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Georg E Mateos

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Books by Georg E Mateos
Gerry, the dog.
By Georg E Mateos
Posted: Thursday, April 22, 2010
Last edited: Thursday, April 22, 2010
This short story is rated "PG" by the Author.
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Recent stories by Georg E Mateos
· The Hell’s furnaces (Die Ofen von HOlle)
· The song of Death (Das Lied von Tot)
· Sailing in a steel coffins (Segel Stahlerner Sarg)
· Abraham's barbed wire (Abraham’s Stacheldraht )
· You too Brutus? (Und Sie auch, mein Sohn...)
· Sigfried's Death
· Sieg Heil
           >> View all 70
Sometimes, some heartless people could only be loved by a dog to the extreme of dying of longing for one that didn't deserve none of that...

Excerpt from the book under work:
“The Life of Walther Alexander”

Gerry, the dog.

Perhaps the only living thing that ever loved Walther’s father was is dog Gerry, which looking back wasn’t anything looking a Gerald or its like.
But the dog would suddenly take off aiming for the railway station and sit unobtrusive out of the way and wait for the train carrying Walther’s father to arrive.
How the hound knew is anyone guesses, but he would be there rain of shine anytime Erich was returning.
The dog seemed to have been forever around the house, aloof in its treatment to the rest of the family and only wagging its tail to the General. The rest were warned by a deep growl of its displeasure when coming too near.

Gerry was a Jack Russell Terrier that Erich brought home from Berlin’s Prussian War Academy on Unter den Linden, from a litter of the London Military Attached Scottish bitch, with pedigree papers not less.
The dog was white with orange blotches, short legs but with the speed of a bullet to chase anything fancy its displeasure.

The General would, in warmth weather, sit on the small park back the house to read documents and sip wine under the tree shadows with the dog faithfully under his seat, always watchful, always mean to “strangers”
The only one that could freeze the dog on its tracks was Walther’s mother that could be meaner and growl nastier than the short furry devil could.
She didn’t like no dogs and her animal company was constricted to a regal white, long haired, Persian cat with and expression of disgust on its mouth and the most piercing black slits on white eyes you will ever see this side of Hell, that mother had named in Russian, Aphctokpat (Aristocrat) and that didn’t amused some members of the family envious of mother’s tsarist lineage thinking the “intruder” was rubbing their noses on “it”.

Where Gerry would growl at people going by the General couch, the cat would lashed its paw with extended claws at anybody of anything going too near mother’s chair.
In retrospective, it would today appear to mirror the humans they were so attached to.

With the years, and without being disciplined none, the dog had grown to think of itself at the untouchable, until the day he dared, without any provocation to bite the heel of Walther’s older brother Edwin that possessed a shorter fuse than the dog would ever have.
The bite was a mean in intention but a cowardly one that didn’t broke skin, but enough surprising and maddening to get itself grabbed by the neck and never mind the wailing, marching outside the house and dropping the now pissed off little fury on the ice waters of the fountain depicting Peace.
The dog couldn’t get out of the pool because the high side ornaments but didn’t drown because the General’s footman came to the rescue.
It is not necessary to add that the dog never tried to bite Edwin from that day on, but contributed to a heated discussion between father and son about who was more important to the General, his own son or the mutt, that adjective didn’t endeared the boy none to the father or the dog as they both certainly knew it definitive wasn’t a mutt.

Gerry survived the war, and would go from the house to the bombed out Dresden railway station to sit everyday and wait for the General. But no trains were coming, no passengers returning.
After a while he would lie down with its head over its front paws and slowly blink at the passing shadows until evening hours chased him away until the next day to wait for the one that, perhaps, was the only living thing that loved him.
He couldn’t understand that the General was dead, and he waited and waited until one day he reached its own.
He just kept on sleeping, he didn’t understood that he was dead too.


Reader Reviews for "Gerry, the dog."

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Reviewed by m j hollingshead 6/24/2010
compelling read
Reviewed by MIKE McCormick (Reader) 6/21/2010
My niece has a Jack Russell.And I quote my niece Maureen "No way is that dog going upstairs or lying on any of my furniture."Fast for ward 2 months later -Dog is in her bed before she is-upstairs.The dog owns the house.Enough said
Reviewed by Patrick Granfors 4/24/2010
The bond with a dog is strong. Sometimes too strong. Touching story Georg. Patrick
Reviewed by Mr. Ed 4/23/2010
Dogs, bless their souls, love 'their humans' no matter how good or bad we are. They are far more understanding, and far more forgiving, than most of us. My wife and I just watched a movie about a dog in Japan who did the very same thing - wait and wait and wait at a train station for his master, who was never coming back. We both shed some dog loving tears about his unconditional love, and I just wrote a poem about him.

You have also reminded me of a truly faithful dog I found in New Orleans. Six months after Katrina, he was still diligently guarding his family's completely destroyed home; still faithfully waiting for them to return - which they never would. It took me forever to convince him to come with me for some needed nourishment and medical attention.
Reviewed by Peter Schlosser (Reader) 4/22/2010
I was at the Dresden train station last summer. Next to it is an old theatre which looks like it was in use during the 1940s. It was obviously a left-over relic which somehow survived the war. Very interesting. These dog stories are always like arrows to the heart for me. I have two, proud German dachshunds. Most loyal things in the world. And always the comedians they are too. Heartbreaking to witness these abandoned animals searching for their masters. I wrote a poem on AD last year called Faithful Disciple about my dog. I think you might like it. Take care Georg.
Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado 4/22/2010
Excellent story, Georg; well done!

(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in America, Karen Lynn in Texas. :D
Reviewed by D Johnson 4/22/2010
Georg, so many stories within this story, nicely told.

Reviewed by JASMIN HORST SEILER 4/22/2010
I can relate to Mark's feelings, but are you saying there are some in your "Judgement" that don't deserve to be loved, God forbid, it be a dog? Dogs, are much smarter than you give them credit for, they unlike most of us, except Jesus know who deserves love. They are in general more faithful, more courageous, and more loving than any human that I know of, they on the other hand in their innocence might not know of death. I have a little Pom, nearly nineteen years old, just had a stroke, can't see, smell, or hear anything, otherwise perfectly healthy, I've been very busy, trying to take care, but I sure hopes, he goes before me, so as to spare him the pain you describe. I hope you are not leaving one behind are you?
Blessings! Jasmin Horst
Reviewed by Mark Lichterman 4/22/2010
Georg, you know me as a true dog lover. Whenever there is a movie about a dog you know that somewhere within that movie, somewhere you are going to cry. I recently saw a movie named "Hachi" that left me feeling haunted because the story was almost exactly as yours, except there was no war and Hachi was a lovable, friendly dog but loved the man so much it would run to the train station and wait for him as he returned from work. One day the man did not return... And the story is almost exactly as yours. Watching the seasons changing and Hachi becoming older and older as he ran to the station each day until he, too died, left me haunted by the scene of a now old Hachi.
Reviewed by La Belle Rouge Poetess Of The Heart 4/22/2010
So heart touching Georg, it reminds me a bit of Greyfriar's Bobby.

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