The hand-drawn dog

As winter waved goodbye and the cold frosty mornings gave into the warm spring sun, Barry sat in his favourite brown leather armchair looking out of the open conservatory doors onto his flourishing garden. Daffodils and tulips gently sprouted through the grass, stretching their vibrant petals out to bask in the morning sun. He imagined them sighing with delight as their petals warmed. Snowdrops dotted all over the garden delicately danced in the breeze. Dew sparkled as it dusted the overgrown lavender plant that sat wearily in the corner of the garden.

“Don’t worry old friend, I’ll trim you later today.” Barry whispered, bringing the coffee to his lips and sipping it. The lavender had been the first of many plants he had bought on his long journey over the past year. He remembered the day he planted it. It was a small ball that looked lost in amongst the overgrown grass and weeds. He remembered digging the hole, gently pushed it into the ground and covering it with soil before watering it. Tears had streamed down his face as the water trickled around the plant and drained into its roots. The beautiful smell had filled his nostrils as he wiped the tears off his face with the back of his dirty hands. 

He could not smell lavender without being transported back to that moment and it reminded him of how far he had come over the past 15 months. 

Thinking back to that day was painful even now. It was the day he had decided to act on his New Years resolution. It was his first day of sobriety.

A gentle breeze blew through the doors, rustling his neatly combed hair. He brought the china cup to his lips and sipped the warm bitter coffee. Once upon a time he would be drinking whisky or rum neat, despite the fact it was only 10 o’clock in the morning. He wouldn’t have been showered or dressed but rather unshaven, standing in the dirty kitchen, taking large gulps of alcohol until he couldn’t stand any longer.

He winced, embarrassed at the thought. He remembered so little from those alcohol soaked years of his life, yet because of them he had lost everything. 

First he had lost his job at Clarkson & Co. He had proudly worked his way up through the company. Starting as an Office Junior at 17 whilst achieving his a-levels, then working part time as the law firm had paid for him to attend University. Over 7 long, back-breaking years spent studying, revising and pushing himself, he finally achieved his goal of becoming a Corporate Solicitor. And he was a bloody good one too. He worked every hour God sent and the Partners soon noticed his passion for the job.

When he was 31 years old, Donald Daniels, a well respected Equity Partner, called him into a meeting room and offering him position as Senior Solicitor. It was one of the proudest moments of his life. He called his parents straight after who had screamed and cried with joy down the phone.

‘Almost 30 years of work thrown away.’ Barry reminisced with hindsight.

A blackbird swooped down through the garden and landed on the bird feeder. It eagerly guzzled on sunflower seeds, stopping every now and again to examine the garden suspiciously with its beady eye.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure that fat cat doesn’t get you.” Barry reassured, surveying the garden for Gregory the ginger and white moggy from next door. Barry had caught him stalking birds under the bird bath many times. Protectively he would bang loudly on the conservatory window, startling the cat so he would bound over the fence and vanish.

Barry had been fired from Clarkson & Co 3 years ago. He remembered Donald Daniels, the same man who had promoted him, taking him into a meeting room. Barry had slumped in his chair, his tie untidily hanging around his open collar. His suit trousers were loose even with a belt and his feet were uncomfortably squashed into the wrong foot of his shoes.

Donald has spoken kindly and softly to him. 

“I’m sorry Barry but you’re just not fit to work here anymore.” Sympathy flooded his wrinkled face and he placed his hand on Barry’s skinny arm. “We have to let you go.”

Barry had broken down in tears, his bloodshot eyes weary from a night of drinking booze. His breath smelt of it. His hair smelt of it. His clothes smelt of it.

Barry left the office for the last time after that meeting and drank his sorrows away in a local pub, slumped over the bar, downing tumbler after tumbler of whiskey, or rum, or whatever it had been. Like a lot of the past 3 years, he couldn’t quite remember.

***

A sage coloured clock hung on his conservatory wall, faded in places by the sunlight. Barry turned in his chair to check the time. It’s wooden arms signified it was 10.30.

‘1 hour to go.’ He thought as he took another swing of coffee, finishing the cup. Leaning on the arm of the worn leather chair he hauled himself up and carried his mug through the conservatory, past the dining area and into the kitchen. It was only a small kitchen lined with white cupboard doors and navy blue tiles.

Hot water streamed out the faucet and he scrubbed the mug with a soapy scourer. He kept his promise to the blackbird, watching out the kitchen window as he cleaned, incase Gregory appeared in search of breakfast.

‘Ooh breakfast,’ Barry thought as he placed the mug on the drying rack.

