John Dolan - George the Dog, John the Artist: A Rescue Story

This edition first published in hardcover in the United States in 2015 by
The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.

141 Wooster Street

New York, NY 10012

www.overlookpress.com

For bulk and special sales, please contact ,
or write us at the address above.

Copyright John Dolan 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

ISBN 978-1-4683-1120-4

ISBN 978-1-4683-1226-3 (e-book)

F or years, John Dolan had been living rough, trying his best to get by. Born and bred in the housing projects of East London, his early life was marked by neglect and abuse, and his childhood gift for drawing was stamped out by the tough realities outside his front door. As he grew older, he turned to petty crime to support himself and ended up in prison. When he was released, he found himself on the streets, surviving day-by-day, living hand-to-mouth.

It wasnt until he met George, a homeless Staffy puppy, that his life changed for the better. To begin with, George was a handful: he had been abused himself and was scared of human contact. Soon, John and George became inseparable. It was then that John decided to pick up his long-forgotten gift for drawing, sitting on the sidewalk for hours at a time, sketching pictures of George that he would sell to passers-by. With his best friend by his side, and a pencil in his hand, John suddenly found his lifes calling.

In loving memory of Gerry and Dot Ryan and Les Roberts

To George the dog

H ow much money do you reckon Ive made you today, John? It was Griff, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

How should I know? I shrugged. A cockle?

I was sitting on the pavement of Shoreditch High Street, drawing the buildings around me, just as I had done every day for the last three years.

My fingers were freezing cold and I was thinking about whether I could afford to get a cup of tea and a sandwich to keep myself going.

George was next to me, as always, wrapped in a coat and with a paper cup in front of him for passers-by to drop change into.

How much is a cockle again?

A tenner to you, posh boy.

No, more than a tenner, John.

I liked the sound of this. The cup contained just a few pound coins, a handful of silver and a bit of copper, even though wed been sitting on the street for a good couple of hours. Whatever Griff had made, hed done better than me and George had that day.

Hundred quid? I said, half joking.

No. Keep going.

Griff was buzzing. I could feel the energy sparking off him, but I was trying not to let it rub off on me.

Well, how the hell should I know? Five hundred?

Higher.

A thousand?

Higher.

I was getting excited now; it was impossible not to.

Just tell me!

John, were talking thousands.

You serious? What dyou mean, thousands?

I mean fifteen thousand pounds, to be precise.

Suddenly I was up on my feet, laughing, frowning and scratching my head in disbelief.

Straight up? Youve made me fifteen thousand pounds? Today? How you done that?

Ive sold five of your drawings. One alone went for five grand.

I knew Griff was telling the truth but I couldnt take it in, not straight away. Good things like this just didnt happen to me.

You better not be having me on, Griff, because if you are

John, its absolutely true. Five pieces sold. Fifteen grand in total sales.

George was sitting proud and still as usual, his front legs stretched out before him and his head held high. He began sniffing the air and looking at me expectantly, waiting for my command.

Come here, George! Come here, boy!

He sprang onto all fours and pushed his head into my outstretched hands as I crouched down to talk to him.

Did you hear that, George? Fifteen big ones! Im gonna be rich.

Id been worrying myself to death about losing the roof over my head, but in that split second my fears dissolved. I couldnt believe what I was hearing.

I dont think George could either. He pricked up his ears and tilted his face from side to side, the way he always does when hes listening carefully. His jaw looked set in a satisfied smile and his eyes were shining.

When do I get my half? he would have said if he could, because hes a cheeky little git like that. Seriously, good on you, mate, hed have added, or Id like to think he would. You deserve a break. Just dont forget where your luck came from

It was spring 2013 when this happened. I was 41 years old and selling those pictures was only the second lucky break Id had in my entire life.

The first, the really big one, was meeting George a few years earlier. I didnt know it at the time but he was my lucky charm; the dog who would turn my whole world upside down.

Without George I wouldnt have picked up my pen and started drawing again after decades of neglecting my talent, and I would never have met Griff, a.k.a. local art dealer Richard Howard-Griffin. Id either be lying in the gutter, banged up in jail or buried six feet under, and thats the honest truth.

Instead Ive collaborated with some of the worlds most famous street artists, my pictures are hanging on walls from New York to Moscow, and I have a sell-out London show under my belt. Getting to where I am now has been one hell of a journey. When I met George Id been trapped in a revolving door of homelessness, crime, prison, depression and drugs for many, many years.

It was George who finally stopped the door turning, and it was George who made the artist in me stand up and step out of the darkness.

Thats no mean feat for a young Staffordshire bull terrier, especially one whod had a hard life himself before we met. George is my universe. I love him to bits, and this is the story of how he changed my life.

I t was the winter of 2009 when George came into my life, and I was living alone in a temporary council bedsit above a newsagents on Royal Mint Street, down the road from the Tower of London. Id been fortunate enough to have been there for two years on and off, which was about the only good thing I had going for me. I was struggling in just about every way a person could struggle: I had no job, I had no income, and I had no control over my drug problem. The one thing I did have was the house, and Id been homeless and slept rough often enough over the years to know how lucky I was to have any kind of roof over my head. As my mum, Dot, had shown me growing up, charity starts at home, and if I met people on the streets less fortunate than myself, Id sometimes offer to put them up for a night or two. Thats how I came to meet Becky and Sam.

I met them outside Tower Hill tube station. They were a nice young couple in their early twenties who were sat begging for change. They, like most other homeless people with their hands out, looked fed up and in need of a break. They had a sheepdog with them who reminded me a bit of a dog I used to look after in my youth, and thats how we first got talking. Over a period of a month or so I got to know Becky and Sam quite well because, as ashamed as I am to admit it, I was begging too; I didnt know what else to do. I used to say to people that I was financially embarrassed but it was much worse than that. I was really struggling to look after myself. I was penniless, and I felt I had no other option but to go cap in hand, asking passers-by if they could spare a bit of change for a hopeless bastard like me. Anyway, whenever I saw Becky and Sam, wed try to cheer each other up, fetching the odd cup of tea for each other to keep out the cold, or swapping stories about what the punters said to us.