A DAD'S LIFE:That backseat has seen years of eating and spilling
WE’RE ON our annual pilgrimage to Connemara. It’s all go because we’re all itching. It seems the car might be infested with biting insects.
I was an Arts student; I’ve lived in rancid flats. I’ve slept on floors and mattresses scavenged from skips. I camped out for seven months in Australia. I have never been eaten like this.
One of the dogs got the blame to begin with. We’d gone about 20km and pulled in for petrol. The elder leaped to her feet in the back seat clawing at her face, “What is it? What is it? Get it off me!” ‘It’ was some form of minuscule black fly. She threw open the door and hurtled out. She presents her arms to me. Red welts are rising. “Da-ad, what are these?”
“Ah they’re nothing. We all get red bumps occasionally.”
“That bloody dog has fleas,” says the missus. The accused sits staring sadly out from the backseat. His floppy uncut fringe blocking his line of vision. Wondering why he is suddenly the focus of attention. We growl at him. His mother licks his ear reassuringly.
The bloody dogs are only in the bloody car because we bloody forgot about them until we were packing up. At the last moment, we convinced my glamorous sister, who is revisiting unglamorous student life in NUI Galway, to take them for the weekend. We are planning to drop them en route and decide not to tell her about the flea development.
The missus produces her bag of cleansing creams and douses dogs and children. This is done on the hoof because I am very Withnail when travelling; I am always “making time”. Make time at all times with children, they will find a way to unmake it during the trip. We drive on and the dogs are shampooed, scrubbed and pored over. No fleas.
As this realisation is reached, another winged beast flutters across my field of vision. I swat him and continue in the fast lane, uncommonly proud of my dexterity.
However, what I’ve seen makes it clear this came from no dog’s hide. These fellas are among us and, like the worst of viruses, airborne.
I think of the many years of eating and drinking and spilling that has taken place in that backseat. I think of the barely cursory cleaning that has taken place back there.
“We’re being eaten by fruit flies who are breeding on the drippings of your smoothies and Yops. We’re being eaten because you two are a pair of mingers.”
“What?” both of them are indignant in unison. The elder recovers her cool first and goes on the attack. “If you ever actually cleaned your car, Dad, it wouldn’t be so manky back here.”
The younger senses an opportunity, “Yeah Dad, it is really disgusting. Even my friends think it’s disgusting.”
“Really? Your sophisticated seven-year-old friends?”
“Yeah, really.”
I do the predictable. I launch into the rant about having never sat in the back seat once myself. I point out that they eat popcorn, sandwiches, chocolate bars, apples and oranges and think it’s perfectly normal to stuff crusts and skins and cores into side pockets and between seats for someone else to drag out. I may have used the phrase “car fairy”, they sink me to the depths.
I point out that they bring the dogs into the back even though they know one of them is more than likely to barf. I point out that I have better things to be doing than cleaning dog puke. They roll eyes.
That night we eat in the fabulous Mulberry restaurant in Barna. They treat us really nicely in there despite our leprous demeanours. We sit and attempt not to itch. The glamorous sister and grandfather are among us.
We think they are unaware that we are plagued. We should be ringing bells.
Earlier, on arrival at our digs, I emptied the car and removed the back seats. The thousand yard stare I now wear is testament to the horrors I have witnessed. Small girls, I have concluded, are the filthiest of creatures.
Their punishment is to ride home in the horror pit they themselves created and hope I performed my extermination duties well.
For sale: one rather old but well taken care of Hyundai Santa Fe.
abrophy@irishtimes.com