Only people who have a dog know what a great love this is – the love between a dog and a human.
The savviest of them are also aware of some additional benefits of four-legged pets. Namely – that they could use the dog to score points with attractive individuals of the opposite sex. There's hope of crawling out of even the deepest friendzone if the object of their desire is an incurable dog person.
Take my elder son, for example. When we got Drakon, he announced that he didn't want a dog, that he wasn't going to have anything to do with this dog, and that we shouldn't come to him about it at all. When he's alone with the dog, he shuts his bedroom door tight and starts playing his guitar to drown out the yapping and whimpering of the love-seeking creature.
Right. This very same son, a man of unshakeable principles, happened to walk into my bedroom at 12 at night. Drakon was sleeping peacefully under the bed in question. The dog had only just learnt to sleep under his "parents'" bed rather than in it, so the present silence was a sweet breath of calm air in the middle of an almost non-stop performance of panting with his tongue hanging out, pitiful yapping, whimpering and pooing behind the wardrobe as an act of revenge.
The silence in question was broken by a mysterious figure creeping into the bedroom. A phone torch came on, Drakon's paws were heard. More precisely, you could hear his sleepy little claws scrabbling helplessly at the parquet, trying to put up resistance against the dark force that had grabbed him by the scruff and was dragging him out from under the bed. The dark force growled: "Bro, come on, out you come, I've got a job for you."
The video recording on the dark force's phone switched on and it started singing in a brand-new voice, honeyed now: "My golden sweetheaaart, you're soooo cute, I could just eat you up, you fluffy little rug, you. Sweetheart!" the tone concluded, overflowing with trills of admiration.
Drakon was in a stupor! He'd assumed the "belly-up" position and didn't dare move. His green eyes under his curly fringe were fixed questioningly on mine, while, for the first time in his life, Viktor was lovingly scratching his tummy. Up to now, their standard relationship had boiled down to Viktor training him to walk on two legs for 10 minutes a day, so that he could then sell him to the circus.
The pampering stopped abruptly along with the phone camera. Viktor gave Drakon's fluffy little bottom a kick ("Get lost, bro!") and it sank dejectedly back under the bed.
Hold on! Wait! What was that outpouring of feelings for your "bro"?
Ah, well, a friend of his wanted to see the dog, she had a sooooo cute little puppy and loved animals very much. So there was no way round it, he had to send her a video of Drakon.
"Night, Mum!" Viktor carefully closes the door behind him.
Let's fast forward a few days, during which I become convinced that the dog remains hot bait for meeting people and striking up a chat, and why not something more.
Three-month-old Drakon is already going on holidays. After conquering Bezbog peak in Pirin, Drakon's route heads for the azure waters of Sveti Vlas. I can't wait for the puppy to see the sea, as I've established that he loves every kind of body of water and looks for every possible chance to scamper joyfully about in it.
Drakon lives up to my expectations and even exceeds them, alternating mad sprints into the sea with uncontrolled rolling in the sand and shaking the sand off onto people's towels. The result is a happy dog. But with one drawback – if he usually looks like this,
the alternation of swimming in the sea and rolling in the sand has left him with matted fur and the look of a mangy stray mutt.
Heedless of his scruffy appearance, Drakon shamelessly tries to play with other people's puppies. But their owners would temporarily pause their golden-hour selfie sessions to pull their pets away from ours. I don't blame them; at that moment he looked like this:
Drakon is not a puppy who gets discouraged by a few cold rejections. He is a firm believer in that famous saying whose doggy version goes: "Love like you've never been hurt, poo and pee indoors like you're outside, bark like nobody's listening, and live like heaven is here on earth."
After a few refusals to play, he turned his attention to the next beach-going puppy. His new chosen one was fluffy, with her hair done up in a little plait. I was sure her owner would never let her play with our little gremlin. And I'd have been proved right if, after Drakon, before the eyes of the other puppy's "mother", against the haze over the bay of Sveti Vlas, Emo hadn't emerged from the water, playfully calling out to Drakon not to bother "the pretty little girl".
