You see, there we are, I’m calling for a systematic solution, and that, of course, is to slip into politics! Yes, politics about dogs. They, too, are intelligent creatures; they need rules.
You tell me that you recently visited New English College and that you met a dog there who was mildly curious and decidedly not aggressive. I know him; he was adopted there, lucky sod! But at least he was pleasant. There are many cases of self-adoption or semiadoption. That’s when people feed the dogs in their neighborhood and in that way domesticate them. As you can imagine, one must adapt or perish. Just think, dogs were the very first animals to be domesticated by humans thousands of years ago. Isn’t it a paradox that today humans are doing the same again? However, this isn’t the solution either, because, as you know, my lot tends to multiply rather quickly, which is an issue I’ll take up a bit later. Suddenly there are too many dogs on the streets, and nobody can feed them. And then, as a result, we become hungry—and angry. In other words, by behaving carelessly we make our own lives more difficult.
Do you see how this issue is getting more and more complicated?
You’ve most certainly met the kind of dog who passes you by, looking indifferent or very busy, although I can’t think with what. You know, the kind who deliberately avoids even eye contact with you humans. Those wretched creatures are making an effort to maintain their pride, even if—regrettably—they know they live off humans and always have done. Nowadays, I’m sorry to say, most dogs you meet in the streets of Bucharest bark at you, and even try to bite you. As I already told you, the statistics you quoted at the beginning are true. What was that? One of your friends here had such an experience? She told you that one afternoon she was walking home in her rather posh part of town when all of a sudden a dog jumped out from under a car and bit her on the leg? And that she considers herself lucky that it wasn’t a big dog, and that the wound wasn’t serious. Hmm… your friend was indeed fortunate that a solitary dog attacked her, I’d say. Stray dogs usually operate in packs. Your friend was surely aware of that, and therefore did nothing about it, didn’t report the incident to, say, the police. What would police have done? Probably just have laughed at her and told her that they are sometimes attacked themselves. Even today Romanians rarely report such incidents to the police—or any incidents, for that matter. Who trusts the police?
I’m aware that such attacks—such stray dogs—would raise alarm in any other city. A mayor would have to come up with some solution. Not here, not in Bucharest. Not even if children are attacked, which happens more than you might believe. Let me just tell you that besides organized crime and corruption, organized dog attacks are next! Alright, alright, dogs perhaps represent a different kind of danger, but again, it all depends on how you look at it.
You now ask me, How come the same people who got rid of a dictator like Nicolai Ceausescu seem not to be able to deal with dogs? A legitimate question, indeed, and one that I expected. What didn’t occur to you is that perhaps people here don’t want to deal with dogs. In a way, you see, this whole thing is Ceausescu’s legacy, one of many, I might add. How did it all happen? How did he, of all people, let dogs free? Because, as you say, to imagine that he would let anyone free, even dogs, is quite difficult.
See, the street dogs of today are the great-great-grandchildren of the dogs set free in the mideighties, when the old part of central Bucharest was erased from the face of the earth. This is how it all began. And you must be wondering, on the other hand, why a totalitarian regime capable of such destruction, of uprooting tens of thousands of humans, couldn’t have taken radical care of dogs? I suggest that you think about something else, about people who obediently abandoned these noble creatures, their best friends (because we’re talking here about house pets) to life on the street, to the cruel struggle of survival. Doesn’t that tell you something about those who didn’t have the courage to defend their own homes?
Ah, blessed times, when you could blame Ceausescu for everything, I say in retrospect. At least we dogs weren’t responsible for our situation.
You can tell that I’m still bitter about the whole thing. Why? Because of my mother. Mimi was a great lady. We are black poodles, with a fine pedigree. However, after that event it was unimportant who was who; class differences were forsaken because street life imposed another kind of hierarchy. The strongest, not the cleverest, ruled the rest. Homo homini lupus, you say to describe such a situation. But I would rather say: canus cani homo!
I hadn’t been born when the big eviction happened—it’s called resettlement nowadays. But my mother was, and she told me about it. I had the great fortune of living with her in the same household at a tender age (until Martin came along and picked me up) and so I learned my history, which today, regrettably, has been forgotten among my lot—as well yours, I’d say. These young idiots think that it’s always been this way, that dogs are born and die in the streets and not, say, in a sixth-floor apartment. They’d have a heart attack if they went in an elevator. Funny, when you think about it; I’ve lived almost all my life in such a place. And imagine them, if you can, in the back of the car going for an excursion at the seaside! Not that many Romanians have a car, but some do. No, these poor souls think that cars are there so that they can hide from people and rain. Simple technology such as radios or TVs are unknown to them. I’d like to know what they’d think of an airplane. I flew in one once; those were the days! I still can recall the taste of a biscuit my companion got with a cup of tea and gave to me, naturally. There’s something about flying ten thousand meters above the earth looking through a window at white clouds and chewing a biscuit.
Sorry, I got carried away again.
At that time, before everything went to the dogs, as they say, we dogs were still mostly living with humans, as is the case in every normal country. In their homes and gardens, even in apartment buildings in tiny apartments. Not all of us were in equal situations, because, to paraphrase George Orwell, a writer whom I admire, “we are all equal, but some are more equal.” But all of us had a minimum, a roof over our heads and a piece of bread, a bite of… well, at least mamaliga, a kind of polenta, you know. In my long life I’ve learned that security is what matters most, both to dogs and to humans. One can witness that now, in this period of total insecurity.
And let me tell you something else—and I’m aware that I run the risk of being judged as pro-Communist, which is foolish—we all worked! It might sound strange with all these unemployed youths on the streets to whom “work” has no meaning. What do they do? Do they hunt? Do they guard homes and defend them from burglars? Do they announce visitors? Are they employed by the police to chase criminals and sniff out smuggled drugs? Do they perhaps lead blind people through the streets of Bucharest? Or do they provide love and comfort to their cohabitants? Comparatively very few do that today. No, they live in gangs, catch rats, eat rubbish, bite children, and beg. Some end up in laboratories as well. The good news for us is that there aren’t many scientific experiments going on today in Romania!