You can tell a lot about a society by how they treat strays. Some hide them from sight like they are a plague, scooping them up and putting them down. Others ignore them, as they run dangerous and wild - or just a tangle of innocent fur looking for warmth. Here, the dogs are vaccinated - tagged in order to know they are healthy and if needed, to track the problem cases.
When I came in December for my first vaccine shot, there was a ragged troop of them near the hotel. The ringleader, half-shepherd with a great low bark, a tiny one more yap than bite and their goofy sidekicks. I found myself standing on the corner, watching them as they berated cars for slowing down or unthinkably stopping near them. The ringleader would go for the tires, his mouth around the wheel well as the car pulled away. They were a tight crew, and could have been a pretty good band if you bought them some instruments. When I passed them, they rested their chins on the sidewalk and let me pass without a sound. I thought of them as some random judge and jury of character, with their own perspective on the world that marches past them.
Back in Moscow, I think of the strays that follow you down the street, with great sad eyes looking for something to eat and at the same time, shying away if you stop, as if they were beaten by someone the day before and expected it to happen again. I think of them sleeping on street grates where the steam and heat exhaust blooms in great clouds on cold days, their faces wet and cold, completely silent.
In Redhook, the strays had been inbreeding for so long that they had created an entire society of mixed breeds, old slack nipples dragging across the cobblestones, ears ripped and torn from fighting, barking at cars that had been set on fire, waddling more than walking thanks to some dachshund that got into the mix some time ago. They were fast, waiting for some stray scrap to fall to the ground as you ate lunch, swallowing it in one bite, not taking it under a tree to savor, waiting for the next one to fall. We tossed the heels of chicken parm sandwiches to them sometimes, already full.
But here, most of the dogs seem almost kind. Maybe that is my wishful imagination, a desperate thought that I hold on to, a life preserver. They do not beg. They wander. They take long naps in the afternoon sun. They all need a good rain to wash the grit from every molecule of their wild fur.
If karma is real, I think it would be alright to come back as one of them.
So true
Our little seaside village in Pioppi has its own "public" stray, Brando. microchipped, vaccinated, happily free, he belongs to no-one, and yet everyone belongs to him. https://www.instagram.com/p/BWA_nU8jtZy/