Gelert
An Excerpt from Gelert
Memories of a Boy, a Dog, and the Sea
People often speak fondly of extraordinary days.
Storms.
Birthdays.
Christmases.
Victories.
Yet memory, I have found, is curiously democratic.
It grants immortality to the most ordinary moments.
And so, if I close my eyes, I can still recall one entirely unremarkable evening in September when Gelert and I sat together upon the old harbour wall watching absolutely nothing happen.
Which, at the time, seemed a grievous disappointment.
I was sixteen.
Sixteen-year-olds are forever waiting for life to commence.
One imagines that existence consists chiefly of dramatic developments.
Wars.
Romances.
Heroic deeds.
One rarely appreciates sunsets until reaching an age when one begins running out of them.
Gelert, however, had always possessed a more philosophical temperament.
He was perfectly capable of regarding an empty harbour as an event deserving serious contemplation.
And so, there we sat.
The sea rolled quietly against the stones.
The gulls complained overhead.
Somewhere behind us a radio played dance music which, even then, struck me as an
insult to civilization.
Old Seamus sat repairing nets nearby.
Or pretending to.
He had been repairing the same nets for approximately eleven years and had yet to finish.
I sometimes suspected the fish had declared victory.
Gelert lay beside me.
Or rather half beside me.
The old rascal had developed the curious habit of leaning against my leg whenever possible.
As though maintaining physical contact with another creature represented some essential requirement of existence.
Perhaps he was right.
Perhaps it does.
The sun sank slowly behind the hills.
Fishing boats moved like shadows across Belfast Lough.
Everything glowed gold.
Even Seamus.
Though he looked annoyed about it.
"Beautiful evening," I observed.
Seamus grunted.
The old fisherman distrusted enthusiasm.
"Means rain tomorrow."
This struck me as unnecessarily pessimistic.
Gelert opened one eye.
Then closed it again.
The dog had long since concluded that meteorology belonged exclusively to humans and was best ignored.
For a while we watched the harbour in silence.
I cannot tell you what I was thinking.
I suspect I was thinking about school.
Or girls.
Or whether I should grow a moustache.
Mercifully, Providence intervened before that particular catastrophe occurred.
Whatever occupied my thoughts, I know they seemed terribly important.
And I know I have forgotten every one of them.
Yet I remember Gelert.
I remember his warmth against my leg.
I remember absent-mindedly scratching behind his ears.
I remember the smell of salt and seaweed.
I remember the cries of the gulls.
I remember Seamus muttering darkly about weather patterns.
Memory, you see, is strange.
The great crises fade.
The small moments remain.
At length Seamus stood.
"Off home."
"Already?"
"Aye."
He looked toward Gelert.
"Good dog."
High praise.
Coming from Seamus, it bordered upon poetry.
After he departed, Gelert and I remained upon the wall.
Darkness gathered slowly.
Lights appeared in the town.
One by one.
The world becoming stars.
Eventually I rose.
"Come on."
Gelert stood immediately.
No complaints.
No questions.
No conditions.
Simply trust.
Simple trust.
There is something profoundly humbling in being loved by a creature entirely unconcerned with your accomplishments.
Gelert did not care whether I passed examinations.
He did not care whether I became successful.
He cared very little for my opinions on literature.
And absolutely nothing for politics.
His standards were refreshingly straightforward.
Was I kind?
Was I present?
Would I share part of my sandwich?
These constituted the essential questions of life.
And looking back, I am no longer entirely convinced he was mistaken.
So we walked home together beneath the first stars.
A Carrickfergus boy and his dog.
Nothing remarkable.
Nothing extraordinary.
Nothing history would record.
Yet after all these years, when so much else has disappeared into the mist, I find that evening remains.
Not because anything happened.
But because nothing did.
And because Gelert was there.
Which, I have discovered, is what made most things worth remembering.
Comments