Agnes Owens Read Online Free

bus. We reached our destination without saying much. Hunger had overcome my thoughts on the dog. I hoped my mother had something tasty for the dinner, which would be unlikely.
    Some days later I happened to be in McDonald’s company.McDonald was like his dog, very difficult at times. But in the convivial atmosphere of the Paxton Arms we were often thrown together, and under the levelling influence of alcohol we would view each other with friendly eyes. Though you had to take your chances with him. On occasions his eyes would be more baleful than friendly. Then, if your senses were not completely gone, you discreetly moved away. McDonald labelled himself a ploughman. To prove it he lived in a ramshackle cottage close to a farm. Though the word cottage was an exaggeration. It was more like an old bothy. Some folk said he was a squatter, and some folk said he was a tinker, but never to his face. On this occasion I was not too sure about his mood. He appeared sober, but depressed.
    â€˜How’s things?’ I asked, testing him out to see if I should edge nearer to him.
    â€˜Could be better.’
    â€˜How’s that then?’ I asked.
    â€˜It’s that dug o’ mine.’
    â€˜Yer dug?’
    â€˜Aye. Some bastard run him ower.’
    â€˜That’s terrible Paddy.’ My brain was alert to danger.
    â€˜As ye know yersel,’ continued McDonald, unobservant of the shifty look in my eyes, ‘ma dug is no’ ordinary dug. It’s a good hardworking dug. In fact,’ his chest heaved with emotion, ‘ye could say that dug has kept me body and soul when I hudny a penny left.’
    I nodded sympathetically. McDonald’s dole money was often augmented by rabbits, hares and pheasants that he sold at half the butcher’s price.
    â€˜An’ d’ye know,’ he stabbed my chest with a grimy finger, ‘I’ve hud tae fork oot ten pounds for a vet. Think o’ that man – ten pounds!’
    I didn’t believe him about the ten pounds, but I was relieved the dog wasn’t dead.
    â€˜Where’s the dug noo?’ I asked.
    â€˜The poor beast’s restin’ in the hoose.’
    I remembered his house. On one or two occasions I hadpartaken of his hospitality. A bottle of wine had been the passport. He kept live rabbits in the oven – lucky for them it was in disuse – pigeons in a cage in the bedroom, and a scabby cat always asleep at the end of a lumpy sofa, with the dog at the other end. I don’t know if this menagerie lived in harmony, but they had survived so far. I thought at this stage I had better buy him a drink to take the edge off his bitterness before I shifted my custom. It was obvious his mood would not improve with all this on his mind. McDonald swallowed the beer appreciatively but he was reluctant to change the subject.
    â€˜An’ I’m tellin’ ye, if I get ma haunds on the rat that done it I’ll hing him.’
    â€˜It’s a right rotten thing tae happen.’ To get out of it all I added, ‘I wish I could stay an’ keep ye company, but I huv tae gie Jimmy Wilson a haun’ wi’ his fence, so see ye later.’
    Swiftly I headed for the Trap Inn hoping I would see Willie Morrison to break the bad news to him. However, it was a couple of days before I met Willie again. He was waiting at the bus stop motorless, and with the jaundiced look of a man who has come down in the world. He grunted an acknowledgement.
    â€˜Huv ye no’ got yer motor?’ I asked.
    â€˜Naw.’
    He shuffled about, then explained. ‘Mind that night we hit that dug?’
    I nodded.
    â€˜Well, the motor has been aff the road ever since. And dae ye know whit it’ll cost me tae get it fixed?’
    â€˜Naw,’ I said, although I was not all that much agog.
    â€˜Twenty nicker.’
    He stared at me for sympathy. Dutifully I rolled my eyes around.
    â€˜That’s some