TB the dog. – Espedair Street by Iain Banks – p84
I just like this. Simple dialogue and a humorous situation. You learn a lot about the characters.
Dramatis personae
Tommy
is 17 or 18, has a shaved blonde head, and is dressed all in black. He was
fired from his job in a furniture factory for sniffing (water-based) glue.
McCann
is a 50-something widower. He is an unemployed docker. He has been in a fight
earlier in the day.
TB
is Tommy’s Uncle’s dog. It looks “like a cross between an alsatian and a wolfhound
… or maybe just a wolf”.
The
writer is about 30 years old, 6 foot 8 inches tall and dressed in a scruffy
trench-coat. It would be telling to say quite what he is.
They have all been drinking heavily, and TB has passed
out.
Tommy’s
mother expected him and the dog home for their tea. She lived about a quarter
of a mile away, on Houldsworth Street. McCann was nursing his grazed hands, and
limping. Tommy took TB’s front legs, I took the rear. The dog was a limp as a
sack of potatoes, but heavier. We tramped through the darkening street, getting
the occasional funny remark, but nobody stopped us. McCann sniggered every now
and again.
“Must
have been the curry,” Tommy said. “He was obviously hungry or he wouldnae have
eaten the wee fork as well.” The dog grunted as though in agreement, then
resumed its snoring,
“Aye,”
McCann said. “Some dug that. Can ye rent it oot? Gie it tae people ye dinnae
like?”
“Never
thought of that, Mr McCann,” Tommy admitted. My shoulders were getting sore. I
took a better grip of the animal’s legs and looked down distastefully at it;
the dog was quietly pissing itself.
The
urine was soaking into its belly hair and running down its flanks and round to
its back, to drip off there, onto my latest new pair of trainers.
“What
does ‘T B’ stand for anyway?” I asked Wee Tommy.
He
looked at me as though I was an idiot, and in an almost resentful tone said, “Total
Bastard.”
“Oh,
yes,” I said. “Of course. Obvious really.”
“Ye
mean there’s nothing wrong wi its lungs after aw?” McCann said disgustedly.
“Not
compared to its bladder,” I muttered, trying to keep my feet clear of the
dribbling canine pee.
“Naw,
it’s perfectly healthy,” Wee Tommy said. “It’s just…” he shrugged, shaking the
totally relaxed and snoring hound “…it’s an animal.”
“Fair
enough.” McCann said.
