a dog, an elderly man — he looked like an old age pensioner. That was another thing about this, how it could keep you active and fit, and still involved.
At one time this district had two greyhound stadia to itself. Ronnie had been well acquainted with the last that closed down. The White City. It had been a licensed track and he used to go quite regularly, even as a boy; him and his pals used to have this way of skipping in down by the dummy railway. It had been great, evenings like this, the sun shining and the rest of it. The other track was the Albion, a flapping gaff. Ronnie had been too young for that one but the old timers yapped about it still, how it was the best of the lot and all that sort of shite.
He just wasnt ready to go home yet, not yet, not quite; he would be soon. At least it wasnt raining; if it had been raining it would’ve been terrible, even for the sake of the dog just. Kelly was a disappointment. So was the other three. But it was hopeless dwelling on that; you had to do things for yourself in this life; nobody was going to do it for you. It was him that had bought the dog, and he would have to fucking take care of it, just take care of it, it was down to him. The lassies would give him a hand; they would like being able to take it out for walks and the rest of it. They wouldnt think he was daft, it was Babs just, she would think he was daft. Other people would think he was daft as well. Was he daft? Maybe he was daft; he was always fucking — what was he?
He could just go home for his tea. No, not yet. He couldnt get it right. He still needed to think things out. Where to keep the dog for instance. The boy’s room. Could he keep it there? Would Babs accept it? Would she fuck. She would just fucking, she would laugh at him. Quite right as well. What did he actually go and buy it for? Stupid. That would be her first question too and he couldnt fucking answer it, her first fucking question, he wouldnt be able to answer it, he wouldnt be able to give a straight answer to it. Thirty-five years of age, soon to be thirty-six, married for nearly nineteen years, a son of eighteen — a fucking granpa he could be.
He needed time to think. He just needed time to think. And what was the fucking time anyway? it must’ve been after six. The tea would just go back in the oven; the tea would go back in the oven.
Ronnie jerked at the dog; he had wound the leash round his knuckles and was clenching his fist as he walked, and he transferred it to his left hand.
*
The same guy served him as at dinnertime but this occasion he did speak; he frowned and he muttered, They’ll no like you bringing it in too much.
What?
The barman nodded, looking up from the pint he was pouring: A lot of folk bring in theirs as well Ronnie, know what I mean? Just ordinary pets I’m talking about — in other words, wee yins!
Dont give us that, replied Ronnie. What about these big fucking alsatians! You’re feart to walk in here sometimes in case you step on a tail and get fucking swallowed.
The barman nodded, smiled slightly.
Ronnie sniffed; he glanced at the greyhound by his feet: He wouldnt hurt a flea.
The barman shrugged. I’m just telling you Ronnie, they’ll complain.
Okay, I hear you. . Ronnie sipped at the pint, awaiting his 2 pence change; when the barman passed it to him he dropped it through the slot of the huge bottle of charity money, and he went to the toilet. The dog was quite the thing on the floor when he came back.
He should have come to another pub. That would have been the best idea. He glanced about; a couple of curious stares at the dog. Fuck them all. The dog wouldnt harm a flea. It was just a big — Christ! it was just a big pet.