To the serenade, Nolan’s dog was not a convert. Nor, it turned out, was Bourke’s. Nor Cleary’s. Nor Ryan’s. This too was traditional, but in the case of Faha was augmented by Clancy’s cock, Hayes’s hens, and then, wait, Healy’s ass in the half-acre behind the hardware shop. In truth nothing in creation could be declared a fan, and, though the singing was neither drunken nor loutish, soon enough a rough chorus was barking and braying and the village was started from sleep with the forked hair and quizzical eyes of the burgled.
