A few weeks ago, in the dark and pouring rain, I stepped into a driveway to allow a couple coming towards me with a dog, to pass. But as dogs would have it, we had no choice but to stop and exchange pleasantries, and as we stood there talking, and notwithstanding the conditions, it was clear that the lady in question: who was not keen to move on, was in awe of my accent. How do I know? Because she told me; and if I may dare to say so, women in awe of my accent, in the past, has not necessarily been a positive experience. As for the dog's, I was intrigued to discover that theirs, adopted, was from Romania. "Have you been to Romania?" I asked; and while I don't recall her exact reply, it added up to the fact that they hadn't ventured much beyond the boundaries of Norfolk.
Now as you would expect, from time to time, our paths cross, and I am careful to give them the metaphorical cold shoulder; because apart from anything else, having come all the way from Romania, their dog is not amenable to sharing his space.
More recently, and in altogether better weather, I stopped to talk to a regular, and notwithstanding the fact that I knew what he was up to, I asked, "Are you having a rest?" His dog was also resting, as were his metallic walking-sticks. In layman's terms, he has a fusion in the spine, so when he is out and about, walking awkwardly, and with his sticks as stabilisers, and with his dog in toe, he can't be anything other than conspicuous; and I can not be alone among the public, who, on seeing him, have been in awe of his resolve.
Now perhaps on account of my age, I don't recall the order of our discourse, but in a short time we covered a lot of ground: his health, the age we live in, (or if you prefer,) the state of the world as it is now, as compared to what it was when we were growing up, and of course, his dog. And before I go any further it is important to be clear: there is not a trace of self-pity in him.
On health, and hospitals, of which he has considerable experience, he had taken a call earlier in the day with the news, that of the ten biopsies takens, "five from either side" eight were cancerous. And he was resolute, and he told them so, that they weren't going to cut him up. "I have my . . . .I'm not afraid of death!" But there was good news as well as bed. The voice on the phone was reassuring: an injection every three months, and some pills would do the trick. And that, the idea of dying, brought him around to the state of the world as it is today. And on that subject, while he took the low road, I took the high, reminding him that there was a great deal of good in the world that never gets reported, and before I knew it, he was reminded of the good samaritan.
A few days previously, while resting on a bench which was just across the road from where we were talking, a posh car pulled up and a lady got out, and fearing that he might be unwell, wanted to help. "Wasn't that a lovely thing to do?" he said with feeling.
But what left me scratching my head, and in an odd way feeling pleased, was the news that his, patient dog, was rescued - from Romania.
"There are a lot of Romanian dogs around here!"
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© Cormac E McCloskey
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