Our Shane cost £10. In 1968 £10 was a tidy bit of money. I bought him off Billy Bradley in Springhill. Billy bred Alsatians; he called them German Shepherds. Shane was the only sable-coloured pup in a large litter of black-and-tans in Billy’s coalshed.
He was a big pup, heavy-boned and thick-coated. I paid for him in two instalments. To tell the truth, I have a vague recollection that our Paddy may have paid £5. At least I remember us having an argument, half-joking, half-serious, about who owned what half of the dog, so I suppose that means our Paddy must have been a half-owner. I must ask him about that the next time I see him.
A few weeks after I got Shane, Billy give me his papers. I was pleased about that at first but later I must confess I got a wee bit sceptical. That was after Barney McLavery scoffed when I showed him the papers one day. Barney had remarked on how fine-looking a pup Shane was. Barney bred greyhounds.
“He’s champion stock,” I said proudly, “pedigree breeding. I’ve the papers.”
“Aye,” said Barney, “I wouldn’t pay much heed to papers. Doggymen always have papers about the place. But he’s a nice pup all the same.”
After that I put the papers away.
We always had a dog in the house. In fact, when I got our Shane we already had a red-haired collie-type mongrel called Mickey I got for nothing from a man in Moyard. Before Mickey we had Rory. I remember when Rory disappeared that I cried for a week. Rory and me and my friends used to roam the Black and Divis Mountains every summer. He was a great dog. So was Mickey, and he and Shane made a nice pair. I suppose it’s a good thing rearing a young dog with an older dog. The older dog puts manners on the pup.
Then when he was about nine months old Shane got sick. I took him down to the free vet in May Street. Shane had distemper. The vet gave him an injection and told me if he didn’t improve that I’d have to get him put down. I was shattered. I took him home on the bus and my da let me keep him in the back hall. He was very, very sick. I gave him penicillin tablets, force-fed him honey to bring the phlegm up, and washed the mucus from his nose.
“Make him eat,” Billy Bradley advised me. “Keep his strength up.”
I sat up all night for a week spoon-feeding Shane with scrambled eggs, milk, rusks and water. When he got better I was really proud of myself. Even now, thinking back on it, I’m still proud of myself. And of Shane, too, of course. He was banjaxed; anybody would be. But after a few weeks you’d never think he’d had anything wrong with him. Except when he was tired, like after a long walk: then you’d see his back legs a bit weak. Other than that he was all right.
He and I used to go everywhere together until, as things became more hectic, I started spending less time at home. Even then, though, I would still see him regularly and we would walk together maybe three or four times a week. I’ve always thought there is nothing as relaxing as strolling with a dog. Shane was a really fine-looking animal, and biddable as well. Big as he was, he was quite docile. Mickey was a different kettle of fish. I suppose he had to be. In Ballymurphy small dogs live very combative lives, especially small small ones like Mickey.
When the British army arrived on the scene my visits home became more infrequent. At times I may only have been a few streets or even only a few houses away, but 1970 and ’71 weren’t actually great dog-walking years, so Shane and I cut down on our excursions. I still saw him, of course. Our Liam or our Sean would walk him down to wherever I was and we would have an hour or so together. The problem was that when it was time to part Shane used to go wild. He would rear up on his hind legs, crying and shouting and barking and yelping. It got so that our Liam or our Sean could hardly hold him as he jerked away from them, pulling and straining on his lead and bawling out to me. In a way it used to please me, I suppose. Once I got a week off and we spent our time wandering through the fields of Aughyneill down south, far away from British army patrols, but he fretted for days on returning to Belfast when we went our separate ways again.
In 1971 the Brits killed Mickey. They killed a lot of dogs in Ballymurphy. The dogs gave an early warning that the Brits were in the area. The dogs used to give them gyp, and with our house being raided so often Mickey would go crazy whenever he caught sight or scent of a British soldier. After they killed him our Dominic cried for a week.
Then in 1973 Shane vanished. The Brits took him, of course. Somebody saw him up in the Henry Taggart British army base, but there was nothing we could do. My ma phoned the barracks and complained, but, of course, it was pointless. We had always been afraid that the Brits would get him—they are always keen to get any half-decent dog. They had tried to take Shane before, but my da caught them and got him back. This time, though, we didn’t get him back. I was in Long Kesh by then, interned in Cage 6.
We used to get very frequent British army raids in the cage; at times they even raided us twice in one night. Usually they raided at about half-four in the morning. They would sneak into the huts, slipping into place at the foot of our beds, and then, as the one in charge snapped on the lights, they all beat hell out of the beds with their batons.
“This is a British army search!” one of them would scream at us. “When told to do so, you will take your knife, fork and spoon and go to the canteen.”
We would be escorted one at a time through a gauntlet of British troops to spend the morning in an empty hut. Sometimes we would be put on the wire, legs and arms and fingers splayed wide and holding the body weight. It was hard going, especially at half-four in the morning. After the first hour you forgot what end of you was up.
One morning we got a Brit raid which was no big deal. They took it easy enough, and none of us wanted any trouble. When the raid was over we were taken back from the canteen to our hut, one at a time as was the routine, through two lines of British soldiers. Sometimes some of the Brits would slabber at us or use their batons, and occasionally they would “seize” their war-dogs, setting them on us. This particular morning nothing untoward happened and the worst we were hit with were the usual and predictable insults.
Just as I turned the corner of our hut I saw Shane. He was about fifty yards from me, close to the gate of the cage, and accompanied by a small, stocky British army dog-handler.
I had about ten yards to walk. Our Shane was clearly in my view. I shouted out to him but he didn’t move. Then I whistled, the way I always whistled for him: one long, three short, then one long whistle, all in the one breath.
He tensed immediately, ears cocked, head alert, his body on point. Jesus, he was a smashing-looking dog!
“You! Fuck up!” the Brit nearest me said.
I whistled again and slowed my pace. Our Shane saw me just as I reached the end of the hut. He jerked towards me and the Brit dog-handler, just like our Liam and Sean before him, could hardly hold him. Shane was rearing up on his hind legs, crying and shouting, barking and yelling. I thought he was going to break free as he lunged forward, jerking away from his handler, pulling and straining on his lead and howling out to me.
Then a Brit shoved me around the corner and into our hut. I could still hear Shane crying. The lads behind me told me that he had to be taken out of our cage, still pulling and straining against his handler. And still crying.