A few years ago my parents invested in the Readers Digest Magazine. For years they have lingered on the table in the corner of our South Dublin hallway, piled under unopened unimportant post, gathering dust, always there but never appealing enough to sneak a peek behind the front cover.

On one of those restless nights I searched around my silent house, desperate to find something to read that would be boring enough to send me blissfully off to sleep by the opening paragraph. I picked up the newest edition to the sidelined bunch. Scrolling through the contents, I was already beginning to yawn, when something caught my eye, ‘The Lies Our Parents Told Us’. I read on.

OK, so there are the basics, Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, the dentist does hurt, and that no matter how many carrots we eat, we still couldn’t see in the dark. But these lies are harmless, with no intent to hurt us in any way (besides the dentist). But what other porkies was I told?

I sat my mother down and informed her that it was time for the truth. I could handle it, or so I thought. I wanted to know everything. I needed to know was our out-of-control dog Bob really sent to a farm in Athlone to run free? Why did I really not get the electric puppy toy for Christmas when I was nine? What did Joey the budgie really die from?

That day, I discovered a darker side to my parents. At the time these stories were fed to me, I believed them, I later found out that my two older sisters didn’t, but I always felt there was something that didn’t fit, and I was about to discover I was right.

Bob was not sent to a farm in Athlone, in fact, Bob was buried with our other dog Bailey in the back garden.

Scamps, the electric puppy and the only item on my Santa list that year, was not stood on by Rudolph on our roof just before Santa was about to deliver him under my tree. No, on Christmas Eve as my Dad was putting in the batteries ready for use the next morning, Scamps broke.

And Joey, well this one’s a heartbreaker. Joey broke his wing, and as it was a Sunday and there was no vet open, my kind-hearted and gentle-souled father decided to numb the broken bird’s pain with a drop of whiskey.

Joey died of heart failure that evening, and he too is buried in the garden with our other ill-fated pets, Bob and Bailey.

Future archaeologists may have some unanswered questions about the goings-on in my house as my mother just informed me, “They’re not the only ones out there!”

Would I have been better off with the truth? I’m not so sure. Maybe, ten years down the line, when a much-loved pet rabbit is partially mauled by an urban fox and needs euthanasia, will I tell my then beloved four year old twins that Pebbles is gone to join his friends in the forest.

Or, do I look them in their innocent tropical lake coloured eyes and tell them that Pebbles was torn to bits by the fox, after which a vet stuck a big needle in what was left of his back leg, and then threw him down a big black hole, where the big juicy maggots will eat him? What do you think my answer will be?

Picture: A pet lovers’ back garden…?