A few final words from the coat stand, clenched fists, shake paws with the dog and ask him if he's ready. He barks. He's ready. Pick up the floorbrush and make your way to the back door, let out a roar and charge out with imaginary studs clattering down the roofed passageway and on to the grass.
It's All-Ireland hurling final day in the back garden, a day me and the dog have been dreaming of all our lives. He's Kilkenny, I'm Cork but we've vowed to have a Coke and a Bonio after and promised we'll still be friends.
He's running around his end (chasing a Daddy-long-legs), I'm hyperventilating around mine, waving at my family in the trees, before taking my place on the garden bench for the team photo.
We set off on the parade and there's an ugly incident down the Canal End (the oil tank) when he cocks his leg and wees, a provocative gesture to the people of my county, one, I tell him, I will avenge when the referee's back is turned.
We're standing to attention for Amhrain na bhFiann, studiously ignoring the television camera in our faces, focusing on the battle ahead. We've worked all our lives for this. This is the day.
We take up our positions, he's marking me so I bring him for a walk up and down the wall dividing our garden from the neighbours, just to make him look an eejit.
He shoulder charges me in an attempt to loosen my grip on the tennis ball so I shoulder charge him back and all hell breaks loose. Our imaginary referee has a word and we promise to behave. I pull his tail, he snaps back. It's going to be a long day.
The sliotar's thrown in and we're off. When the ball's down my end he's Christy Heffernan, when it's down his I'm Jimmy Barry Murphy. When it's in the middle Christy and Jimmy are out of position, but we're confident they can play anywhere.
We're trading points for the first 15 minutes and Micheal O Muircheartaigh says the match is living up to all expectations. The trees are roaring us on and our heads are dizzy from the thrill of it all.
"DINNER," comes the scream from the kitchen. Jesus, Christy and Jimmy never had to put up with this. We ignore the call and get on with the match. Our counties are depending on us. The dinner goes cold.
The match explodes into controversy in the 20th minute when, having been put clean through by Kevin Hennessy (yellow rose bush), I'm upended by Christy the dog, with only Noel Skehan (virginia creeper) to beat. I threaten him with the floorbrush and he slobbers all over my face, apologetically. The referee gives me a penalty and a towel.
I dust myself down and dry myself off. I place the sliotar on the spot and look up to see that the bas of Noel Skehan's hurley (shovel leaning against garden gate) is the size of Munster and there is no apparent route to goal. I complain to the referee but he tells me to shut up and get on with it. The shovel keeps out my shot. I'm not happy.
Half-time. Christy the dog leads 0-8 to 0-6 and disappears into the kitchen wagging his tail. "You're letting yourself, your family and your county down," screams the coat stand. "You should be ashamed of yourself. Get out there and show some beeping pride."
I do. Christy the dog doesn't know what's hit him. Three goals in the first 10 minutes. "That's the last time you'll cock your leg at my people," I snarl at him. He growls back. The referee steps in.
There's only a minute left on the clock, I'm leading by six points and Christy the dog senses a bitter defeat is in the offing. When I accidentally stand on his paw he sinks his teeth into my ankle and the referee sends the two of us off. This is a problem because, apart from a few rose bushes and the virginia creeper, there are no other players on the field.
We explain this to the referee and he sees our point so he lets us back on to see out the match. The final whistle goes and the trees invade the pitch. I'm carried shoulder high to the kitchen windowsill where I accept the Liam McCarthy Cup (garden bucket).
"A hUachtaran, a Thaoiseach, a chairde, it's a great day for the county," I screech. "Fair play to Christy the dog, he put up a great battle and I have no doubt whatsoever that he'll be back at Croke Park very soon. Three cheers for Christy the dog - hip, hip! Hip, hip! Hip, hip!"
Christy the dog is lying panting on the grass and doesn't have the look of an animal who'll be back at Croke Park any day soon, but you have to say these things.
Once more I thrust the Liam McCarthy Cup in to the heavens, only this time the next-door neighbour is watching me over the wall. She's wearing a "and the rest of the family seem so normal" expression on her face, so I climb down from the windowsill and return to the kitchen, putting the floor brush back in its place. It's not the same way we all go, but hey, it's the closest most of us will ever get to playing in an All-Ireland hurling final.
