Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read. — Groucho Marx (no relation to Karl)

This is Toby (pretending to ignore the late cat, who in turn, is pretending to ignore him), aka The Tobster, You, Com’ere, The Hound, Black & White Thing and Jayzez Would Ya Get Outta There.

For a black and white dog, Toby had a colourful start to life:

Born on January 11, 2004, in the West-Cork Gaeltacht to a working mother - a Sheepdog - and a Labrador with a roving eye, and some other bits that roamed too, Toby’s early days were spent in a cosy hayshed with his four siblings. These happy days were shattered some weeks later when I called to collect him.

I was invited into the kitchen for breakfast by Big Pat. Big Pat, in his eighties, had just finished milking as many cows as he had seen years and announced he was hungry enough to eat a priest’s arse through a hedge. We were joined by his young lads - one in his late forties, the other just turned fifty. The puppy was brought into the kitchen so we could get acquainted.

He lay on my lap as I chatted with the men. Three tall muscular men who made light work of two pan-loaves, 1kg of butter, 2kg of ham and a huge slab of cheese washed down with two bucket-sized pots of scalding tea. Then it was time to leave.

I put the puppy in a basket on the floor of the car and was driving out the gate when Big Pat came running after me. A tear sneaking from the corner of his eye - it was the wind causing it of course. Lishen, I knew where he were going, so I’ve been shpeaking the bit of English to him.

That got me thinking. Here was a young black dog, wrenched from his family and taken to a place where he wouldn’t understand the language. A place where he would work hard (barking at cars, ignoring cats, sniffing visitors’ crotches etc.) all day, every day, only getting food in return. Somewhere around Watergrasshill the puppy was named Kunta Kinte.

A couple of days later I took him to the vet for a check up. Name? Kunta Kinte. What? Kunta Kinte. That’s hard to say never mind remember. Okay, then, we’ll call him Toby. Same thing. Is it? Trust me. Right so, and what breed is he? Sheeprador. A what? His mammy was a Sheepdog, his daddy a Labrador.

And so the puppy was registered with the vet as Toby Sneeze, Sheeprador.

So the cat’s gone. Anonycat got put down. AIDS of all things. The dog missed him a bit at first. They were sometimes-friends - on the cat’s terms of course. Some nights when it was cold the cat would be kind enough to let the dog share the dog kennel. Other nights he’d evict the dog with one well placed swipe of a claw - especially wet nights. The dog isn’t the brightest and never realised the cat was a proper bastard. But I hated it. I hate cats.

Peace and tranquillity were once again restored to Sneezy Manor. Never again would I be tripped up by a fluffy white thing crossing my path at faster miles an hour. Why did it always do that when I had my arms full? Never again would I be woken at 2am by Anonycat having his way outside my window with some floozie he picked up on the street. Never again would there be scraping and yowling at the door at 3am - deed done, now looking for food and/or a cigarette.

Then what happened? A mickey-relation heard the cat was dead and took pity on me. Pity! Pity, I ask you. What feking pity? I didn’t want pity, I wanted party. They got me a replacement. 06D reg. FSH. Range of optional extras included. Low mileage. i.e. Less than 2 years old, used belong to some old dear in Dublin, all certs provided, box of toys, house cat. A fukin house cat! Bad enough having one around the yard but now I have one that lounges on the couch all day watching soaps. I suppose you’re going to suggest I put a cat-flap on the fridge in case it gets peckish during Dr. Phil, I asked. Don’t be silly, she said. Here’s his food and here’s his menu. It’s a two week rota so he doesn’t get bored. How can something that watches Oprah get any more bored?

Anonycat was pure white. This one is mostly white with brown patches. And one small black patch. Where? Right under the nose. You’ve dumped me with a Nazi cat, I yelled. Ah don’t be silly, the little moustache is cute.

I whipped the cat up and frantically turned it this way and that. What are you doing? You’ll hurt the poor kitty. I’m checking it doesn’t have a number tattooed somewhere. 666 or 667. If it’s not the Beast it’s the Neighbour of the Beast. See the way it’s piercing me with its eyes? See the way its paw is outstretched like that? That’s a salute I tell you. Is its name Adolf or Damien? Would you relax! Its name is Alex and he’s a little dote. So was Damien at that age. It’ll make the dog jump to his death from the balcony. Mark my words. You don’t have a balcony. A high wall then. You don’t have a wall either.

