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St. Peter

You load sixteen tons an' what do you get?
Another day older and deeper in debt.
St Peter don't you call me cause I can't go:
I owe my soul to the company store. *

‘Uncle’ Peter was born into an ordinary family, lived in an ordinary street, and ended up after leaving school doing an ordinary job.

It was his funeral last week. Died prematurely of a rare disease. Standing room only in church. Almost all of the mourners were ‘ordinary’.

Tributes were paid to him at the service, and endless anecdotes were heard at the reception afterwards.

One of the mourners had really wanted to say his piece at the service, but hadn’t known Peter that long [only 20+ years] and didn’t think what he would have said would have been appreciated by the man himself, had he been there. So, it was left to Igor, his daughter’s dog to do it for him.

“I gather they are wanting to give us dogs valium and prozac. Get us expensively hooked on something that will distort our view of things, make us stupid like you, burn us out quicker, so get through more of us, and add to the profits of the dog food industry. It will keep vets and the drugs companies sweet too.

 

My mistress’s dad has just moved on and the church is packed. Whenever he came to see us he always made a fuss of me, and everyone who knew him talked about his warmth and willingness to help.

 

We dogs are fed up with seeing ‘celebrities’ as if they are better than us. We know many of us are cute, especially when young, and some of us look wonderful after a bath. You don’t eat and kick us like the Chinese and Vietnamese, but you buy everything they make, because it’s cheap, despite it being flown half-way around the world.

 

When I’m taken out for walks, because I’m reasonably big, and look at first glance a bit rough; so most people don’t bump into me or my human family. But I’ve watched you lot in supermarkets and at airports, and you are like zombies. Most of you have no idea- and some of you couldn’t care less either-that other people are walking around the same place as you.

 

Young people seem to be treated like an invading army. Many of you avoid them, don’t like them, or believe they are all one breath away from knifing or kicking you.

 

I’ve noticed Peter liked ‘traditional’ food. Meat pies, sausages, black puddings and the like. Did they help his health, probably not, but who knows. I know some stuff you give us is too toxic for land fill, but we don’t watch your television, and eat it regardless. So we don’t beat ourselves up over it. Anyway, what won’t a few drugs cure?

 

Peter loved young people, he loved his two grandchildren. He knew he was young himself once. And his family are a credit to him. His spirit lives on in them.

 

We pre-valium dogs are very sensitive to what’s going on. We can sense the moods of those around us. Peter was just the same. Not for him to say ‘sod you.’ I wonder if his illness got him down psychologically, because it cut him off from his caring, sensitive self?

 

In a sane world, Peter would have been a celebrity. But he would never have come to terms with fame for being famous. Peter never knew [he did] that he, and thousands like him kept the planet sane, because of his ‘ordinariness.’ Most dogs are mongrels, a term almost of abuse. Aren’t most of you mongrels, and those of you who aren’t-doesn’t it make you a little mad?

 

I’ve overheard that Peter was an apprentice painter and decorator. After he became a tradesman, he did his job to the best of his ability, which was considerable. What kind of world would it be if everywhere was scruffy, tatty, rusty, looked and left awful and started falling to bits? Don’t you lot reflect what’s around you. If you live in squalor, you become squalid. If you live in ‘nice’ homes, you are more likely to be ‘nice’ yourself.

 

We dogs don’t go to church, because we all go to heaven anyway. But I know that even for you who don’t go to church, having them around makes you feel a little more secure doesn’t it? And who would want a dilapidated church in their neighbourhood?

 

Peter made sure his church was welcoming, warm and safe.

 

He worked in some horrible jobs, and I know it got him down. Millions of you do jobs you wouldn’t put us dogs in. But what would happen if millions didn’t do horrible jobs? Maybe the answer is to work together to make them OK jobs. I know some of your kids think burgers come from a burger patch, ** and how many of you bother to reflect on what kind of things millions of ‘ordinary’ people do to bring them to the shelves of your shops?

 

When I’m out for a walk, my lead is leather because it’s strong and lasts. Would I feel better if it was pink? Or jewel encrusted? I’m not bothered if I come across another dog unless, like its owner, it has something it wants to prove. If I had a penis enlargement patch, it would be obvious. I can’t see the point anyway. Perhaps I need some buttox jabs to cure my sagging jaw line. If we dogs epitomise loyalty, caring, compassion, honesty, humour, dedication and decency then Peter should be made an honorary dog!”

 

Joking apart, I’d like to close with a final few words about St. Peter. He would cringe if he knew I had called him that. But a world without him and his kind would be back to the dark ages within weeks.

 

No-one will ever know what really ended his life in his 70’s when another 10 years would have made everyone feel so much better. His wife is a tower of strength, and in many ways a female version of Peter, or was he a male version of her?

 

The fires are kept burning up by the millions of Peters and his wife of all ages, creeds and races. The fireworks of fame burn brightly then are quickly forgotten."

Igor was led out of the house, and travelled back with his family to sunny Shropshire. He had said his piece.

Whilst all this had being going on, Peter was watching his coffin move behind the curtains. He hadn’t cringed when called a saint, because he knew what was meant by the remark, and in spirit false modesty and out-dated social norms cut no ice.

At least two people saw him. His niece’s husband [someone who had recently let go of cynicism, and was beginning to see many such things] and my wife, Anne.

I’ve never seen ‘the departed’ except in dreams.

Is the world of Beckham, Blair and Bono a nightmare, and St. Peter real? To those who packed the church that day, there was no argument.

Jack, April 2007.

* From the song, ‘Sixteen tons’ written by Jimmy Dean.

** A certain well-know burger company actually produced ads depicting burgers found under plants this when they got started. Strange how this has been forgotten.