I first met Mr. Duffy because of his dog. Not the other way around. The dog was a scruffy little terrier called Moss, with grey whiskers, one folded ear, and the kind of eyes that made you feel you had forgotten to apologise for something. Every morning, at exactly half eight, Moss would drag Mr. Duffy down the footpath in Inchicore, past the bakery, past the bus stop, and towards the canal as if he had an appointment with the ducks.
Mr. Duffy was eighty-two and lived alone two doors down from me. He had a daughter in Galway, a son in Australia, and a habit of saying, “Ah, I’m grand,” even when he was very clearly not grand at all. I used to check on him in small ways that didn’t embarrass him. I’d bring in his bins if it was lashing. He’d leave tomatoes from his little back garden on my windowsill. That was our arrangement.
One wet Tuesday in February, Moss was outside my door without Mr. Duffy. He was soaked through, shivering, and pawing at the step. I knew straight away something was wrong. I found Mr. Duffy in his hallway, conscious but frightened, one hand on his chest and the other still holding Moss’s lead. The ambulance came quickly. Moss tried to climb in after him and made such a desperate noise that one of the paramedics had to look away.
Mr. Duffy was brought to St James’s Hospital. I promised him I’d mind Moss until he was home. He nodded, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the dog. “Tell him I’ll be back,” he whispered, as if Moss would understand every word and hold him to it.
For the first day, Moss stayed with me, but he refused food and slept by my front door. On the second morning, when I opened it to bring in the milk, he slipped out between my legs and bolted. I’m not young myself, but I ran after him as far as I could. By the time I reached Suir Road, he was gone.
I rang everyone I could think of. Neighbours went looking. A man from the shop said he’d seen a small dog heading towards Rialto. Another woman said he’d crossed near the Luas stop like he knew exactly where he was going. Nearly two hours later, my phone rang. It was a nurse from St James’s. “Are you missing a terrier?” she asked. “Because there’s one sitting outside the hospital, staring up at the windows.”
When I arrived, Moss was in a little patch of grass below one of the ward blocks, wet again, muddy, and completely still. He was looking up at the building as if his whole life depended on one pane of glass. I tried to coax him away, but he wouldn’t move. A security man, kind but firm, told me dogs couldn’t stay there. I understood. Hospitals have rules for good reasons. But Moss didn’t understand rules. He only understood that the man who had walked him every morning had gone into that building and had not come out.
I learned later that Mr. Duffy’s bed was not even directly above that spot. Moss had no way of knowing which window was his. Still, he came back the next day, and the day after that. I tried keeping him indoors. He scratched the door until his paws bled. I walked him around Phoenix Park, thinking the space might tire him out, but he pulled towards the hospital the moment we turned for home. Eventually I stopped fighting him. Each afternoon, I brought a flask of tea, a towel, and a packet of biscuits, and we
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