Moscow
Dogs
Martha
Cooley
I.
Every
winter, four or five dogs die weekly of cold or starvation in Moscow.
A homeless dog that's not rounded up and brought to a pound has
roughly six months to live, if it's lucky.
This may explain the look that stray dogs give humans who make
eye contact with them: a look that says yes,
I'm thinking about death, and so are you.
Stray
dogs in Moscow evoke pity, especially when they sprawl on the snow, but
you don't want to try petting them.
They may snap at you.
Often they navigate the streets in little packs, shoulder to
shoulder.
You round a corner and suddenly find yourself in a cluster of
lean, lupine dogs; after they part to let you pass, they reconvene and
continue trotting in tight formation, like a well-trained brigade.
Like
dogs, drunks in this city don't shiver in winter.
Once they move past the aggressive or truculent behaviors, the
sentimental singing, the slurring, and the sluggishness, they don't even
try to fight back.
Their bodies give off the intimate smell of neglect, a scent that
saturates this city.
Moscow reeks of it, even in wintertime.
Each morning, the same thing: you step out, inhale, and carry on.
II.
Moscow's
multiple modes of public transportation form a fragile web that is
continually imperiled by weather, politics, or caprice.
Rapid substitutions and interventions are necessary to maintain
this web.
When a tram's power line is knocked out in winter, old
trolley-buses are pressed into service.
These buses are given a temporary route-number and a temporary
driver.
No one likes using them, not only because they're always more
crowded than the trams they replace but also because they're inherently
unreliable.
The
bus that substitutes for the number 27 tram, which runs from Savyolovsky
train station past Dinamo Stadium and along March 8th Street, is
assigned the number zero.
One brisk December afternoon, the double doors of the zero bus
swing open at the Praga Cinema stop, admitting a very drunk man who is
hoisted up the steps by two of his mates.
They deposit him in a seat just opposite the doors, then hop off
the bus.
The
drunk man lists precariously as the zero bus picks up speed and caroms
around the comer onto March 8th Street.
The driver is pushing this vehicle much faster than it normally
goes; even seasoned babushkas tighten their holds on their plastic bags.
Then – between stops, and without warning or announcement –
the driver brakes hard, pulls over, opens all the doors of the bus,
climbs down the front steps, and walks away.
His
act –
is it rebellion, or desertion? – silences all talk.
Wordlessly, the riders watch his figure recede.
They are contemplating the weight of the bags they must carry,
their distance from home, the rubles in their pockets.
All at once, their fatigue becomes palpable.
The
drunk man looks around foggily.
When he finally realizes that the zero bus has stopped, he stands
up, totters over to the narrow steps that lead down to a snow-covered
sidewalk, and gathers his strength for his departure.
Apparently forgetting that he must, in fact, descend those steps,
he hurls himself outward, arms and head thrust forward like a
skydiver's.
He lands face- and torso-first in the snow, fully spread-eagled.
His
fellow passengers observe his exit without comment.
One by one they descend, sidestep his inert body, and make their
ways onward.
If the man were a dog, the riders might cluck their tongues at
him, sympathetically urging him to get up and get going.
He's a drunk, though, so everyone looks away.
Nobody is surprised when vodka meets yearning, self-loathing, or
rage. It's
old hat, this encounter.
Eventually,
the drunk manages to stand up and stagger off.
The imprint of his body remains.
Shortly thereafter, a dog arrives, lies down, and curls up in it.
III.
In
the late evening, dog-owning Muscovites bundle up for the last walk
before bedtime.
Hat, gloves, boots, scarves – all must be donned once more.
The leash is hooked onto the eager dog's collar; the
foul-smelling elevator takes dog and master down to the poorly lit
foyer, whence they emerge into moonlight and onto snow, crunchy
underfoot.
They
head for someplace quiet.
A park is best, of course, but even a little courtyard suffices
– someplace as calm as can be found in a city not known for its
capacity to soothe.
The owner chats softly to his companion, reprimanding or praising
or exhorting.
The dog's role, especially at this hour, is to give the man
something other than his own unruly desires to supervise.
The
dog strains at the leash, pursuing wayward scents.
Off the main avenues is darkness.
The owner walks flat-footed, peering downward, keeping his
balance in case of an icy patch.
The dog pulls him forward impatiently: these walks are never long
enough!
We never go far enough!
At
a small cluster of kiosks selling snacks and booze, a few drinkers lean
against rickety tables.
Their ears and noses and fingers are red.
They've stopped trying to untangle the mess of the day.
None of it – Yeltsin, Putin, Chechnya, foreigners, capitalism,
communism, loss of work, irritable wife, ailing parents, strident
kids-upheaval, upheaval! – none of it makes any sense.
Never has, never will.
Best thing's to tell tales or jokes, to laugh.
And to drink.
A
lone dog circles the perimeter, waiting for someone to toss a bit a
food, the remains of some shashlik.
One of the drunks sees the stray dog and calls to it, beckoning.
Shyly, uncertainly, it limps over.
The drunk, swaying as he leans down, offers the stray a swig of
beer, which it refuses, and a bone, which it takes.
Food in mouth, it stands next to its benefactor, watching the
approach of the man and dog who have come this way for their evening
walk.
The
two pairs – dog and master, drunk and stray – recognize each other
in silence, in the darkness.
But
isn't that – why, yes, that's me!
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