Crouching down he pulled his toaster and a loaf of bread out of the cupboard and made his toast.

He turned to the fridge on the other side of the kitchen. A hand drawn picture of a dog was sellotaped to it. Barry smiled as he reached out and stroked its messy crayon face. Every colour in the box must have been used in the picture. The dog had one big pink eye and another green, it’s lopsided ears were orange and it had a big blue nose. Most important of all, along the top of the picture, written in large multicoloured letters were the words...

‘To Daddy Love Joey x’

Barry traced the words that had given him so much strength over the past year of his life. Every time he had felt low and craved a beer, or if he was in a shop and saw a litre of whiskey for sale, he thought of Joey. Joey’s love was the most important thing. Joey loved him and that was all that mattered.

He remembered the day Julie had given him the picture. She had turned up at his house unannounced and uninvited. It was Boxing Day 2018 and Barry’s addiction was at its worst. He opened the door to her in a dressing gown that hung limply around his bony body. His unshaven face and dirty hair aged him. Dark circles dragged his bloodshot eyes down.

“Barry?” Julie had asked him when he opened the door. Fear flooded her face. She didn’t recognise the man who stood before her. He was not that same man who had joyfully gotten down on one knee 15 years ago and asked for her hand in marriage. 

He let her into his house and led her through the living room, hoping she wouldn’t notice the empty cans of beer piled on the floor or the half drank bottle of scotch sitting on the coffee table. 

“Would you like a drink?” He asked as they entered the kitchen. He couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

He stopped in his tracks, hand pressed against the fridge to steady himself. 

“No,” he lied turning to look at her. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

“You’re lying.” She said, her voice cracking as she swallowed. “Look at me.” She demanded.

He picked his eyes slowly off the floor. His head hung in shame, his eyes made their way from her black ankle boots, up her denim jeans, to her crisp white shirt. Her ginger hair hung in shiny ringlets around her shoulders. Her beautiful pale face and plump rosy lips began to crumble and when his eyes met her emerald green doll like eyes, tears streamed down her face.

“You promised you were going to get help.” She wiped the tears off her cheeks with the palm of her hand. “3 months ago you said you were on the way to recovery but you’re worse then ever.” More tears fell from her eyes onto her shirt. “I know the past 2 years have been difficult on you. I know you mother and father dying and our divorce has been hard but you’re drinking yourself to death. I can’t watch you do this anymore.”

She took a step backwards.

“No, please. Don’t leave. Don’t go.” Barry begged reaching his hand out to touch her.

“Get off me.” She shouted, anger filling her as more tears fell. “How could you do this to me? How could you do this to Joey?”

Julie reached into her bag that was draped over her shoulder. She dug through it until she found the folded picture of the hand drawn dog.

“Joey loves his father. He misses his father. He asks me when he can next see daddy.” She pushed the paper into Barry’s chest forcefully. Barry placed his hands gently over hers and took the picture.

Shaking her head with rage, disgust covered her face.

“Joey’s dad doesn’t exist anymore. You are an empty shell of the man I married. Who we loved.” Her voice cracked again and she forced her nails into the palm of her hand to stop more tears from coming. 

“Until you sober up you are not seeing our son. This isn’t a safe place for a 6 year old.” Throwing her bag over her shoulder she turned and walked out the house, leaving Barry in the kitchen, clutching the picture of the hand drawn dog. 

The strong smell of burning toast brought Barry back to the present. He turned quickly and released the toaster. Pinching the blackened edge of the bread, he pulled it out and tossed it onto a plate, shaking his burnt fingers wildly in the air.

Once they finally cooled he grabbed a knife and slathered butter onto the toast. 

As he carried the plate and a freshly brewed coffee back to his chair, he imagined what Joey would look like now. It had been 16 months since their last contact meeting. They had all met at the local park. Joey was wearing a red hoodie and faded denim jeans. He had run over to him, arms extended as far as they could reach. 

“Dad!” He shouted wrapping his arms around Barry. He had bent down to embrace his son, pushed his nose into Joey’s brown thick hair that smelt strongly of strawberry shampoo and talc. He pulled away excitement twinkling in his young emerald eyes.

“You won’t believe it dad, look!” He opened his mouth exposing a row of shiny white teeth. A large dark hole gaped where a front tooth once grew. Barry tried to smile enthusiastically but something niggled at him. 

‘Just a couple more hours,’ whispered the devil on his shoulder ‘and then you can drink that delicious bottle of Rum you’ve got stashed away in your wardrobe.’

He tried to distract himself and watched Joey excitedly showed off his cartwheel skills, twirling around the floor, sending his legs splaying in the air.

