Some appear to believe that the term Celtic Tiger represents a recent attempt to create a racialist symbol for Ireland. It can be revealed now, however, that it is nothing of the sort. The term, Celtic, has been misunderstood.
All we have to do is to look at the word ceilteach in modern Irish. It means "secretive, witholding" (O Donaill, 1977: 217). The same source, for ceilt, gives "concealment"; and, significantly, nil ceilt ar bith ann, "he can't keep a secret"; rud nach bhfuil ceilt air, "what cannot be kept dark".
The word can be traced back to Old Irish: ceilid, "hides, conceals"; and we have the very significant ro cleth cruth, "shapes have been obliterated" (Dictionary of the Irish Language, Compact Edition; RHA, Dublin, 1983: 104).
Ayae! Brown envelopes, black plastic bags, confusing entries in accounts, widespread abhorrence of DIRT by obsessively hygienic persons in high places. So now the secret is out. It's part of what we are.
Varied career
For some reason, I am reminded of another member of the cat family, not only because he figures in the family motto (noli irritare leonem) but because of an incident in a very varied career.
In the 1940s, when employed on the editorial staff of the Irish Times publication Times Pictorial, I was required to enter a cage and keep company with a lion for a brief period while the late Dermot Barry took the appropriate pictures. The things we journalists do to entertain our public!
Before entering the cage I was given advice by the trainer and owner of the cat: "Whatever you do, don't feel afraid, or it will upset the lion and you might get, well, hurt."
I accepted the advice and have profited by it, even when confronted by an angry German Shepherd dog. Anyway, the lion never laid a paw on me. What I cannot understand is why the trainer met his end, for a long time after the publication of story and pic in Times Pic, I heard that the lion had eaten him. He had confided in me that the lion had liked him a lot. Maybe too much?
It is only on such occasions - on having caused the death of a human being - that a lion, tiger or other wild animal is "put down". When one of them escapes from captivity, for example, it is hunted and shot at with darts which sedate the creature. Why not shoot to kill? Because such animals have a high commercial value, an important consideration in the society of which we are part.
At this point I am reminded of an order received from my commanding officer before going on my first guard duty earlier in the 1940s: "If you must shoot - and you have your orders as to circumstances - shoot to kill! If it can be proven at your court-martial that you were shooting merely to wound, you will be in very serious trouble. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
I have no reason to believe that the order, "shoot to kill", is not still alive and well in the book of the Defence Forces, there and elsewhere, except for the SAS (who first shoot to disable the victim, then approach him or her and shoot to kill). This may go some way to explain the death of the unfortunate John Carthy.
Piteous mewing
At this point, my wandering thoughts are halted by a piteous mewing outside the back window. Another member of the cat family is there, clamouring for attention. I have been adopted by this animal, much against my will. This cat, which has some resemblance to the tiger in more ways than one, is known to authorities in the English language as "feral". One of my dictionaries explains: "wild, untamed. . .in a wild state after escape from capivity. . .born in the wild of such an animal. . .brutal. . .from the Latin, ferus, wild."
According to recent, published accounts, the number of feral cats in Ireland today greatly exceeds the proportionate figures for such creatures elsewhere in Europe (even England!). I gather from this that I am by no means alone among the adopted. And I mean adopted. This cat just would not go away, when requested kindly but firmly to do so, would not accept "no", and just kept on maintaining in a very determined manner the mewing of the lost, abandoned, helpless kitten, until at last I surrendered and gave it a bite. I mean, a light repast.
All members of the cat clan, apparently, indicate their approval of human company by rubbing themselves against one's legs, and allowing themselves to be stroked, particularly on the head. My mistress is not different, at meal times, anyway.
With dogs, you can get away with one meal per day, but not with cats, which prefers three or even four small meals, well scattered throughout the 24 hours. They reject milk taken from the refrigerator and tend to be very fastidious about food items. Don't believe all it says on the box or can!
Return from holidays
I must admit to have been brought up with domesticated cats and dogs. One cat I knew well, a female, lived 19 years, and was genuinely fond of my aunt. Somehow she would know when the aunt was to return from holidays and would meet her at the gate. It was uncanny; but, then, cats are well known for that. . .intuition?
The word, "cat", incidentally, according to my dictionaries, though common in many European languages, including Irish, is an alien, believed to have been borrowed from a pre-Indo-European source.
Despite its cynical plamas when being fed, the creature pleases me because of the way it walks and poses. It has more grace than many a ballet dancer I have known. Feral, or allegedly domesticated, it can never be tamed, despite all our skills. Being by nature very clean, spending most of its leisure hours licking away imaginary dust particles, it is relatively easy to house-train.
It is an ideal ornament, and has inspired a host of poets, painters and musicians. Yes, I have been hooked again!