I less than two weeks this damn cat has caused more trouble than the last one did in three years.

The painter-in-law (he’s married to my cousin) arrived one morning last week. Where’s the cat, asked Lar. Oh, it’s here. Just hidden. Not hiding. Hidden. He is a master of camouflage. A stealth cat. One minute there won’t a be a sign of it anywhere, then you’ll notice it asleep on the seat next to you. This cat is SAS trained. I’m sure of it. Jayzez, you’re right, Primal. I thought I was losing the plot, said Lar. I came in for the tea yesterday morning and it wasn’t here. I dropped me bag, hit the button on the kettle, turned around and it was asleep on the mat. And all the meat was gone from me sandwiches. Yeah, it does that, Lar, I agreed. You’d want ears on the side of your head with it. This one has read too much TS Elliot. Too much what? Don’t worry about it, Lar.

But for once the cat really wasn’t there. We could hear it meowing somewhere, but couldn’t find it. Ah bollix, groaned Lar. The utility room. It’s fallen down behind that wall unit. Listen. And that’s where it was. How it got up there is a mystery. But then, one of it’s pastimes is performing a tightrope act on the tops of doors.

Lar got his step ladder and we dropped a sheet down the back so it could climb up. We waited and waited. Lar got a bigger ladder and I climbed up a shone a torch down. It wasn’t there. It must be underneath the units. But which one? We prised out the kickboards one by one. No cat. The one kickboard we hadn’t taken out was the one wedged in by a skirting board. It had to come off. And it brought an acre of plaster with it. The cat strolled out with a what-the-fek-kept-yez look and perched on a chair.

Lar and I spent ages on the repairs and went around blocking up any other gaps over the units it could fall into. He finally got to start painting at 10:30. Two and a half hours lost.

Even then he wasn’t having a good day. The wind was bitterly cold and gusting up Arctic strength as he worked on the plinth either side of the glass doors. He laid out a narrow strip of carpet to protect his knees and catch any drips. A full 5l paint drum on one end and he on the other prevented the wind lifting it.

He happened to glance up. Coming straight at his face with claws bared was a feline Hitler. (The cat had jumped from the back of a chair onto the door handles). Startled, Lar toppled back. The carpet whipped up in the wind sending the paint drum toppling too. Lar dived to save it but was too slow. 5l of paint poured onto the path. The strip of carpet flapped in and out of the paint puddle, splashing the walls, glass doors and Lar in patterns that would put Hirst to shame. I hooked up the garden hose but the wind was drying the mess too fast and it was pointless. We spent the next three hours scrapping splotches off the doors and repainting the walls. The cat dropped gracefully down off the door handles and went for a snooze on the mat. I could swear I heard an evil snigger.

And that was just one day. There have been ten to date. I am sick of screaming “get thee to a cattery”. This cat is the result of some mad scientist’s genetic experiment - part Nazi, part SAS commando, part Omen, part McCavity. A genetically modified moggie.

My mobile rang. I knew it was the vet - they always speak in italics.

Good morning, Mr. Sneeze. I’m calling about Anonycat.

I had the feeling this would be a long call so I switched into mobile-mode and began pacing the room alternating the phone between ears.

This might take some time. Are you in mobile-mode?

I told her I was and she could continue.

Well, we got the tests back from the lab and I’m afraid Anonycat has feline immunodeficiency virus - FIV.

I did some quick alphabetical calculations. F·I·V + 2·0·0 = H·I·V. The fekin cat’s going to die of a big disease with a little name?

Well, yes and no, Mr. Sneeze. Yes, he has AIDS, but he won’t necessarily die. But he will have a big problem fighting off any infections he gets. And speaking of fighting, any cuts and wounds he gets will take ages to heal.

Plus he’ll infect every other cat for miles?

Well, some are already infected. That would have been how he got it.

That’s three wells in a row, I said, doing some more alphabetical calculations.

Well, four if you count this one. I would recommend he be euthanased.

Right so. Pop the kitten’s mittens then.

And it would be best alert all neighbouring cat owners.

What? You want me to walk around the neighbourhood telling everyone there’s an AIDS outbreak in my household? I will in my womb!

Well, they’ll find out anyway. See. It’s on your blog already.