Venturing into the world can be a treacherous endeavor, yet it also offers solace, allowing us to immerse ourselves in its ever-changing tapestry of experiences. Amid life’s unpredictable ebbs and flows, its hopes and fears, joys and tragedies, we find ourselves echoing the sentiments of Forrest Gump, that exasperating character who famously mused, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”
I had a moment of clarity, a glimpse into Gump’s wisdom, while strolling along a windswept beach in Co Dublin, accompanied by my loyal companion, Pal. As I spotted someone approaching in the distance, a sense of unease washed over me. She drew nearer with alarming speed, her face obscured by a baseball cap and sunglasses, her ponytail swaying rhythmically as she power-walked towards us. Memories of previous encounters flooded my mind, and they were far from pleasant.
It was evident that she possessed the weaponry of a determined beach walker, clutching a mobile phone in one hand and a to-go coffee in the other. A belt adorned her waist, holsters housing a bottle of life-sustaining Irish spring water and wires emanating music or voices into her ears. Clad in eye-catching pink and black Lycra, she cut a striking figure.
In contrast, I resembled the Wreck of the Hesperus, fatigued after a two-hour walk in the relentless rain and wind along Portmarnock’s sprawling shoreline. My boots were laden with sand, my drenched attire splattered with sea foam, topped off with a sodden, worn-out gray woolen hat. Picture Bill Owen’s character Compo from Last of the Summer Wine, only shabbier.
As she approached within a hundred yards, she veered left and discarded her coffee cup into a nearby bin. Then, she shifted into fifth gear, her arms resembling wind turbines in a storm, her legs propelling her at an astonishing pace, her ponytail becoming a propeller powering her onward.
I glanced down at Pal, silently pleading with him, “Please, don’t.” Over the course of five years, from playful puppy to allegedly mature dog, he had developed a peculiar fondness for Lycra-clad, intensely focused, swiftly moving beach walkers—especially those with hair cascading wildly. He had caused a few mishaps, attempted some rather embarrassing crotch-snuggling maneuvers, and generally vexed many of these individuals.
Consequently, I had endured countless cringe-worthy moments, enduring high-pitched lectures from individuals not even half my age, demanding that I keep my “silly animal on a leash” or even “knock some sense into that foolish creature.” The latter part, the insult to my beloved companion’s intelligence, stung particularly. After all, Pal is a border collie, renowned as one of the most intelligent breeds, with a lineage of working sheep and cattle dogs from Co Kildare. I dedicated considerable effort to training Pal, teaching him to come when called, to sit, and to stay. While he often complied, I knew a mischievous streak lingered within him. On that fateful day, one second he was obediently seated beside me, and the next he had vanished.
It was not that he pounced on her, but rather, in his gleeful tail-wagging frolics, he became entangled in her legs, causing her to stumble forward, yet miraculously managing to stay upright. She pivoted, pushed her glasses onto her forehead, and squinted into the blustery wind and watery sunlight, her narrowed eyes reminiscent of Clint Eastwood ready to dispatch a group of miscreants to Boot Hill in a Western shootout. I braced myself for the verbal lashing.
“Is that your dog?” she inquired, her voice chillingly calm.
“He is,” I conceded, preparing to unleash a profuse apology.
“What’s his name?” she demanded, and all I could envision was a stern dog warden arriving at my doorstep, equipped with a pole and a snare loop, ready to escort Pal away.
“Tom,” I blurted out, “I’m so sorry. I’ve been working on training him not to approach strangers, but every now and then, he just takes off.”
“Not you,” she smiled, her face softening, seemingly amused by my frenzied excuses. “I was asking about the dog’s name.”
“Pal,” I replied, “He’s five, but he still behaves like a puppy sometimes. Sorry again for the inconvenience.”
“He’s delightful,” she remarked, disarming me with her kind tone. “A border collie. We had a dog just like him when I was young. Buddy—my closest companion. We were inseparable, and he was the only one I could confide my silly, girly secrets in. Funny enough, I recently heard radio host Ronan Collins has a dog named Buddy Collie. Small world, isn’t it? Take care, Pal, my old buddy.”
She patted his head a few times before slipping her glasses back down.
Within seconds, she accelerated, her ponytail and Pal’s tail wagging synchronously in joyful harmony.
Relieved, I couldn’t help but contemplate the unexpected twist our encounter had taken.
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