I would have readily invited Mushi to sleep in bed with me
and cuddle – as he was a cuddly pup, if Dad would not have decided to impose
some strict rules about him: the dog was to not be allowed in either Dad’s and
Eliza’s bedroom, nor in my room, but he was to sleep alone in the corridor,
both room doors closed. My heart felt heavy and sinking to what I considered a both
cruel and unnecessary rule which caused my new little friend to go to sleep
while crying for company, a young pack animal having to pass the night away
from his pack members. It was January in the cold Romanian winter, and Mushi
was sleeping in the cool air draft flowing from underneath both doors.
My father clearly did not want this dog, and acted with
resentments towards him and me, saying things like: “Of course we can’t afford
this or that item, because we just spent all these hundreds for a dog!”
It wasn’t long before Mushi fell ill, his appetite
diminished, and his coat turned from shiny and wavy to dull and frizzy. We took
him to the vet and discovered that he had been poisoned, licking pesticides off
the walls, which had been treated against cockroaches. The vet prescribed his
care and urged us to wash our walls with water and soap, and warned us that
Mushi’s development would be delayed due to the neurotoxin in the pesticide. I
was sad and mostly angry at my father as I regarded my dog’s misfortune as somehow
correlated with the hostile reception he received at home. “He was unwanted!” I
exclaimed, face red and wet with tears, “Look what became of him, he came to us
so well and healthy, and look at him now!”
The bedroom ban was lifted and Mushi got nursed to health in
bed and everywhere else. He conquered Eliza’s heart in no time, and maybe my
father’s heart too, as much as my Dad’s heart was up for takes. And then one
day his coat was wavy and shiny again, and his appetite returned. I celebrated!
I loved this dog so much, and was so connected to him, that
I counted him in my activities, my plans and my daydreaming fantasies. I took
Mushi with me to visit the rehearsals of the choir I sang in, and friends came
to my home purposefully to visit him. And he would proceed to steal everyone’s
heart, one after the other, so when I’d meet a friend, they’d first ask me:
“How is Mushi doing?” before asking about me.
Mushi was friendly to everybody, and he was the sweetest pup
indeed, with an unusual exception: when offered a treat, his eyes would lose
focus, become glazed, and he would jump over his cookie with his front legs,
cover it, and guard it with loud and aggressive growls. He would go on and on
in this crazy trans, and I could only snap him out of it by showing him the
leash and mentioning a walk. Then he would come back to his sweet puppy self,
as if nothing has happened, and life went on. Later I found that male Cocker
Spaniels have this genetic disease referred to as Rage Syndrome, apparently
with no known cure.
I took Mushi for walks to a small patch of grass at the
intersection of four narrow streets, right across a busy road from our
apartment building. When other dogs joined us, I would remove his leash so he
could play and run, and it would take me quite some effort getting the leash
back on him. One man who walked with his brown-patched German Pointer used to
laugh at me, imitating my ineffective attempts at getting Mushi to respond to
my commands. He’d make a high pitched voice and say: “Oh, Mushi, would you
consider the possibility of maybe coming to me if it’s not too much trouble,
whenever you have a moment?” I laughed along with this man, as he did capture
the essence of my approach.
Until the day I didn’t laugh again.
A German Shepherd was released to the grass park and I let
go of Mushi’s leash to encourage him to play. Mushi was now ten months old, and
the big dog was too much for him, so he ran away. He headed home, with me
running after him and screaming, calling his name; he did not make it to the
other side of the road. A truck hit him and killed him on the spot.
I had a shock and after an intense feeling of terror
gripping my insides like a cold claw, I bled what looked like menstrual
bleeding, but was not, it was my body’s response to the traumatic death of my
dog.
I grieved Mushi and cried with Eliza in each other’s arms,
her confessing me that she had not imagined that a dog’s death could hurt so
much. Wherever I went the streets were filled with Cocker Spaniels, and I
missed my little Mushi so much, and the guilt and regrets haunted me for a long
time. I then began to value the importance of leadership and training in dog
care, and teaching your dog to come to you when called as if his life depends
on it, because it does.
One cloudy day in October 1984 a small grey dog with long,
wavy hair was roaming the street, the same street where Mushi was killed,
looking for food, sniffing and licking an ice-cream wrapping that somebody had
dropped on the ground. He had no collar but he didn’t look like a stray dog, he
looked clean and groomed.
Seeing this little dog on the street, something snapped in
my head and I told myself: “Oh my god, this dog will be killed by a car!”. I
took him away from his ice-cream wrapper, well aware that he might bite me for
it, and in spite of his growling protests, I took him in my arms, went home to
my parents, and presented the dog to them.
We named the dog Grizzly.
(To be continued)
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