A Curious Incident with the Dog in the Night-Time – A True Story

In memory of Elmo

This Christmas I‘m looking after my neighbours’ dog, Elmo, while they are in Nice, France. Elmo and I are in the habit of going for walks late at night and Monday, December 15th, was no exception. The night was clear and cold and, as we went along, I watched him track a scent, tracing a wavy invisible line with his nose along the sidewalk. I was breaking in some new shoes. It was close to midnight when one shoe started to rub against my foot so badly that I decided to turn back.

On LeMarchant Road, I noticed a man about 50 feet in front of us weaving back and forth, visibly drunk. He was displaying such a classic drunken stagger that I studied it in case I ever needed to use it. I always feel a little protective of someone in his condition so I caught up with him and asked him where he was going, wanting to make sure he was headed in the right direction. I’m not from here, he said, where am I? You’re in St. John’s, Newfoundland, I said, and I asked him again: Where are you going? But, again, his reply was: I’m not from here. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll rob him, I thought. After we’d introduced ourselves and shaken hands a couple of times, I managed to get it out of him that he was headed for Water Street. Come on, I said, I’ll walk with you for a bit. Before long, he was clinging to me for support and I was his best buddy.

As we headed down Patrick Street, I realized he was in real danger of falling so I thought I’d better go all the way to Water Street with him even though it was out of my way and, with my sore foot, I was in a hurry to get home. All he had on was a light pullover. I asked him if he had any kids and he said no. Good, I said, because they won’t have to feel sad if you die out here tonight from hypothermia; it’s 4 below zero. His clinging was slowing us down, so I broke away and walked on ahead to try to get him to speed up.

When I got to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, he yelled out for me to stop. I wanna tell you a story, he said. Tell me when we get to Water Street, I said. What building is this? he asked when he’d caught up with me. St. Pat’s, I said. There’s a side entrance to the church next to where we were standing and he went over and sat down on the stone steps. C’mon, he said, sit, I wanna tell you a story. I’ve been sitting all day, I said. He kept insisting so I walked over to the steps and leaned against the stone railing. Sit down, he said. If your story’s any good, I will, I said, how’s that? He leaned towards me then, our heads were only a couple of feet apart, and he said something that was inaudible. I asked him to repeat it. I’m not alive, he said. You’re talking to a ghost.

I most definitely was not going to sit down next to him now. I’m screwing up your head, aren’t I? he said. Well, I said, I’ve always maintained that I’m open to the idea that ghosts exist, it’s just that I’ve never seen one. I died in 1860, he said, look it up. Every year I come back, just for one day. Always around Christmas. Every year…same dog…same building…we all come back.

I didn’t know what to say. I’m screwing your head up aren’t I? he said. Have you come to see me? I asked (I was thinking of Scrooge and the ghost of Christmas past). I’ve come to see him, he said, looking over at Elmo. And you. After a while the question came to me: So how come you’re drunk? When I said that, his pose – if that’s what it was – appeared to waver. After he’d thought about it for a while, he said: Because I’m Irish. It seemed insufficient somehow. Then, as though I’d exposed him, he said, go on home, go on, and he waved me away. I felt released and started to go. And don’t look back, he said.

So I didn’t.