In summer my dog became dirty, and I washed him. Nan swathed me in a hessian apron and prepared two troughs of water. We put him in the first one; he struggled to be out, and I pushed him back and rubbed with Velvet soap. I dried him on the lawn under the fig-tree, combed his ears and brushed until I thought him dry. Then I let him go, and Nan protested that it was too soon; it was — he rolled in the ashes under the quince-tree, came back proudly, dirtier than before.

Tinker had a pink thing. He was shameless, and showed it always when there was company; dragged himself across the verandah, with it poking out like strawberry jelly — like Nan’s new coral lipstick in a grey felt case. My grandmother said he had it because he was a male. She shuddered, and went away saying ‘filthy beast’ and ‘dirty dog’.

Tinker was spoilt. He howled like a baby at the gate when we went out; we crept away with quiet voices and muffled doors to trick him, but to no avail — his awful voice echoed down the street. He found the book from the library and chewed the corners, dotted the cover with teeth; we disguised the damage in brown paper, and my mother came with me to explain; but the librarian was cross — we had to pay.

Tinker was different from other dogs, and except for walks on the leash, did not go out. He ran away when a strange dog sniffed his arse. He was soothed in my arms when it was Guy Fawkes’ Night, and slumbered on while Doogles died next door.

And I think my dog with the ruffled legs and raspberry tongue, the strawberry jelly pink thing and coat thatched with leaves will never change.

He does.

Another summer comes and the lane is alive with weeds. Out of the stony earth spring the poke-bonnets of Salvation Jane, the soft plumes of cat’s ear and hare’s tail, mouse-ear chickweed and vanilla-scented holy grass. The grey men from the Council come with their siphons of weed-killer. The grasses stay their fingers with ribwort and couch-grass and convolvulus; dapple their trouser legs with capeweed, the yellow pennies of shepherd’s purse. Uselessly.

And somehow Tinker is there. The novelty of men and weeds is too much for him: he barks furiously with the ecstasy of it all. And, somehow, the men from the Council can kick at him with their pollen-studded boots, squirt with their chemicals in his wide brown eyes.

In an instant the Tinker who frolicked nimble-footed on the lawn, and jumped so surely onto the bed is gone. We see him coming back along the path. Slowly. He bumps into the clothes-line. And cries.

And that is how it will always be: his head held low to protect himself, his body edging sideways; his eyes vacant and milky. Blind.

NINETEEN

When I found the book in the shed I began to worry about my soul. It was called Hannah Lee, or Rest for the Weary; was written by the author of Isabel, or Influence, Margaret Browning, etc.; was published by the Religious Tract Society. On the flyleaf in faded ink was written: ‘Presented to Mary Davis, by the Houghton Wesleyan Sunday School, October 6th., 1876.’