‘Just imagine the delicious taste.’ The evil voice torturously went on. ‘We can escape all of this. You won’t have to think about how you messed up your marriage. You won’t have to think about how you broke up your son’s family.’ Barry ground his teeth. Guilt built up inside him, flushing his cheeks as sweat gathering at the nape of his neck.

Joey laughed as he landed in a pile on the ground.

The devil had tormented him the whole afternoon and, no matter how much Barry loved his son, he couldn’t wait to sit by himself and numb his mind with alcohol.

***

Barry sat back down in his brown leather chair disgusted by the fact alcohol had once been his priority. Distracting himself he took a bite out of the sweet toast. The butter melted in his mouth as he watched the blackbird calmly soak it’s feathers in the birdbath.

Everything changed the day Julie had given him the picture of the hand drawn dog. He had broken down on the kitchen floor. His body had convulsed with sorrow and regret as animal like noises of grief escaped him. He cried until his stomach ached and he had nothing left to cry. His face was pressed up against the cold kitchen floor as he stared at the picture. He touched the letters, he kissed the dog.

As he picked himself up off the floor he decided on his New Years Resolution. As of today was going to say goodbye to alcohol, forever. He pulled a bin bag out of the cupboard and collected empty cans of beer from his living room, empty bottles of wine from beside his bed, an empty litre of Jack Daniels from the conservatory. He picked up the half drank bottle of scotch from the coffee table and carried it through to the kitchen. Hesitating he held it over the sink, he wanted to swig it straight from the bottle, take gulp after gulp and escape the horror of that morning. Unscrewing the lid he slowly tilted the bottle. Amber liquid drained into the sink and disappeared down the plug until the bottle was dry.

‘We can go to the shop and buy more.’ Taunted the devil that lurked at the back of his mind.

Gritting his teeth and furrowing his brow Barry tossed the bottle into the bin. It smashed as it joined the others.

He knew he needed help. He needed to get rid of the voice that constantly barbed him with its acid tongue.

That was when he found Dr Young, a psychiatrist whose kind wrinkled face and understanding eyes made Barry feel at peace. Every Monday they would meet in Dr Young’s office and over the course of the past 15 months he had guided Barry through the dark tunnel of addiction. It seemed like a never-ending tunnel at points filled with deep holes of despair.

“I want you to write a letter to alcohol.” Dr Young advised, closing his notepad and clicking his pen, signalling the end of that session. 

“A letter?” Barry asked, confused.

“Yes. You have come so far and done so well over the past year I believe you are at a point in recovery where it is time to make the end of your addiction final. Putting it down on paper will help you achieve that.”

Barry had contemplated the letter the whole bus journey home. He had written and re-written parts in his head as he cooked his dinner. After he finished eating his casserole and washed the dishes he sat in his favourite brown leather chair in the conservatory. A notepad lay on the worn arm and, when he picked up his pen, the words flooded onto the paper. 

To my dear old friend,

Where do I begin to say goodbye. You have helped me get through the hardest parts of my life. You have been my shoulder to cry on and my escape when life has been too hard to face. You held my hand when my parents passed away, you cradled me gently the night my Decree Absolute arrived and I lost Julie and Joey. You numbed me against pain and you enabled me to escape reality.

You have also caused my pain. You have tormented me for 4 years. I would dread waking up, knowing you would be there, eagerly waiting for me to weakly give into you. You haunted my days. That is why we can no longer be together. It pains me to know this is goodbye but I know ultimately I will be happier without you. 

Goodbye,

Barry

Dr Young had read his letter during their next therapy session. A smile of respect and joy stretched across his face. He stood up and shook Barry’s hand firmly.

“I think it is time we arranged a meeting with Julie and your solicitor. I think you’re ready to see your son again.”

***

He munched on the last of his toast, reflecting back on the past year of his life.

‘5 minutes to go,’ he thought to himself as he placed his crumb covered plate in the sink and checked himself over in the mirror that hung in the kitchen. 

He flattened his freshly cut brown hair against his head, ran a hand over his slightly chubbier, freshly shaved face and finally straightening his neatly ironed shirt. His heart palpitated in anticipation of hearing a knock at his front door. He swallowed hard as tears welled in his eyes at the thought of finally holding his son, his precious Joey, in his arms. 

It was 15 months since he had written his New Years resolution. 15 months of therapy, tears and torture. 15 months of praying he was strong enough to overcome his demons. Those 15 months had all led to this moment. 

Knock, knock, knock.

He ran to the front door. He had finally made it to the end of the darkest tunnel. He was flooded with the light his son had shone to guide him. He was finally free.