Episode 92 – If Heff Could Talk…

If Heff Could Talk…

Heff is fifteen now. Blind for just eight months, but wise beyond all his years.
He was Mam’s dog first. Then he became Dad’s shadow. But truth be told, he’s always been mine. Even Dad used to say it: “Heff only has eyes for you, not that he needs them.” Now, those eyes are clouded, but his heart? Still razor-sharp. Still tuned in to everything that matters.

If Heff could talk, I think he’d say:

“I’ve seen enough, even without seeing. I know who’s real. I know who’s safe.
And I know the ones who smile with their mouths while their hearts reek like week-old fish.”

He might nudge me, that Jack Russell way, a sideways glance and a knowing grunt, and mutter:

“You were never imagining it. I felt it too, the tension, the fake sweetness.
The way the air thickened when certain people darkened the door.”

Heff would remember everything.
Mam’s singing in the kitchen. When Dad was sneaking him scraps under the table. The long, heavy silences after she was gone. And when Dad was sitting with him in the living room, grief curled around them both like mist.

And Heff? He’d never forget the ones who showed their true colors when they thought no one was watching.

“Bully? Ah sure, I had his number from day one. The swagger, the loud laugh, the way he puffed up like a crow in heat. You can fool people with talk, but you can’t fool a nose like mine. Fear. Greed. Snake oil. I sniffed it on him years ago.”

And Fanny?
“That one could butter a stone and still leave a bad taste behind. All sweet words and crocodile tears, but her scent always went sour when no one was looking. I growled once when Mam was sick, remember? You told me to behave. Well, maybe next time you’ll listen, woman.”

Then he’d soften, lean into me, and say:

“I stayed for you. I stayed because someone had to. Because even when the world around you twisted sideways, you kept going. You never stopped loving me. And, you give the best belly scratches, which counts for a lot in my book.”

Heff still finds his way. He knows the path by scent and memory. He follows my steps like he did when he was young. And in a world full of uncertain hearts and fair-weather folk, he’s the one soul who never turned his back.

Heff doesn’t need to talk.
He speaks with loyalty. With instinct. In knowing exactly who’s who, long before the rest of us catch up. And thank God for that.

And if he could talk now, he’d probably cock his head, let out a long sigh like a fella who’s seen too much shite in his time, and say:

“Listen, love, if you ever get notions about feeling sorry for that gobshite with the truck or your one with the fake smile, remember this: dogs know. Always did. I sniffed them out when their arses hit the doorstep. And you, soft-hearted eejit, kept making excuses. But sure, I stayed. Someone had to mind the place, watch your back, and guard the biscuit stash. Now, would you ever put the kettle on? I’m parched.

~ Heff