Jack and Gray

His name was Jack. For some unknown reason the Russians tend to give their dogs English names. Not to spite the English or anything. It’s just that English names – pronounced in the Russian way – sound so exotic and romantic-like and appeal to the Russians. Among the most popular names for Russian dogs are Dick, Ray, Jim (never John, it would sound vulgar) for males and Bertha, Julia, Martha for bitches.

Jack was a typical and – indisputably – an excellent representative of a breed known as the Moscow Watchdog. The creators of this breed wished to combine the huge size and good-natured manners of a Saint Bernard (once used in the Alps for saving snow-bound travelers) with the ferocity of a Caucasian sheepdog (a somewhat smaller but extremely ferocious and independent animal whose favorite pursuit is killing wolves. ) The creators of the breed did not quite succeed in their scheme for the breed is not characterized by uniformity of appearance. Some Moscow Watchdogs are red, others are white, some are snub-nosed, flabby-cheeked and have sagging eye-lids like Saint Bernards, others hardly differ from true Caucasians. Besides, there is still a genetic snag in this new breed, due to which some “Muscovites” are fairly weak, especially in the hind legs. However, good specimens are an admirable sight. And Jack was one of them. He was not huge like many of his breed are. Some weigh up to 140 kilos. Jack was just big and weighed about half of it. He had a long body and when he sat he looked quite impressive. He had a big noble head and long black ears. A white strip ran between his ears down to the muzzle. He was snow white with golden patches on his sides. On his left side the patch looked like a butterfly. In short, he was a beauty. And in his behavior and manners he was an epitome of nobility. Please don’t laugh. Few human beings are so endowed with generosity and dignity as the dog Jack was.

When we first took him home he was a three months old puppy. His former master didn’t have any special feelings for him. All days long he spent inside a small enclosure with nothing to eat except a tin of filthy cold porridge. In our new place he was just as sad and didn’t run about a lot as one would expect of a little puppy. It didn’t occur to me just then that he might be ill. Indeed he was. It was worms. It took me a lot of time, money and effort to cure him. He started to grow. First he looked like a little pig. The powerful paws, however, promised a big dog. He grew into a fine animal. He was especially fond of our children, little Dasha above all. The kids did to him whatever they liked. If I happened to scold my children, Jack began to bark as if telling me not to offend the little ones. If I made a movement suggestive of spanking, Jack would rush at the enclosure net as if saying “Leave the kids alone. I won’t stand your being so unkind to them”. He was very noble, Jack was. And very intelligent, too. He learned very quickly all the tricks and commands a normal dog is supposed to know and even a lot more. If I told him to sit he would sit down and remain sitting unless I told him to move. He used to listen to me as I talked to him about the daily occurrences. Of course, he didn’t understand the message of my monologues but he understood the TONE. He knew I was communicating with him and he was grateful for being trusted. His trust in me was infinite. To him I was the Lord and Master, well-nigh a God. His was to love and defend me. This he did with all the generosity that was in his heart. Truly, he was a true Moscow Watchdog. Gentle with children, he was a dangerous aggressor with strangers which I witnessed more than once. In the street as people came close to me he would rush at them without warning. Keep clear of my Master! He must be in safety! I could hardly hold him back.

Dog diseases are as many as men’s. But dogs don’t complain, and we seldom know when they are unwell. All dogs are liable to the disease known as “canine plague” and commonly called almost tenderly “distemper”. Very few of the canine race escape it. It is caused by ultra small viruses, so really small that not all modern electronic microscopes can detect them. Jack fell ill. Things went with him from bad to worse and from worse to awful. I spent a great deal of money on medicines. They cost twice as much as the dog himself. But who would grudge money for a friend?

Jack did survive, but became an invalid. His mouth watered all the time and there were discharges from his eyes. He was shaking. And he started having fits of epilepsy. All of a sudden, he would fall on the ground and begin to twist and squirm in pain. His bulging eyes would look unrecognizingly at me. Sometimes I thought that if only I had a pistol I would have shot him dead there and then to end his (and my) sufferings.

It had to be done sooner or later. The decision was not an easy one. I gave him the very best food we had in the home and off we went to the vet station. He limps along by my side. The faithful creature. ... He has no idea what awaits him so soon.

Here is the cage. It is long and narrow. No turning is possible here. No animal of any degree of intelligence (to say nothing of Jack’s) would think of coming inside. “Go in, Jack!’- I say and urge him in. He knows it’s no good. But it is the Master’s command. The beloved Master’s. “How can I possibly disobey or disbelieve you” - his eyes tell. He comes inside unwillingly but dutifully. I walk away quickly. Two piercing desperate shrieks (which I will not forget to my dying day) full of pain and surprise rip the air. And that was the end of my poor Jack... I squatted down and cried. Jack, my dear Jack! What have I done to you! Please forgive me! P l e a s e !!! ...................................

