Dog-Latin

John Kilkie

1963

At half past six on a freezing morning in January 1963 I gently closed the door of our tenement house behind me and quietly made my way down the stairs of the close into the street. The snow had stopped but more had fallen during the night; the pavement was indistinguishable from the road. Under the thin street gas lighting I carefully high-stepped my way to the middle of the road where the snow wasn't so deep and began the slog up the hill to the chapel. I was twelve years old, an altar boy, and it was my turn to serve at the seven o'clock midweek Mass.

The sacristy at St. Mary's had a small room reserved for the use of the altar boys. It adjoined the main sacristy but had its own door leading from the grounds so that the boys could come in and get themselves ready without disturbing the priest. When I arrived, the lights were on and the door unlocked, evidence of the existence of a housekeeper I had never seen and so I let myself in and quickly donned a soutane and surplice, then sat down and awaited the arrival of the priest. I left the door to the main sacristy ajar so that I could see which priest it would be, not that it mattered but some were easier to get on with than others.

It was Father Dunne. Father Dunne was Irish and an OK guy but possessed of the thickest, consonant-free brogue you could imagine, and to add to the fun, spoke very quickly in a throaty whisper.

Parishioners dreaded getting him in the confessional, although some said they preferred him because if you couldn't understand the penance you'd been given it was all right to do nothing.

Normally two altar boys served at Mass but as it was now approaching time I guessed the other boy was not about to appear. I waited till he had finished putting on his vestments and then presented myself.

'Good morning Father.'

'Ah thair yaar, thaw waas on me own fra while thair.'

'I don't think the other boy's coming Father, probably the weather.'

'Aye sbirrer.'

Back then Mass was said in Latin and so the language barrier wasn't going to pose me any problems, but in any event the whole affair was conducted by rote. I doubt if half the altar boys knew the English translation of what they were saying and those that did had probably forgotten it.

Mass commenced with Father Dunne standing at the foot of the three steps leading to the altar with me kneeling to his right, head bowed and hands joined in supplication.

'E Nom Pa Feely Speery Sang.' (for the Non-Catholics among you, 'In Nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.'

'Amen'

'Ge' the daag aff the allar.'

I was expecting 'Introibo ad altare Dei', or at least his version of it, but I just put it down to the brogue and continued with my response.

'Ad Deum qui laetificat juventuten meam'

'Ge' the daag aff the allar.'

This was accompanied by a nudge from his right foot. I looked up and caught his gaze which, with a nod of his head, he directed to the far corner of the altar. A dog had somehow got into the chapel and made its way onto the altar. I got up and approached it, expecting it to scamper but it just looked up at me and wagged its tail. I scooped it up in my arms and my first instinct was to take it to the front door and put it out, but that would have meant walking the full length of the chapel through the, by now, grinning congregation and then all the way back. I decided that through the sacristy was a better idea but when I got there I couldn't do it. The wee thing was shivering and looking up at me with eyes a twelve year old just couldn't resist. I left it there and went back to my acolyte duties which thankfully proceeded without further interruption.

After Mass I quickly disrobed and without showing face, or dog, shouted through to Father Dunne.

'Bye Father.'

'Aye ri' yaar.'

The explanation of events to my mother was met with a wry look but sentence was deferred until my father got home from his night shift. He would be home just after ten o'clock by which time I would be at school. I couldn't concentrate on lessons that day from thinking about the dog; I don't know how many times I was belted by different teachers for day-dreaming and the minutes dragged by like hours, but eventually I got home. The dog was still there.

'What did he say, did he say I could keep him?'

'I told your father the whole story and he'll speak to you when he gets up.' There was a barely concealed smile about my mother's lips and I knew she had swung it for me.

My father had rehearsed this.

'OK, you can keep him but understand three things. One, he's only here because it would be cruel to put him out in this weather. Two, don't get too attached to him. He's wearing a collar and his real owner will eventually claim him back, and three, you'll look after him properly till that happens. And another thing, whatever it costs to feed him comes out of your pocket money. Right, that's settled. Have you thought about a name for him?'

'Rover.'

'From what your mother told me about how you got him I thought you would have called him Rex, or maybe Mick.' I got it later, but at the time, the old man's humour went straight over my head.

Later that night a knock at the door was the precursor to Rex/Mick/Rover going home.