There’s a dog and he doesn’t like me. Doesn’t like me at all.
So I say to the owner: “Why doesn’t your dog like me?” And she says: “He’s a very good judge of character.”
I think we can take it the owner doesn’t like me either. It could be the dog has picked up on the fact the owner doesn’t like me. I get on well with most dogs. Border collies are my favourites.
I think it goes back to the time when I was a shepherd. Butch Browne was our sheep dog. It was the custom when I was a shepherd to give the family name to the family dog. We had a dog called Rose Keane when I was a boy but she was knocked down and killed by a car. Back in those times dogs were free range. Rose and Butch were never on a lead. They were never licensed.
We never kept a dog again after Rose was killed. Our house is right on the side of a busy street and unless we kept a lapdog there was no point. I know exactly where Rose was knocked down. Poor Rose. We should have been more careful of her. She wouldn’t have been very happy locked up in the back yard. Some people used to tie the dogs and beat the poor creatures to make them vicious in case robbers called. But back when I was a boy there were no drugs and therefore there were no robbers. And in most houses there was nothing much to rob.
Butch Browne liked me when I was a shepherd. Eric Browne was my boss and Butch’s owner. He was a butcher for a good few years until he realised there was more money in bookmaking after the EU brought in too many regulations. The EU closed down a lot of small businesses with all the rules. The only person who ever told Eric what to do was Eric. He was and is an independent republic of one citizen.
Eric said I understood sheep. I was gifted at the shepherding. It was my true calling in life. I knew every move the sheep would make. The sheep were fast and fit but I was faster and fitter. I was a sheep whisperer. There was no whistling, just whispering and gesticulating.
Butch and I were some team.
Sheep are very unpredictable. Sometimes the sheep are very smart and more times they are very stupid. A bit like Boris Johnson.
The sheep were always jumping over walls and in to people’s gardens. Irish people began to get particular around that time about gardens and roses. I think it all started when the ones who returned home from England took on the ways of their neighbours from “Over”.
England used to be called “Over” when I was a boy. The English were great at the gardening and washing their cars, especially on Sunday. The Irish at that time went for a few pints after Mass or headed off for a football match or went for a rest. A rest was the Irish word for the bit of sex and there was no sex in Ireland but for Walt Disney.
Anyway, the owner of one of the gardens was upset when the sheep trampled a bed of yellow roses. The gardener was very proud of the roses as they were the only yellow ones in town at that time, which was in the late sixties.
The gardener asked me for my name. I was well trained by Eric. “I’m one of the Murphys, sir.” I had the gate open and Butch had the sheep out the gate in seconds. Remind me some time to tell ye about the time Butch was a golf caddy.
The gardener was out fixing the roses every Sunday. And he built a high wall so the sheep couldn’t jump over. But he took it down after a few weeks because no one could see his yellow roses.
That was his Sunday treat. He was in the minority.
The rest of Listowel parked the kids in front of the black and white TV on Sunday afternoons while their mams and dads would be upstairs having a rest in Fantasy Land.
Ireland is full of Disney Babies. ‘Little House on the Prairie’ finished off sex in Ireland.
The people in it were too nice and it went on forever. The kids got restless. One of the older ladies who used to come in to the pub told me as much. She had twins and her nickname for the kids was Coitus and Interruptus.
We did a bit on the ‘Today’ show with Dáithí and Maura about sheep. Sarah Peppard had a brilliant story on the front page of the ‘Leinster Leader’ about sheep and how it was they rolled over a cattle grid to get at the gardens in Orchard View. Sheep can be as smart as rats.
I was telling Eric the story of the woman and the dog who didn’t get me that much.
Some of you might remember Eric was the man who came out with the line “one good woman is better than 10 men and you wouldn’t even know she was doing the job”.
That was when I told him how much I missed my Mom, not just on an emotional level, but in a practical way too, because of all the work she did, unnoticed.
“You’re worse,” he said, “to go taking any notice of that one. Sure her dog is only a yes man and she doesn’t even like herself.”
“And what’s more,” said Eric, “Butch was mad about you.”
Poor old Butch went missing.
We tried everywhere but to no avail. I hope he died of a heart attack. Eric took on a few bad boys and we were worried they might have kidnapped him.
We didn’t speak about Butch. It would have made us too angry and sad.
Eric, always positive, ended the Sunday pints with a song of praise.
“Billy,” he said, “you were the best shepherd since St Patrick.”
I suppose I was.
- ‘The Very Best of Billy Keane’ is a new collection from the Irish Independent columns and is on sale now.
