—That’s the second time in the last few months you’ve looked at a dog and asked, What’s this? —It’s a dog. —Yes, said Aoife. —Is it ours? —Yes. —I don’t want a dog. —Yes, you do. —Okay. Shepherd’s pie – Jimmy’s choice. He could only manage baby food and he didn’t want the kids to see that even the thought of most food made him want to be sick. But the nausea – he hated the fuckin’ word – seemed to be gone. That feeling that made him snap his eyes and even his head – his mind – shut. —Any gigs comin’ up, Marv? —No. —How come? —Dunno. —Grand, said Jimmy. He could eat. He could look properly at the kids, even the ones who wouldn’t look at him. It didn’t upset him. It was temporary. —So, he said.—The dog. He put some mince in his mouth. —Delicious, he said, to Aoife – to all of them. Young Jimmy thought of something; his head was up from his plate. —Hey, Dad, he said.—That sounded like you said the dog is delicious. The laughter filled the place.
