Roué the Dog

Pat McGrady, dedicated cancer researcher and author of The Savage Cell, was an extraordinarily gifted and decent man. He oozed Celtic charm but it was never belabored, always there and as the Irish say, ‘he could charm a snake.” I was young, full of confusion, didn’t know what the hell I was going to do with my life when we were introduced.

He and his charming Anglo wife Grace, both of whom were in their early sixties, lived in the west sixties in Manhattan, gave wonderful, warm parties and the conversations were reminiscent of the “Round Table” at the Algonquin when Dorothy Parker and Alexander Wolcott held court, and I’m not exaggerating. The McGrady’s attracted intelligent, sagacious, mature folk, interspersed with the young and presumably upwardly mobile (before that term was au courant.) I was introduced to them by another young would-be writer and was enchanted. Here was the best of the Celtic tradition and it wasn’t the “toora, loora, loora,” variety. Coming from a very modest background, dirt poor that is, I was at first overwhelmed, charmed, then realized they liked something about my mad and impetuous ways.

It was early on in our relationship when I stopped by to pass the time of day and listen to Pat’s quiet wisdom. I heard a scrambling, strange noises at the door knob, and a giant brown poodle pulled the door open. I broke out laughing and Pat welcomed me and told Roué, the dog, to close the door which he did by standing tall and putting his paws against it.

Pat seemed completely oblivious to the virtuosity, it was all part of his day to day experience and it was a helluva lot cheaper than a maid. I was mightily impressed, as I was supposed to be, but something made me temper my surprise and delight. We sat down, Pat asked me if I would like a drink, (is the Pope Catholic?) I accepted and we sat down to comment on the national and New York City scene with which he was fascinated.

About half and hour and another drink later, Pat tapped his pockets with his hands looking for something, looked around, called Roué and said,” Roué, go into the kitchen and get me a pack of Pall Malls. I don’t want Camels, I want Pall Malls.” He resumed speaking as I watched the big animal go into the kitchen and indeed return with a pack of Pall Malls. I was hooked, didn’t say a word to Pat but went into the kitchen myself and sure enough there were two packs of Camels and another pack of Pall Malls on the table. The glimmerings of an idea brushed my consciousness and I determined to play the game, whatever it was. I came back without a word and picked up the conversation. Pat didn’t crack a smile and he started talking about the great days of Tammany Hall. All the time I kept wondering how that dog did it. I had an idea, but I wasn’t sure.

An hour and another drink passed and we starting talking about books and he mentioned a particular passage in Herman Melville’s Moby Dick. He stumbled on the exact wording, turned in frustration and said, “Roué, get me Moby Dick from the library,” turned back to me without breaking stride and picked up the conversation. Well the great dog walked over to the immense bookcase, started pawing and sniffing and sure enough began to tug at the Melville classic until it was halfway off the shelf, put his teeth on it gently, pulled it all the way out and brought it to his master. Pat found the quote, repeated it and the answer came to me.

What a clever Mick he was indeed, but before I could say anything, intuiting that I had figured it out, he sighed and said, “We could use a little music. Roué, go play the piano,” and sure as hell the dog went over to the keyboard and starting banging away. Pat nodded and said, “It’s very modern, wouldn’t appeal to many but its all his .Quite original don’t you think?” I shook my head and headed for the piano where Roué was lustily pounding the keys...and searching out pieces of dog biscuit which his wily master had placed there, presumably when I went into the kitchen.

I confronted my gently smiling host. “McGrady, you’re a terrible man doing things like that. You’ll be playing bridge with the devil before he figures you’re palming cards and chucks you out.” Pat grinned, he loved this sort of thing, and said, “what about the book and cigarettes?” In my best English accent I said, “Elementary my dear McGrady. You wiped your hands on both and that damned smart French dog of yours picked up the scent and brought them to you.”

Pat smiled as the key turned in the latch and beautiful, charming Grace entered and said, “The Irish should never be permitted to drink in the afternoon,” grinned, kissed us both on the cheek and walked regally into another room with Roué following.

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