“Someone is likely looking for him, so don’t count on
keeping this dog, Tana!”
“Sure, Dad, but I couldn’t let him out there on the street
to be run by a car”
I could hear hope in my father’s words, who didn’t want
another dog, and having seen me heartbroken after Mushi’s death, reluctantly
accepted this new fluffy animal in his home. Three adults and a dog sharing a
one-bedroom apartment was a challenge and one had to find more room in his or
her heart than in their living space to accommodate another creature.
So Dad found a piece of rope, placed it around the neck of new
housemate, and took him for a walk. Mrs. Tudor, a lively old grandma’ who lived
two floors below, saw Dad and the dog walking together, and ran upstairs to my
stepmom, Eliza, folded in two with laughter: “What happened to Mr. Saler?” she
exclaimed between fits of laughter. “He has been captured by another dog, hasn’t
he?” (A couple of weeks later, Mrs. Tudor ended up at the other end of the
pointing finger, when her grandson brought a red Irish Setter to her home, a
dog who immediately proceeded to eat homemade French Crepes from her hand and steal
her heart)
The new dog was ill with respiratory problems, every now and
then stopping and coughing, his tiny body caught in convulsions fighting
something inside him, probably infection and mucus that bothered his breathing.
His nose was warm and dry, and never became the cold, wet nose that is the
staple of a vital dog. My father’s wish was half fulfilled: we discovered the
dog’s previous human, a woman who lived in a private home right across from our
building. When she saw my parents and I walk with our new canine companion down
the street, she stopped us to exclaim that this used to be her dog, and told us
how she had bathed him, then she left him outside in her fenced yard, to dry.
It was too cold for him on that chilly October day, and he became ill. She then
left the gate open for him to leave if he wanted to, so he did. The woman
proceeded to assure us that she did not want the dog back, and we were welcome
to keep him. My father resigned to the news, and I was appalled at the woman’s
cruelty and complete lack of care and responsibility for the dog, and at the
same time, I was relieved to keep him.
The dog looked much like a Puli, the Hungarian sheep dog,
and since his coat was gray, the Romanian word for gray being ‘gri’ (pronounced
gree), our family’s collective dog naming brainstorming session produced the
name Grizzly.
He had a name, and he was ours. We bought the collar and the
leash, took him to the vet, nursed him back to health and we were again an
extended dog-blessed family. Dad proceeded to train him to walk leash off, and
Grizzly walked leisurely with either of us, but unlike Mushi, who was happy to
walk with anyone who invited him, Grizzly refused to walk with strangers, and
glued his behind to the ground until one of his own pack would take over the
leash. Also unlike Mushi, whose rage fits threatened his pack members, but he
was always sweet to strangers, Grizzly was never aggressive towards me, my
father or my stepmother, but territorial to strangers. He had earned a good home,
he was going to defend it, and he would take no prisoners! A young man I
briefly dated who played the violin came to our home to take me out on a date,
and the tiny bear-named and bear-hearted doggy sank his teeth in my friend’s
right hand, the one that holds the bow. Later I dated Cezar, a handsome,
well-dressed young man who sported expensive soft leather boots he had received
as a gift from his mother’s friend in Germany, a real treat in the scarcity-afflicted
place and times we lived in. Cezar was greeted promptly with a growl and a bite
straight into the glove-like leather of his rare boots, and, even though he
elected to continue dating me, as apparently I was well worth the small price
he had paid, during each subsequent date he proceeded to ring the door bell,
then hide in the elevator with the door barely cracked to safely peep through
until I came out alone to join him.
I was upset with Grizzly’s aggression, and lacked any
resources to take charge of his training. I don’t recall training services back
then, nor did I read any dog training books. When it came to dog training, we
were on our own, and we did a less than ideal job of it.
Grizzly travelled with us on our holidays, like Cici had
travelled too, to the seaside and the mountains, and he was an easy travelling
companion (when he wasn’t in his own home, guarding it!). My parents and I
stayed in a ‘zimmer’ – a private home’s room used as hotel – and for a few
coins we would gather meat leftovers for Grizzly from a diner’s helpful
waitress. Dad found it funny to hide away together with Eliza while the dog
walked a few meters ahead, and Grizzly panicked, turned back to look for them,
and when he found them he would bark at them and give them crap for their
behaviour.
Inside me burned a secret that I did not dare to share with
anyone until many years later: I did not, and could not love Grizzly as much as
I loved Mushi. I did not understand why, and had no understanding about grief
and trauma, and I was ashamed of this diminished ability to feel affection for
the dog whose life depended on me. When the time came for me to leave Romania
and immigrate to Israel, I had no difficulty leaving Grizzly behind, in my
parents’ care. I left and haven’t looked back.
Dad and Eliza took good care of the dog until the day they
both fell ill and had to be hospitalized at the same time. They found a loving
family, a mother, father, and a daughter about my age, who happily adopted
Grizzly and made him their own, giving him all the love he deserved until he
died of old age. The family kept in touch with my parents, calling every time the
doggy did something they found funny and remarkable, which was quite often; and
then my parents would tell me all about it in detailed letters, which made me
smile.
 |
| Grizzly with his new guardian |
Six years after my immigration to Israel, I visited Romania,
in 1991, and I met with Grizzly and his new family. Nothing in his behaviour
indicated that he remembered me, and given the emotional numbness that I had
when he was mine, I would not be surprised to know that he never cared too much
about me either. He was clearly happy and loved with his new family, and that
was that.
 |
| Grizzly with Tana, Dad, Eliza and new guardian Mom |
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