My Father is asleep in the shade of rampant bougainvillea, which cascades from the dazzling terrace walls. It is hot, even for this part of Palestine at this time of year. His nurse Mahveen is sitting nearby, sewing. But as the noonday sun hammers down, her head droops chestward, and her work drops from her hands into the basket by her feet.
My Father is alone, untended. It gets hotter. And now he stirs, waving his hands around distractedly in front of his face, as if cleaning invisible windows, and emitting lamb-like bleats. He’s not distressed, yet, but there is certainly the beginning of agitation in the way he moves his head from side to side.
Mahveen is snoring gently. (My Father has not been sleeping well lately.) It gets hotter. My Father becomes more agitated. The bleats start to take on a more urgent tone. Still Mahveen is undisturbed. And then my father feels something soft and wet on his fingers. It tickles. He likes the way it feels. He laughs. And now the soft, wetness engulfs his face. My Father laughs harder. It is the funniest, most surprising, most pleasurable thing that has happened so far in his young life.
In a paroxysm of joy, he grabs the dog’s nose, grips, and squeezes. He loves the dog. He doesn’t want to let it get away. The dog yelps, finally waking Mahveen, who hastily shoos it off, and wipes My Father’s face with the edge of her hijab. She is still quite new to the job, but she is fairly sure that her mistress – My Father’s mother – would not wish her baby to be bathed in the saliva of an old black Labrador.
“Ayisha!” calls My Father’s mother, who has just returned from playing cards with the other English ladies at the club (who do not, by any means consider that description to apply to her, the Lebanese wife of an American somewhat inexplicably employed by the British civil administration),
“Ayisha, bring the baby in, you stupid girl. It’s much too hot!”
Mahveen sighs, as she lifts My Father from his cot. It is almost five months since she replaced Ayisha as My Father’s nurse.
The old dog, whose knees have gone, collapses in the shade, as if shot, and closes his eyes.
***
Nearly 70 years have passed, and My Father is walking on Primrose Hill, with another old dog that he loves; also a Labrador, though this time a dirty yellow.
My Father is tired, and sits down on a bench. As he looks out across Regent’s Park, bathed in the pinkish glow of a winter sunset, the dog – which is as near to blind as makes no difference – licks his hand, diligently.
The dog crouches and deposits an immense steaming pile of turds on the footpath, next to the bench. Rising to continue his walk, My Father doesn’t even consider clearing it up. (Primrose Hill, he would claim, if pressed, is almost entirely composed of dog faeces, so what possible point could there be in tackling such an incalculably tiny part of the problem?)
My Father walks slowly, effortfully, after the dog. His left hip is riddled with arthritis, and will very soon need to be replaced.
The dog walks slowly, painfully, too. It will also very soon need to be replaced.
******