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Home » Analysis & Comment » Billy Keane: 'It sounds barking mad, but my sheep-whispering skills made me the best shepherd since St Patrick'
Billy Keane: 'It sounds barking mad, but my sheep-whispering skills made me the best shepherd since St Patrick'
There’s a dog and he doesn’t like me. Doesn’t like me at all.
So I say to the owner: “Why doesn’t your dog like me?” And she says: “He’s a very good judge of character.”
I think we can take it the owner doesn’t like me either. It could be the dog has picked up on the fact the owner doesn’t like me. I get on well with most dogs. Border collies are my favourites.
I think it goes back to the time when I was a shepherd. Butch Browne was our sheep dog. It was the custom when I was a shepherd to give the family name to the family dog. We had a dog called Rose Keane when I was a boy but she was knocked down and killed by a car. Back in those times dogs were free range. Rose and Butch were never on a lead. They were never licensed.
We never kept a dog again after Rose was killed. Our house is right on the side of a busy street and unless we kept a lapdog there was no point. I know exactly where Rose was knocked down. Poor Rose. We should have been more careful of her. She wouldn’t have been very happy locked up in the back yard. Some people used to tie the dogs and beat the poor creatures to make them vicious in case robbers called. But back when I was a boy there were no drugs and therefore there were no robbers. And in most houses there was nothing much to rob.
Butch Browne liked me when I was a shepherd. Eric Browne was my boss and Butch’s owner. He was a butcher for a good few years until he realised there was more money in bookmaking after the EU brought in too many regulations. The EU closed down a lot of small businesses with all the rules. The only person who ever told Eric what to do was Eric. He was and is an independent republic of one citizen.
Eric said I understood sheep. I was gifted at the shepherding. It was my true calling in life. I knew every move the sheep would make. The sheep were fast and fit but I was faster and fitter. I was a sheep whisperer. There was no whistling, just whispering and gesticulating.
Butch and I were some team.
Sheep are very unpredictable. Sometimes the sheep are very smart and more times they are very stupid. A bit like Boris Johnson.
The sheep were always jumping over walls and in to people’s gardens. Irish people began to get particular around that time about gardens and roses. I think it all started when the ones who returned home from England took on the ways of their neighbours from “Over”.
England used to be called “Over” when I was a boy. The English were great at the gardening and washing their cars, especially on Sunday. The Irish at that time went for a few pints after Mass or headed off for a football match or went for a rest. A rest was the Irish word for the bit of sex and there was no sex in Ireland but for Walt Disney.
Anyway, the owner of one of the gardens was upset when the sheep trampled a bed of yellow roses. The gardener was very proud of the roses as they were the only yellow ones in town at that time, which was in the late sixties.
The gardener asked me for my name. I was well trained by Eric. “I’m one of the Murphys, sir.” I had the gate open and Butch had the sheep out the gate in seconds. Remind me some time to tell ye about the time Butch was a golf caddy.
The gardener was out fixing the roses every Sunday. And he built a high wall so the sheep couldn’t jump over. But he took it down after a few weeks because no one could see his yellow roses.
That was his Sunday treat. He was in the minority.
The rest of Listowel parked the kids in front of the black and white TV on Sunday afternoons while their mams and dads would be upstairs having a rest in Fantasy Land.
Ireland is full of Disney Babies. ‘Little House on the Prairie’ finished off sex in Ireland.
The people in it were too nice and it went on forever. The kids got restless. One of the older ladies who used to come in to the pub told me as much. She had twins and her nickname for the kids was Coitus and Interruptus.
We did a bit on the ‘Today’ show with Dáithí and Maura about sheep. Sarah Peppard had a brilliant story on the front page of the ‘Leinster Leader’ about sheep and how it was they rolled over a cattle grid to get at the gardens in Orchard View. Sheep can be as smart as rats.
I was telling Eric the story of the woman and the dog who didn’t get me that much.
Some of you might remember Eric was the man who came out with the line “one good woman is better than 10 men and you wouldn’t even know she was doing the job”.
That was when I told him how much I missed my Mom, not just on an emotional level, but in a practical way too, because of all the work she did, unnoticed.
“You’re worse,” he said, “to go taking any notice of that one. Sure her dog is only a yes man and she doesn’t even like herself.”
“And what’s more,” said Eric, “Butch was mad about you.”
Poor old Butch went missing.
We tried everywhere but to no avail. I hope he died of a heart attack. Eric took on a few bad boys and we were worried they might have kidnapped him.
We didn’t speak about Butch. It would have made us too angry and sad.
Eric, always positive, ended the Sunday pints with a song of praise.
“Billy,” he said, “you were the best shepherd since St Patrick.”
I suppose I was.
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