I met a man on my way home from work. He was out walking his dogs, enjoying an early burst of good weather before the gloom of the summer set in. He was standing at the corner of Slattery’s. The sun had brought a crowd to the front of the pub. All the chairs were occupied, and the steel tables were covered with drinks. The dogs were like a pair of Jacks, but with longer hair.

I came across the older of the two first, straggling behind. He was black and brown but his coat was greying. He stopped on the pavement, shaking, his back leg in particular. He looked up at me as I passed. Catching up with the man, I asked, “How old is he?”

“Sixteen,” said the man.

“Sixteen,” I said in amazement, though I had no idea how old that was for a Jack.

“I had one that lived to twenty-two,” he replied from a little crooked mouth tucked in under a beard. He wore denim – jacket and pants – and had deep lines at the corner of his eyes. I could tell he smoked from the rust stain on the beard around his mouth.

“Jesus, twenty-two,” I said, and he nodded as if to say, what do you think of that!

“If you look after them, bring them out for a bit of a run now and again. Then they’re fine.”

The second Jack, brown and white, began to bark.

“That’s the boss,” he said. “She’s looking for a rub.”

So I leant down and gave the dog a small rub. Her coat was like bristle but softer near the skin. She shut up immediately once I rubbed her. She also leaned into my hand.

“What age is she?” I asked the man.

“Sure she’s only eight,” he said.

The older dog was still a long way off.

“He might need a hand,” I said.

“He has Parkinson’s.”

“Can a dog get Parkinson’s?”

The dog made another few strides forward but stopped to pant a little.

“Did you get the dog diagnosed?” I asked.

“Of course, brought him to the vet,” said the man. “He said to keep him active as much as possible. Otherwise the legs will seize up. The muscles, you know.”

We waited for a while but the dog made little headway. He just stood with his mouth open and his little pink tongue hanging out.

Later I’d see that man again, in Slattery’s and Smith’s and once walking alone down by the strand in Sandymount. He never remembered me. He had absolutely no recollection of me. I never thought of myself as unrecollectable.

I’d find myself beside him at the bar in the Fifty One. It would be wet outside, a constant drizzle, and the bar would serve steady all afternoon because of this. He’d have the paper spread open on the counter.

I’d point to a picture of the racing in the paper and ask, “Did you see this one?”

He’d look up, half glasses resting on the bridge of this nose. “What? Oh right. Yes, a disaster.”

After a while we’d talk about the rugby, the coming internationals.

“Are they any use, do you think?” he’d ask.

“I’m not sure,” I’d say.

“They look strong enough,” he’d reply.

“Fast on the wing,” I’d say.

I’d buy him a drink, and he’d make a big deal out of it, saying, “There’s no need for that,” then swallow it down in two large gulps. He’d buy me one back and we’d sit for a while watching the soccer on the large screen hanging over the bar.

“They’re not up to much,” he’d say.

“They’re not,” I’d reply.

At half time he’d get up and stand behind my chair fixing his jacket.

“Looks miserable out there,” he’d say, wrapping a scarf tight around his neck.

“Wrap up well,” I’d reply.

“Nice to meet you anyway,” he’d say, slapping my shoulder with his hand before heading off.