From Russia with Love

Manushka Moya (my manushka) - An Introduction to Russian Canine Lifestyle

I remember on the flight over, somewhere between Amsterdam and Copenhagen, I began to wonder what the dogs in Russia would be like. This may seem like a mundane detail to most, but during my travels in Europe, I was taken aback at how well behaved the dogs were, often laying calmly, relaxed at their masters’ feet on the patio of a cafe, patiently sitting on their hind-quarters taking in the view of passers-bye as their homo-sapien companions leisurely chatted with acquantances on the street. I was used to American canines – loud, vivacious, sometimes annoying – similar to a five year-old on aderole, only with more hair. When I saw how the dogs of Amsterdam carried themselves, I was convinced their owners simple got them high before taking them out, but my experience in Berlin, where dogs quietly ride the subway with their masters, proved to me that European dogs are just generally better behaved. Somewhere around 30,000 meters, I started to wonder if Russian dogs would bear any similarity to their European cousins.
I was very surprised to learn that the Russian government goes to great lengths to take care of its canine citizens. They are indeed CITIZENS. Upon recieving the mandatory vacinations, Russian dogs are actually issued a passport and registered with the state! (I have yet to find the State Ministry for Animals’ Rights and Control on any of my maps, but I’m still looking). I was happy to learn that the Russian government cares for its four-legged citizens, although given the status its upright nationals, I was a little appauled (Tatiana Nikolaevna recieves 100 rubles a month from the state. They call this a ‘pension’ although I still don’t understand how anyone could survive on such an allowance – 100 rubles equals about $3.33. She can barely pay for groceries, but at least her dog has a passport!). It wasn’t until I wandered the streets of Moscow that I realized why such measures are taken to register dogs; wild muts are omnipresent. On the streets, in the open-air markets, outside the metro stops, inside the stations themselves (where the collected body heat of muscovites provides the pups with a respite from the frigide concrete and stone of the Moscow streets)! Apparently the idea of spaying and neutering dogs has yet to become vogue in Russia. As a result, the wild dogs of Moscow seem to all come from the same family; they’re all some combination on German Shepherd and Dovermann, only they come in all shapes and sizes. Their coats are all coarse (no doubt form malnutritian) and have a brown to black/grey color scheme. I still haven’t decided if this is a result of their geneology or Moscow’s horrible pollution (I’ve been told it is 50 times worse than what the World Health Organization recommends).
The packs of wild dogs are peaceful for the most part; I have yet to see anyone attacked or accosted by them, although vacinations against hydrophobia are required for all visitors to Russia. For the most part, the muts occupy squares and metro entrances in groups of 2-4 and generally nap, conserving their energy, on their sides. I’ve passed many wondering if they’re dead or alive; the masses of pedestrians always rushing to and fro don’t seem to bother them. The only thing that rouses them is the unexpected chime of metal on the cement, which stirs their instincts of self preservation and causes them to jump to their four feet and scramble away. More often than not, they meander around the square until a few square feet of space presents itself, and they plop down for another nap.

I often pity the homeless canines, but it’s comforting to know that not all four-legged Muscovites are as unfortunate. Tatiana Nikolaevna’s dog, Manon, has hitherto served as my primary cultural informant on the life and personality of Russian dogs. Manon, 14 (human) years-old, was named after a prostitute of French Opera. (Tatiana Nikolaevna assures me that the Manon of the stage wasn’t a mere ‘prostitute’ but a ‘lady of the higher classes’ – a cortisan of society’s wealthiest and most cultured. This was, by the way, one of Tatiana Nikolaevna’s more interesting lectures on Russian vocabulary; for some reason, we never covered the various levels and coresponding social statuses of prostitues in any of my three years of Russian language instruction). Manon has definitely acquired the aires of her namesake; her strut would surely turn heads on the streets of Moscow. That is, if she were ever allowed outside. Manon is a house dog, but not in the American sense. She is fully domesticated, to the point of being house-trained (a skill I always thought too complicated for dogs to acquire).
As a result of her in-house WC and generally dismissive manner, I’ve come to see Manon as a rare hybrid of dog and cat. She is, without a doubt, the mistress of the house, enjoying full and unquestioned reign. Also catlike is her ability to make one feel completely stupid and worthless, often walking off in the middle of a conversation because it fails to keep her interest. Nonetheless, her doglike nature always shines through. She is always sure to announce the comings and goings of all inhabitants and visitors to our apartment with her shrill bark (after a few choruses of this, Manon’s favorite tune, Tatiana Nikolaevna assures her that we can all hear her, we’re all paying attention to her and she can quiet down. This rarely works, and Tatiana Nikolaevna is forced to use a more forceful tone of voice, “Man! Quiet! Iti’s enough! Quiet! Man! Why all the time ‘GAF GAF GAF’!?? STOP!” It is of interest to note that dogs don’t bark in Russian, they gaf.). I’m still not sure if Manon’s coarse greeting is really a cry for attention or a result of her bad eye-sight (she is, after all, pushing 100 in dog years), but either way, it’s comforting. When she finally does quiet down after I get home, she always expects a hearty scratch or two behind the ear. I like to think of it as a sort of entrance fee that she charges all guests; I always pay willingly.
Dinnertime is the height of her cat/dog hybrid self. Without fail, she always sits herself down right next to my stool and makes puppy-dog eyes at me, hoping I’ll share some of my evening meal with her. She isn’t too forceful in the beginning, mostly because Tatiana Nikolaevna is still in the kitchen, promising Manushka her dinner after I’ve been served. After seving Manon’s meal of dried dog food, Tatiana always wishes me Bon Appetit and retires to her room so as to “not bother me while I’m eating.” Manon follows her mother to the threshhold of the kitchen and watches long enough to make sure Tatiana is gone before returning to me at the table and kicking herself into full-on begging mode. This includes, but is not limited to, whimpering, restlessness (manifested in her inability to decide whether it’s better to wait for my generosity on all fours or by sitting on her hind legs), and constantly pitter-pattering her front legs on the lynoleum, demanding I feed her despite the fact that her dry food has gone untouched. I am always amazed at how such an architypical canine pasttime as begging for food is manipulated by her cat-nature into a feeling of entitlement on her part. A guest in her house, I always feel as though I’m doing something wrong by not feeding her; as though it were assumed that, like her petting fee for entry, I’m required to share my dinner with her. Her eyes always tell me, “It IS the polite thing to do!”
Usually her wish is granted, sometimes out of guilt, sometimes because Tatiana Nikolaevna specifically gives me permission, but more often than not, because I need help finishing my meal (sometimes because I’m served too much, sometimes because of the night’s menu. Manon, to her credit, was instrument in my ability to finish the fish jello).
A combination of Manon’s attitude and the behavior of dogs on the street has lead me to conclude that Russian dogs are in fact very similar to those in the Western Hemisphere. Whether it be Manon’s run of the house or the unavoidable master dragged behind his best friend on a walk around the block; the similarities generally succeed in making me feel more at home.

posted by Misha Molodoi @ 1:10 PM