Translated by Paul Lazarus
Recently I saw four poodle puppies (the dog walker barely had the Napoleonic quad on a leash) madly yapping at a huge Rottweiler. It’s the only time in my life I can remember a look of total confusion on a big dog’s face. If a dog can go blank- this was what was happening.
Somewhere inside this cur’s brain a thought was taking shape, that he needed to put this quartet in their place - all four could have easily fit in his mouth - but in this situation, no response is often a wiser decision. The Rottweiler tailed behind his master while the musketeers continued to squeal proudly, and took turns marking a Mercedes S-Class wheel. Well, the bottom of the wheel. The non-plussed dog reminded me of another member of his breed and a story about respecting your elders in the canine world.
Back in the 90s, my friend Vitya, who we nicknamed Sylvester - don’t ask, had a dog he called Rambo (stress on the first syllable). However, this pooch had the qualities of the disturbed Viet Nam Vet about as much as the famous French poet (stress on the last syllable). A mature mutt about the size of a spaniel, with a look that was sad, brave and cunning all at the same time. I once saw eyes like that on a lifer who had already done ten years. Fate put us on opposite sides of the bars in the same jail.
Like the prisoner I had faced, Rambo was top dog. He walked free - off his leash - sometimes dug up the back yard looking for misplaced bones, and of course, became an utter softy when Mom paid any attention to him - Sylvester’s mom, of course. Dogs always know who the real boss of the house is. Apart from Rambo, there was also a cat in the house. Rambo did not exist to the cat - what do you want from a feline named Cunnegonde? The household menagerie lived in complete harmony until one fateful day.
A baby Rottweiler was brought to the apartment with a big to-do. The name of this little aristocrat was powerful and scary - Jafar. Jafar’s position in society was the exact opposite of his illustrious name. The hierarchy of the animal kingdom in this apartment was: the cat, the mutt, flies, mosquitoes, Jafar. He ate last and slept where he was allowed. Rambo, when so moved, gave Jafar a tired, “been there, done that” look, the cat took no notice of him at all. Needless to say, the Rottweiler pup understood his place, and when my friend tossed him a piece of juicy sausage, swallowing drool with tears, he sat near the temptation and waited for Rambo to come and eat his part... or everything. Depending totally on luck and Rambo’s pleasure.
Two years passed, Jafar evolved. He became a murder machine. Huge, powerful, with a bull neck and a deathlike stare, he terrified all the neighbors and the neighbor’s dogs.
But at home, nothing changed. Puny Rambo, was still the first and only to enter the kitchen, and huge Jafar, who could barely squeeze himself into the hallway, stayed put just outside the door. And if his muzzle crossed the line into the kitchen (because he couldn’t fit his whole body into the hallway), Rambo returned the young Goliath to his initial position with just a look. When finally, the King had finished his meal and exited the kitchen, Jafar rushed in with a joyful crash. He looked like the Terminator, running a 100-yard hurdle, but smashing through the barriers, not jumping over them. Sometimes, the cat got under his feet followed by loud screeching and hissing. Putting on his best apology face, Jafar pleaded: “Excusez-moi Madame! Didn’t notice you.” “Madame” Cunnegonde devised a sophisticated revenge. She sat on a chair, and when Jafar passed by, she snuck her paw through the space between the back and the seat, scratched the monster hard and instantly struck a normal pose. Desperately, Jafar did his best to hide the pain and astonishment.
This threesome provided endless entertainment but my old pal prepared a special show just for me. We went for a walk. Royal Rambo, per normal, without a collar, Jafar on a double "anchor" chain. As soon as we got outside, Rambo disappeared.
- Where’s he going?
- Hold on a sec, you’ll see!
In less than two minutes we heard a chorus of barking and low growls. Even I recognized Rambo’s voice. Jafar pulled on the leash hard. Sylvester and I tried valiantly to prevent the chase but to no effect. Soon, we were trailing Jafar, doing our best not to let go of his chain. Rounding the corner onto the new street, we saw Rambo surrounded by three scrawny strays, keeping them at bay with a violent basso profundo.
The pack surrounding him were smugly figuring on where to attack: the chances for the old, small dog appeared slim to miserable.
But. This world is ruled by respect. By the way, despite the speed of what was developing, I saw full confidence in Rambo’s eyes, he seemed to know where all this was heading.
Only later did I figure out that everything was rehearsed. At the moment where the three feral dogs started biting Rambo, Jafar broke into the circle hell bent for leather. From the moment they heard the roar emanating from his eerie, foaming mouth, the trio of mongrel’s ears sank. The one that had his teeth into Rambo yelped, and all three took off running. Rambo didn’t even budge. Jafar, with teenage pride looked at his senior compadre, but he didn’t really look at him, just started exploring the conquered territory.
Sylvester, the owner of this gang told me that the whole affaire de chiens was a staged trick. Rambo charged ahead, started the fuss and then called for the artillery. And, if not for the anchor chain, everything would end up in a complete massacre. Each promenade, Rambo ran further and further, conquering new territories. Jafar was gaining power, and soon the dynamic duo would dominate the whole neighborhood.
Rambo was getting tired, decrepit and couldn’t run much more than ten or fifteen yards, but until the end of his days Jafar looked at his ancient boss with fear and respect. He ate and breathed by Rambo’s command, and was happy that he knew his place. That place was just beneath the old cur and the cat, and just slightly above the rest of the world.