A little later we found out that the owner's name was Svetlana and the puppy's was Yudit.
When I say a puppy's "mother", it's clear that I'm using the term loosely. But with all the loose terms in this world, "great-grandmother" would have been a more fitting term for Svetlana where Yudit was concerned. My Lyusi, who comes to help me around the house and is 82, looks like a dewy little posy next to Svetlana.
The sight of Emo in flippers, a six-pack and an apologetic smile made Svetlana slightly dizzy.
She got a grip on the situation by clutching the plastic arm of her sun lounger with bony fingers covered in aristocratic rings and moistening her parched lips with her ladylike cocktail. Next to Svetlana was her friend, also Ukrainian, but it was obvious even from a drone that, of the two friends, she wasn't the alpha female.
If we assume we were in a film (and to some extent some of us were), the friend could have won the award for Best Supporting Actress in it. The Oscar for Best Actress was going straight into the hand of Svetlana, which had already been extended gracefully to Emo. At the same time, her once-again-moistened lips, hastily given a fresh coat of raspberry lipstick, were saying:
"Enchantée!" ("Nice to meet you" in French)
Emo feels completely at home even in the most multicultural conversation. It's as clear as day to him that Russian is exactly like Bulgarian, you just have to stick a "ye" into your words wherever the mood takes you. We are Slavic peoples, after all, we share a common linguistic root and we must trust our intuition and our genes!
Emo's intuition correctly told him that "enchantée" is not a Russian word, so he kindly steered the conversation into "Russian".
"Nasha sobaka e oshte byebye."
(For those born in modern times, "sobaka" really does mean "dog" in Russian, whereas the same cannot be said for the rest of the words in the sentence.)
Svetlana blinked through long, uncomprehending lashes.
Some memories from Mrs Mineva's Russian lessons in Year 5 flickered through Emo's memory and he quickly corrected himself:
"Nasha sobaka eshche rebyonok."
After this translating triumph, my husband began picking up speed in his very own brand of Russian:
"Kak imya vasha sobaka?"
"It's 'Kak ego zovut'," I corrected him. I really wanted Svetlana to notice me too, and I mistakenly thought she would finally acknowledge the presence of someone who spoke slightly more intelligible Russian.
"Will you ever stop contradicting me? How does that mouth of yours never shut up!" Emo snapped at me.
Svetlana, having understood what Emo was asking her thanks to me, but still completely ignoring me, explained to him that her puppy was called Yudit, or affectionately Yuditusha/Yuditushenka.
Emo made a gallant introduction of Drakon, who immediately, in his capacity as Emo's dog, was promoted by Svetlana from DrakOn to Drakonushenka.
Emo carried on whirling away in "Russian":
"Nyeka sobachki poigrayut……" Emo wrinkled his nose and hummed, more to himself, the refrain of Gena the Crocodile's song – we are children of socialism, after all:
"A ya igrayu na garmoshke"….. ufffff, "igrayu" in Russian meant "to play an instrument", didn't it. Well, Yudit might just play our boy a tune, ha-ha-ha……
The two dogs had long since been playing, and the conversation between the grown-ups had got going too. I was still clawing for Svetlana's attention, but she pulled a trick on me, one surely tried and tested over the years, namely – she offloaded me onto her friend to chat with.
If you remember – the little woman in the shadows, whose supporting role, in my opinion, had all her life been to distract the objects inconvenient to Svetlana, so that she could pick up their men in peace.
While we two little beta women were chatting, I couldn't help keeping one ear on the alphas' conversation; I just can't help elbowing my way into the "A" league, however much I don't belong there.
"Skolko tebya let (translation – how old are you)?" Svetlana was bathing Emo's body in the shower of her sky-blue gaze.
"Chetyrdesyet syem," Emo replied, perfectly aware that he looks 10 years younger.