On the following day, we had a new puppy in the home. The main reason why he appeared was my attempt to forget the previous dog. The newcomer was a purebred Caucasian sheepdog. We named him Gray. Firstly, because he is really gray. And secondly because his father’s name was Ray. Excuse the pun but the most typical feature of this dog seems to be doggedness. Like any living being from the Caucasus (remember the Chechens) he boasts extreme independence, self-will and obstinacy. I had spotted him well before he was born. One day at some dog show I sighted a fine dog I could not take my eyes off. I stood enchanted, unable to walk away. There were many other good dogs at the show but that one was incomparable. Probing into the future, I can now say what was to come of that chance encounter. That dog was to become my dog’s father. He was planned to mate the best bitch of Russia but shortly before that would be stabbed by allegedly envious human rivals. I didn’t know it when they approached him. In my note book I just scribbled “the lion dog” and the telephone number of the owner. Time went by....

Choosing the pup was no easy job. There were twelve charming furry creatures to choose from. I chose the one that didn’t look like a dog. He was more like a bear cub than anything. His eyes were blue which also attracted me but which as I learned later is considered a fault with Caucasians. To make up for Jack’s fate and to ease the pangs of conscience I didn’t spare anything to the new arrival. He had better food than me. Fresh meat, raw liver, ground chalk (good for bones), cottage cheese, minced carrots, fish and eggs (for the fur), milk and honey , dried sea-weeds and what not! He was growing before our very eyes. Half a kilo a day. An incredible rate of growth! At the age of six months he was a huge fine-looking animal. When I took him out of home cars used to stop and amazed drivers would look out and say: “ Hey, fellow! Who’s that you are holding on the leash? Isn’t he a regular bear?”

At the age of eight months he fell ill. Of course, it was canine plague again. Sluggishness, pus from the eyes, watering mouth, vomiting, refusal to eat. Drugs which I could ill afford. A doctor with a fee to pay. The doctor was a cocksure young gentleman. “He is dangerous ,” - I warned him. “Be careful!”. “You are telling me! Do you think it’s the first dog I am dealing with?” As I was holding Gray on a metal choker, the doctor tried to approach with a syringe in his hand. At the sight of the stranger Gray made a violent dash at him. In vain did I pull the choker trying to hold him back. He appeared (in spite of his disease) much too strong for me. He broke loose. Can you imagine half a center of rabid ferocity? We took to our heels for our dear lives’ sake. The young doctor galloped off with unexpected agility. In a split second the scene was empty. All my attempts to give him a shot of medicine failed. Dog bite you, I told him. Die if you like. For nearly two months he lay almost immobile. He ate very little if at all. I was hand-feeding him with meat mash. Once it fell from his mouth. I held out my hand to pick it up. I can’t afford to lose any meat. Whizz! He dashed at my hand and slashed it open before I knew where I was. “You fucking son of a bitch! What have you done to my hand?!” I raised my leg and tried to kick him. (According to all the books on dogs I had read by way of self-education, the offending dog must be punished immediately and inevitably. Otherwise it will get out of control and stop obeying the master). So, I raised my leg (there was no time to run for a stick). NO GO. The sick Gray rose to his feet. Jokes apart! I knew now that in the wild fighting several wolves at a time was his normal job. I also knew that our relations would never be very warm.

He did pull through. He had lost a good deal of weight. Besides, the disease affected his eyes. And he did not look any longer like a medium-sized bear. But he did overcome the disease which had taken toll of many a dog soul. And that’s what mattered.

In due time, I took him to the dog show. Though he did not look his best he drew everybody’s attention. The referee (an elderly gray-haired lady with папироса [the cheapest paper-tipped cigarette filled with extremely strong tobacco which not all stevedores dare to smoke] ) was delighted. Gray got a gold medal (actually it was an alloy of bronze with something) and a diploma. He is not a bad guy, generally. But once he broke loose, and bit everyone who came to his fang. First of all, a neighbor boy who provoked his escape from the enclosure. And then everybody one by one. Our daughter’s buttocks appealed to him more than anything.

. . . As I am writing these lines, four years have passed since Gray passed away. He was ten years old. At first, I grieved very much. But the vet told me that this is a good lifespan for a dog of this large breed. The doctor’s explanation eased my pain somewhat. Dogs like people come and go. It’s natural like anything...