JACK IS MY DAD’S DOG
But Jack sits in the backseat with me. Then Mum pulls up, stops our car by the campsite toilet, asks me again if I need to go and I say I don’t because I don’t. So Mum gets out, says Just be a minute you two, but that doesn’t count right because that leaves three of us left: me, Dad, and Jack, who puts his paws on the back of Dad’s seat, sticks his nose out the half-open window, starts snorting and snuffling, his slavver dripping down the glass, and it makes me laugh, but Dad just rubs his face with his hands, makes a sound like a balloon going down, tells Jack to SIT! and that he’s NOT IN THE MOOD THIS MORNING! and QUIET! And then Dad spins round in his seat, shouts JACK! who’s still snotting the window, now barking at that poodle and that fat lady in pink. GET DOWN! says Dad, GET EFFING DOWN! and he grabs Jack by the throat and pushes, and I don’t like it, and Jack don’t like it, and he growls and snaps angry at Dad’s arm, and Dad shouts that F word again, slaps Jack in the face, and Jack falls back onto his belly, makes that whiney sound his eye blinks twitchy, and he shivers like he’s cold, but he’s not cold cos we’re on holiday, and Dad lights a fag, and Mum gets in the car, and when we get there I look at the sea.