The day Rambo died, Jafar instantly grew up. In his eyes, you could see the adult but no longer any careless joy.
A dignified and inevitable sacrifice.
Somewhere inside this cur’s brain a thought was taking shape, that he needed to put this quartet in their place - all four could have easily fit in his mouth - but in this situation, no response is often a wiser decision. The Rottweiler tailed behind his master while the musketeers continued to squeal proudly, and took turns marking a Mercedes S-Class wheel. Well, the bottom of the wheel. The non-plussed dog reminded me of another member of his breed and a story about respecting your elders in the canine world.
Back in the 90s, my friend Vitya, who we nicknamed Sylvester - don’t ask, had a dog he called Rambo (stress on the first syllable). However, this pooch had the qualities of the disturbed Viet Nam Vet about as much as the famous French poet (stress on the last syllable). A mature mutt about the size of a spaniel, with a look that was sad, brave and cunning all at the same time. I once saw eyes like that on a lifer who had already done ten years. Fate put us on opposite sides of the bars in the same jail.
Like the prisoner I had faced, Rambo was top dog. He walked free - off his leash - sometimes dug up the back yard looking for misplaced bones, and of course, became an utter softy when Mom paid any attention to him - Sylvester’s mom, of course. Dogs always know who the real boss of the house is. Apart from Rambo, there was also a cat in the house. Rambo did not exist to the cat - what do you want from a feline named Cunnegonde? The household menagerie lived in complete harmony until one fateful day.
A baby Rottweiler was brought to the apartment with a big to-do. The name of this little aristocrat was powerful and scary - Jafar. Jafar’s position in society was the exact opposite of his illustrious name. The hierarchy of the animal kingdom in this apartment was: the cat, the mutt, flies, mosquitoes, Jafar. He ate last and slept where he was allowed. Rambo, when so moved, gave Jafar a tired, “been there, done that” look, the cat took no notice of him at all. Needless to say, the Rottweiler pup understood his place, and when my friend tossed him a piece of juicy sausage, swallowing drool with tears, he sat near the temptation and waited for Rambo to come and eat his part... or everything. Depending totally on luck and Rambo’s pleasure.
Two years passed, Jafar evolved. He became a murder machine. Huge, powerful, with a bull neck and a deathlike stare, he terrified all the neighbors and the neighbor’s dogs.
But at home, nothing changed. Puny Rambo, was still the first and only to enter the kitchen, and huge Jafar, who could barely squeeze himself into the hallway, stayed put just outside the door. And if his muzzle crossed the line into the kitchen (because he couldn’t fit his whole body into the hallway), Rambo returned the young Goliath to his initial position with just a look. When finally, the King had finished his meal and exited the kitchen, Jafar rushed in with a joyful crash. He looked like the Terminator, running a 100-yard hurdle, but smashing through the barriers, not jumping over them. Sometimes, the cat got under his feet followed by loud screeching and hissing. Putting on his best apology face, Jafar pleaded: “Excusez-moi Madame! Didn’t notice you.” “Madame” Cunnegonde devised a sophisticated revenge. She sat on a chair, and when Jafar passed by, she snuck her paw through the space between the back and the seat, scratched the monster hard and instantly struck a normal pose. Desperately, Jafar did his best to hide the pain and astonishment.
This threesome provided endless entertainment but my old pal prepared a special show just for me. We went for a walk. Royal Rambo, per normal, without a collar, Jafar on a double "anchor" chain. As soon as we got outside, Rambo disappeared.
- Where’s he going?
- Hold on a sec, you’ll see!
In less than two minutes we heard a chorus of barking and low growls. Even I recognized Rambo’s voice. Jafar pulled on the leash hard. Sylvester and I tried valiantly to prevent the chase but to no effect. Soon, we were trailing Jafar, doing our best not to let go of his chain. Rounding the corner onto the new street, we saw Rambo surrounded by three scrawny strays, keeping them at bay with a violent basso profundo.
The pack surrounding him were smugly figuring on where to attack: the chances for the old, small dog appeared slim to miserable.
But. This world is ruled by respect. By the way, despite the speed of what was developing, I saw full confidence in Rambo’s eyes, he seemed to know where all this was heading.
Only later did I figure out that everything was rehearsed. At the moment where the three feral dogs started biting Rambo, Jafar broke into the circle hell bent for leather. From the moment they heard the roar emanating from his eerie, foaming mouth, the trio of mongrel’s ears sank. The one that had his teeth into Rambo yelped, and all three took off running. Rambo didn’t even budge. Jafar, with teenage pride looked at his senior compadre, but he didn’t really look at him, just started exploring the conquered territory.
Sylvester, the owner of this gang told me that the whole affaire de chiens was a staged trick. Rambo charged ahead, started the fuss and then called for the artillery. And, if not for the anchor chain, everything would end up in a complete massacre. Each promenade, Rambo ran further and further, conquering new territories. Jafar was gaining power, and soon the dynamic duo would dominate the whole neighborhood.
Rambo was getting tired, decrepit and couldn’t run much more than ten or fifteen yards, but until the end of his days Jafar looked at his ancient boss with fear and respect. He ate and breathed by Rambo’s command, and was happy that he knew his place. That place was just beneath the old cur and the cat, and just slightly above the rest of the world.
The day Rambo died, Jafar instantly grew up. In his eyes, you could see the adult but no longer any careless joy.
A dignified and inevitable sacrifice.