TB the dog

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.