James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

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.

Across at the rearmost table Jimmy Peters and McInnes were sitting on their own. Ronnie arrived and put his pint down, tucked the leash beneath his right shoe heel, and he nodded towards the bar: According to that yin there’s going to be all sorts of complaints about the dog.

That right? said Jimmy Peters.

Too wild or somefuckingthing! Ronnie grinned and sipped at the beer. You want to have seen it in the park as well, with all the wee weans! Ronnie grinned: I mean they were fucking poking it and everything and all it did was look at them, it didnt even notice.

The other two nodded.

I mean I’ve been with it all day and it’s fucking. . Ronnie stopped and shook his head, he grinned. He brought out his fags and gave one to each: It’s just won its first race!

Fucking must’ve! chuckled Jimmy Peters, taking the cigarette and looking at it.

But it didnt stretch to a pint! added McInnes.

Ronnie nodded. It was a wee race!

You’ve cheered up since this afternoon.

Me?

Me! said McInnes.

Well. . Ronnie sniffed.

You were like a fucking bear with a sore head, said Jimmy Peters.

After a moment Ronnie nodded.

You were!

Aye well no wonder man I came in for a pint and I got a fucking row!

Jimmy Peters chuckled.

McInnes said, Naw you didnt.

Aye I did. Ronnie smiled. I mean I fucking expected it right enough, the slagging.

It wasnt a slagging.

Aye it was.

McInnes pursed his lips.

Let’s face it, said Ronnie, it was a slagging.

Eh. . began Jimmy Peters. Ronnie looked at him and he shrugged.

Mind you, said Ronnie, I was expecting a wee bit of interest, just a wee bit.

Och come on, muttered McInnes.

Well, replied Ronnie, just a wee bit would’ve been fucking something; better than nothing. But naw; fuck all, just the four of yous trying to take the piss out me.

We werent trying to take the fucking piss out you! Jimmy Peters replied.

You were.

We fucking werent!

Aye you fucking were Jimmy — the two of yous were in it just as much as McColl and Kelly.

Jimmy Peters stared at him then looked away. But McInnes sniffed and leaned closer to Ronnie, and he said: I’ll tell you something man you better screw the fucking nut cause the way it’s going you’re going to wind up bad news, bad news. I’m no fucking kidding ye either.

What?

McInnes sat back and grunted, That’s all I’m saying.

What’re you meaning but?

McInnes shook his head.

Eh?

I’m no saying anything more Ronnie; you fucking know what I’m meaning.

Ronnie continued to gaze at him, then he frowned at Jimmy Peters and reached for the beer, sipped at it and put it down, lifted it again and sipped some more, gulping it down this time. He inhaled on the cigarette and stared towards the clock. And his hand lowered onto the head of the greyhound, and he grasped its ears.

Dont take it personally for God sake, said McInnes.

Naw.

Jimmy Peters said, It’s just you’re fucking, you’re under pressure and that. The young yin, have you heard from him? the boy.

Ronnie shrugged. Then he said, Look, you dont really think I went out and bought the dog because of that, the boy, because he’s away; eh?

Naw, Christ.

Cause I’ve been wanting a dog for ages. Fuck sake.

Jimmy Peters nodded.

And I’m no the only one — Kelly, he’s fucking been on about it more than me. Eh?