In my wordpress draft’s bank there’s a literal cue of ideas I could write about. Thing is, blogging about my life isn’t very interesting for me- I just lived it. But after last night and my poor dog throwing up puddles of blood and scaring me to death, I decided it was time to look back and reflect a little.
Last September, exactly three days after my birthday, I was being a responsible citizen and about to walk my trash the 5 minutes to the dump pile where we’re suppose to leave it (don’t ask was irresponsible citizens do, it’s not pretty). As I was walking down the stairs of my apartment building I heard a little yelp accompanied by the sounds of boys. Sure enough, right outside my building was a tiny puppy, no bigger than a kitten, whining and begging for food while the local boys kicked him around.
A note about local pet culture: it doesn’t exist, and any American animal-fan or otherwise, would be appalled.
I took look at the puppy and a longer, sterner look at the boys, and I said: ”Don’t touch it. It’s mine.”
And he was. Ever since I picked him up and could feel ever bone in his body. I had just finished reading Oliver Twist, and Oliver seemed to be a fitting name. I remember sitting here, my tiny puppy fitting comfortably along my breast bone, so light and tiny.
Now he’s a beautiful dog. He’s lost four baby teeth and one more is wobbly. He’s potty trained, responds to ‘sit,’ ‘heel,’ ‘down,’ ‘shake’ and ‘stay.’ Some of the commands are even in Kazakh. He has got the most rediculous ears- they’re absolutely giant.
Now he’s a tremendous joy in my life. No matter what else goes on, he’s always at home waiting for me, thrilled out of his little mind I’ve walked in the door. I love the way he cocks his head and listens to me (no matter what the language), his ears moving like small satellite dishes.
Watching him on the snow and ice has been hysterical. Everyday we walk on the leash to an empty part of town, and then I let him run off-leash. Oliver dashes through the snow, scampers across the ice and eats as much of the powdery-goodness as he can stand. My favorite has been lately- the top of the snow has crusted over, you know the type. Oliver loves dashing across the firm crust, and when it breaks he whirls around, attacking the snow mound that dares disturb his run.
He is a wonderful dog, and if he makes it through whatever’s gone wrong in his system, I’ll be taking him home with me.
The Kazakh people here ask me often this question (literally translated): ”Will he walk through life with you?”
You betcha.
