Traffic is dead, and my life will never be quite the same again.
Traffic was a soft-coated Irish wheaten terrier, and a more loyal animal never drew breath. He was steadfast and true, a dog who minded us with a vigilance which suggested that the patron saint of sentries had taken a special interest in shaping his genes.
He was not taught to be a sentinel. It was something he did. If we were on the beach he would find a high spot nearby, and sit there, keeping an eye on all movement, letting out a premonitory woof if there was something he didn't like. Otherwise his vigil was quiet, almost austere; but ceaseless withal.
He had been a typical wheaten puppy, waggy and inquisitive, fearless and friendly. The first other animal that he met after he left his litter was Tensing the cat. He bonded with Tensing in ways that I hesitate to write about in a family newspaper, but since I do not believe in the Himmler-wasn't-such-a-bad-chap school of obituaries, it is time to be fearless and frank.
Sighs of bliss
Some time early in his life - the equivalent of our teens, I suppose - he took to licking Tensing's anus, while Tensing stood there, waving his tail languorously and purring little sighs of bliss. This might go on for an hour or more. You will note that both animals were males. Whether Traffic would have provided the same service to a female cat, I cannot say; and what precise pleasure he, Traffic, derived from this hobby is equally beyond my powers of exegesis.
Nothing that I know about cats suggests that the southern end of their alimentary canals is a proper playground for tongues, though Traffic could spend hour after hour there licking the little aperture, tight as a purse with draw-strings, while its owner hissed and groaned with pleasure. I have been trying to work out how many million pounds I would have to be paid to do what Traffic did with such lolloping enthusiasm, and have come to the conclusion that the number does not exist.
No matter. Until one day Tensing vanished, in the way cats do, and Traffic was beside himself with grief and disbelief. He would never see a cat again without giving chase - presumably in order to provide the same service. Of course, the cats wouldn't know that, and they would invariably turn on him, all gnashing snarl and flashing claw; and Traffic would simply howl with disappointment. If he had been able to speak cat, he would have said: All I want is to lick your scrummy. . .
Brains department
But of course he didn't speak cat; and his quest to be the champion lingual explorer of feline back passages came to naught. And if you think from this tale that Traffic lacked something in the brains department, you would not be far wrong. A shoe - and not a particularly clever shoe - has more intelligence than poor Traffic had.
In fact, he was the stupidest animal I've ever come across. A goldfish would learn things more quickly than Traffic would and, moreover, would remember them. Traffic could learn almost nothing.
He once collided with a car, and was sent bowling down the road like a skier tumbling downhill. It taught him nothing. He couldn't see an oncoming car without strolling in front of it and yawning as the wide-eyed driver entered a huge S-skid, his tyres burning a rubber signature on the road.
Aside from sentry and rear entry duty, what did Traffic like? Well, he loved sleeping for hour after hour, snuffling happily in his slumber, especially on the bed beside me. He loved his food. He loved to sit in the car behind the wheel, pretending to be the driver. He loved having huge, five-minutes pisses, a large sensuous smile on his face as he fire-hosed all over an astonished tree. His love of that pastime even survived the occasion when he cocked his leg against an electric fence, and then sleepily opened his bladder. His shrieks of agony rang across four counties.
And most of all, he loved us. His duty was to mind us, to guard us, to protect us; and sometimes to lick us, which was something - especially in the Tensing era - we were not always that keen about. When Tensing was gone, and other cats were repelling his advances, we felt more at ease about these lingual signs of affection.
Elder statesman
When he arrived nearly 10 years ago, he was the only dog in the house. Over time, especially after we moved to the country, the dog population grew, to eight; and he changed from being the playful puppy to becoming the elder statesman and leader of his canine tribe. He might sometimes growl at a dog to remind the other of his or her place in the hierarchy; but he was at the apex, and no one seriously doubted that.
Last week, we noticed lumps in his throat. The vet didn't like what he saw, though I refused to believe it was more than an infection. But it was. He had a malignant melanoma, which had occupied his body almost like an evil spirit possesses its victim. It was everywhere, racing through his system, diminishing and depleting him almost by the hour.
We had him put down on Tuesday. Death took him totally, as death does; but its utter totality is always astonishing. The body remains; but Traffic is gone, and just as conclusively, something precious and irreplaceable has vanished from my life, and for all time.
KEVIN MYERS