Yellow and a Little Girl
(For my mother. Because it's today, and because she would like this).
I've been back for a few days, and I notice him immediately. He seems to have adopted the grassy patch below the apartment-building as his turf, at least temporarily. He sleeps there most of the day (which makes me think he's possibly sick), gets up occasionally, and stretches his front legs, and then his hind legs, in a cat-like fashion. Perhaps it's just the heat that slows him down.
Belgrade is full of stray dogs. It must be the European capital of stray dogs, or maybe coming up a close second after Bucharest. Dogs of all sizes, ages, and shapes live on the streets freely, mid-way between their originally wild state, and the more recently acquired domesticated 'man's-best-friend' type of status. They have rediscovered the group dynamics, and often band up into small packs of 4 or 5, but retain friendliness and submission to man. Their daily occupation: barking quasi-ferociously at spinning wheels (on cars, or horse-carriages driven by Gypsies whose settlement is just a couple of streets down), and wagging their tails sociably at any passer-by who looks at them.
My father's apartment being on the first floor, and the kitchen window being always open in the summer, I have an excellent and close view at anything moving or hopping on two or four legs beneath. So I could observe his comings and goings with regularity, even before I named him Yellow. I call him Yellow because, well, it sounds good in Serbian, and because he is the dark-yellow colour of almost-ripe wheat.
The second day I decide it's time to make friends. I tie my hair into a pony-tail high at the back of my head, put on my trainers, grab some change, and run down the stairs and across the street to the grocery store. I buy a small pack of the cheap liver paté and cross the street again to where Yellow is lying on his side underneath our window. I approach silently and crouch. He cracks one eye open and simultaneously starts wagging the tail with minuscule motions. I stroke his forehead, then show him the paté and he perks up immediately, jumping to his feet. He swallows quickly, without too much chewing; when he is done, he licks his lips, and wags the tail some more, this time more energetically. Now we're officially introduced.
On the way back, I practically bounce off the concrete with my rubber-soled steps, my pony-tail swings left and right in a wide inverted arch, and for a moment, I am 5 again. I've just made a furry friend, mom is calling me to scrub my hands clean, and the world is a big sunny place waiting for me.
I've been back for a few days, and I notice him immediately. He seems to have adopted the grassy patch below the apartment-building as his turf, at least temporarily. He sleeps there most of the day (which makes me think he's possibly sick), gets up occasionally, and stretches his front legs, and then his hind legs, in a cat-like fashion. Perhaps it's just the heat that slows him down.
Belgrade is full of stray dogs. It must be the European capital of stray dogs, or maybe coming up a close second after Bucharest. Dogs of all sizes, ages, and shapes live on the streets freely, mid-way between their originally wild state, and the more recently acquired domesticated 'man's-best-friend' type of status. They have rediscovered the group dynamics, and often band up into small packs of 4 or 5, but retain friendliness and submission to man. Their daily occupation: barking quasi-ferociously at spinning wheels (on cars, or horse-carriages driven by Gypsies whose settlement is just a couple of streets down), and wagging their tails sociably at any passer-by who looks at them.
My father's apartment being on the first floor, and the kitchen window being always open in the summer, I have an excellent and close view at anything moving or hopping on two or four legs beneath. So I could observe his comings and goings with regularity, even before I named him Yellow. I call him Yellow because, well, it sounds good in Serbian, and because he is the dark-yellow colour of almost-ripe wheat.
The second day I decide it's time to make friends. I tie my hair into a pony-tail high at the back of my head, put on my trainers, grab some change, and run down the stairs and across the street to the grocery store. I buy a small pack of the cheap liver paté and cross the street again to where Yellow is lying on his side underneath our window. I approach silently and crouch. He cracks one eye open and simultaneously starts wagging the tail with minuscule motions. I stroke his forehead, then show him the paté and he perks up immediately, jumping to his feet. He swallows quickly, without too much chewing; when he is done, he licks his lips, and wags the tail some more, this time more energetically. Now we're officially introduced.
On the way back, I practically bounce off the concrete with my rubber-soled steps, my pony-tail swings left and right in a wide inverted arch, and for a moment, I am 5 again. I've just made a furry friend, mom is calling me to scrub my hands clean, and the world is a big sunny place waiting for me.
posted by Tijana | 6:53 AM
2 Comments:
Love it! I totally understand that sense of buoyancy. About a month ago, I was walking home from work, completely absorbed in my own world and I looked straight into the eyes of a little boy in a stroller. He looked at me with an open mouthed laugh, a mischievous look of pure joy as though he wanted to make me smile. I grinned in return and long after I had passed him, my step was lighter, my spirits uplifted, my world. It was magic.
kids are the closest to that supremely independent sort of world, aren't they? kids and animals, maybe... perhaps the "big secret" is how to rediscover and harness that feeling later, when we are older and jaded :-).
love,
t.
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