I was sure that even though she had lived in Bulgaria for 3 years, Svetlana hadn't bothered to learn what "chetyrdesyet" means, so I made yet another fruitless attempt to get noticed by her through my translating skills.
"Yemu sorok syem."
Svetlana carried on looking straight through me, as if I didn't exist.
I pushed a bit harder:
"A u menya sorok pyat!"
Now there's no way she can't react, now there's no way she can't admire me! On the beach, in a swimsuit, I'm in my strongest position – abs, legs, and over the last year I've worked on my arms too. She can't not gasp! She can't not say – well, that body can't be 45!
Svetlana's response was that of a woman who knows she shouldn't bother with petty, misguided little souls who are obviously suffering from cognitive dissonance if they think they look good for their age. Namely – total ignore!
"Emushenka, a u menya semdesyat dva goda!"
Emo did his best to look as shocked as possible. To be more convincing, he put a hand over his mouth, gaping in fake astonishment.
"Svetusha, eto nevozmozhno! U tebya nai-mnoga pyetdesyat syem!"
I didn't even bother, out of politeness, to hide my surprise that she was only 72, since it was already obvious that I didn't exist for her. But Svetlana deserved to broaden her narrow worldview a little and learn what well-preserved 72-year-old women really look like.
So I resorted to my trump card, my secret weapon – my own mother, who, by sheer coincidence, turned out to be the same age as this randy cougar hungry for tender 47-year-old lamb.
I loaded my mother's Facebook profile and shoved it under Svetlana's nose.
- "A eto moya mama! Ona tozhe 72." (This is my mum, and she's 72 too)
Now, in this photo my mother is actually still 65, but that woman really was starting to get on my nerves, and my mother hasn't changed one bit since then.
Only now did I manage to wring some kind of reaction out of Svetlana, from whose tightened throat there finally broke, with great difficulty:
"Nu, nichego osobennogo" (translation – nothing special)
"Niyka, stop getting under our feet here. How do you manage to steer every possible topic round to YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY! I've had enough of you lot! Go off somewhere and play with the dog, what did I buy him for!" Emo imperiously sends me away, sensing that I've dealt a heavy blow to his new friend's self-esteem.
What followed was 15 minutes in which Drakushenka didn't want to play with me, because he was playing with Yuditushenka, and Emushenka was chit-chatting with Svetushenka. Talking to the other social pariah, Svetlana's friend, was beneath me, so I openly eavesdropped on the conversation in the "A" group.
Svetlana showed Emo photos of her daughter ("krassavitsa like matyer"), who, on top of everything, turned out to be a dog food distributor along the Black Sea coast. Top seller of dog food, she's overfilled her quota, and that takes a lot of brains and talent! If Emushenka wants to buy kibble for DrakOn (Russian speakers put the stress on the "o") at 50% off, here's the doch's business card.
"Niyka, are you listening?" – now Emo's trying to bring me back into the conversation. Normally, if the chat were with some hot girl, he wouldn't make any effort in that direction. But with good old granny Svetlana, it seems he was starting to get bored.
Svetlana shot him a look in which one could unambiguously read –
"Why are you bothering her with complicated things like dog food distribution. She's not my daughter. Looking at that wife of yours and her mental baggage, the only use I can possibly see for her is as a dog food taster."
After that she gathered up her skirts, her bags, Yudit and her friend and set off home.
Another wonderful day is drawing to a close on the beach at Sveti Vlas. The sunset is reflected in the sea, calm as a mirror.
Drakon, meanwhile, has managed to fling himself selflessly into the sea. I fish him out, wrap him in the towel and he settles down next to me. Strange how a puppy curled up at my feet can fill my heart with happiness. The last time I felt such satisfaction from a simple everyday act – taking someone out for a walk and then giving them a bath – was when my children were babies.
But children grow up, and it's my duty to hand them over to the world – responsible and independent.
Whereas Drakon I'll keep bathing, slobbering over and walking for many more years, God willing. And God willing, for many more years the whole family will use him as bait for interesting new acquaintances.
