A Dog’s Luck Read online

  At the same time I also learned that “purebred dogs” are more susceptible to illnesses that “crossbreds” suffer from immeasurably less.

  And that stressed me out…

  Ron-On had already suffered one epileptic seizure.

  Blurriness.

  Sudden stiffness.

  Loss of consciousness.

  Convulsions.

  Spasms.

  Foaming at the mouth.

  Passing out for seconds, which for me were an eternity.

  Even when “the episode”—as Mom referred to it, and we followed suit—was over, he was confused and his legs trembled:

  When he tried to stand up, he collapsed.

  When he tried to walk, he faltered.

  It took him hours to recover.

  Fortunately, it happened only once. And when it did happen that one time, it was after I had been playing with him outside in the heavy heat for too long. A year had since passed, and “the episode” did not recur.

  It didn’t bother me that Yael was left with the impression that I was wandering off because the conversation had started to bore me. The important thing was that she equipped me with a tennis ball.

  When he saw how they caught it with their teeth and returned it for me to throw again, he tried to seize it:

  Ran around.

  Tailed.

  Barked.

  Eventually he caught the ball.

  Hid it.

  And with that he brought the game to an end.

  “There is no doubt the situation will improve,” Yael ruled when I returned: “Ron is quite the rooster.”

  “Our rooster is called Robert,” I joined in the conversation and triggered an outburst of laughter that embarrassed me.

  Yael insisted that with a male companion, there is usually more competition. However, with a female:

  “You might even get puppies…

  And that’s an extraordinary experience…”

  Even in my doggiest dreams, I had never reached such splendors.

  When she accompanied us to our car she told us that she had made some inquires, no strings attached, of course, among members of the association. And she had also phoned a colleague, a dog breeder from Belgium, who just had a litter of seven. “Madam Lauren still hasn’t found a good home for one of the puppies.”

  She gave Mom a note with the phone number, for us to contact her if we wished.

  “And don’t forget to register with the association!” she yelled after us. “Especially if you decide to give him a helpmate. Not to mention if there is a whelping!”

  Like us, others also turn to her, trying every which way to find “purebred puppies, with certificates.”

  His energy spent, Ron-On slept the entire way.

  I lay beside him and tried to sort out in my mind whether pedigree was important to me.

  And if so, why.

  To this day I cannot settle the contradiction between “racial purity” and my dog. And yet, if I ever left home… I would obviously raise a Belgian Shepherd like him.

  * * *

  I dedicated the end of summer break to training:

  With perfect timing he would leap and catch the ball like a juggler.

  To return it—he refused.

  Treats were futile.

  I consulted my good girl friend Adi and we developed a method:

  Tossing softly.

  From up close.

  Aiming for the head, so it would bounce back.

  Instantly he took to the new game.

  Encouraged, I imposed a training regimen:

  Early in the morning, before the heavy heat.

  And shortly before sunset, after it broke.

  Twenty minutes, tops.

  Watching his performances, Dad smiled with pleasure:

  “Ron-On the champion.”

  And the nickname stuck to him until his last day.

  The intensity of the training also made it easier for me to endure the wait, as there was no further mention of a puppy.

  A short time after the school year started, Mom informed me that the puppy in Belgium had already been weaned. And that we may soon start preparing for her arrival.

  In front of my parents I continued to show restraint. But when I was with Adi (who back then was still raising Tush-Tush the First, a large poodle who was run over the following year, after which she took comfort in Tush-Tush the Third, because “There could be no second to the first…”) I talked her head off. To be precise: I could not talk to her about anything else.

  Together we flipped through dog albums.

  We dreamed.

  Planned.

  Fantasized.

  Together we counted the days.

  The hours.

  And… not a single word.

  One evening, when my parents brought me back from Adi’s, they mentioned a surprise waiting for me at home:

  “Nothing too exciting…”

  My breath caught in my chest.

  At home Mom went outside to pick vegetables.

  Diced them finely.

  And we waited.

  Again she went out, returning with fistfuls oregano and basil.

  And we waited.

  Dad cooked my favorite pasta sauce.

  And we waited.

  I set the table.

  And we waited.

  They ate.

  And we waited.

  I dried the dishes he washed.

  And we waited.

  Mom put everything back in place.

  And we waited.

  We waited and waited.

  God knows for what.

  My heart leaped at the sound of the doorbell.

  On his return, Dad was accompanied by Shlomo Zehavi, his best friend from the army:

  “We served together in the paratroopers’ brigade. We were in the same tent. Adjacent beds.” To this day he does not miss a single opportunity to remind me.

  Unlike her usual reaction, Mom’s face lit up when he entered.

  Mine fell.

  As part of his work (which was never discussed, even in private) Shlomo frequently traveled abroad. On his way home, he often stopped by our house and showered me with gifts.

  “Because for Shlomo, who never married, you’re like a daughter,” Dad would recite.

  Apart from his small suitcase, he carried something pink and rectangular; I couldn’t tell whether it was a basket or a bag. I did not like it one bit.

  My parents exchanged glances.

  Mom’s eyes wandered back to Shlomo.

  “Young Miss Yovel,” he said, looking at me and addressing Mom: “It is my honor and privilege to bestow a royal gift upon you,” he related with pathos as he handed me the basket-bag.

  I turned pale.

  My knees shook.

  My mouth went dry.

  And the words escaped me.

  “What, aren’t you curious?” he urged me.

  The handles of the carrier vibrated.

  The bag almost dropped when Mom stopped me to spread a newspaper on the table. When I set it down I noticed round air-holes.

  Nothing was inside, apart from a black ball of wool in the corner.

  “This is Suzan. As befitting a princess, she flew with style.”

  With restrained enthusiasm he told us that he had held her on his lap for the entire flight. And not only the passengers, but even the pilot came to look at her:

  “She’s one curious pup, your Suzan…”

  With Mom’s encouragement, I opened the basket-bag.

  A stench pricked my nostrils.

  “That’s from the red carpet the Madam spread out for her, to absorb the pee and poop, and also to keep her warm in the car and on the air-conditioned plane,” Shlomo said and laughed.

  Everything was surreal.

  Hallucinatory.

  Bizarre.

  Especially when Dad picked up the shriveled ball and placed it in my arms.

  The touch was caressing.

 
; Softer than silk.

  Than angora.

  Softer than soft.

  And the scent—nothing was fresher.

  Slowly slowly the tiny ball began to swell.

  At that same moment Champion burst into sharp barks.

  The barks grew stronger.

  Increased in frequency.

  Turned fierce.

  And the ball shivered.

  Flattened.

  Shrank.

  Dad gripped my shoulder and led the way.

  Champion’s fur bristled.

  He barked.

  And Suzan quivered.

  He shook.

  As if about to attack, he recoiled.

  He bumped into the armchair near the television nook in the kitchen.

  He squeezed under it.

  And did not stop barking:

  Feared and barked.

  Raged and barked.

  Protested and barked.

  Barked and barked.

  At Suzan.

  At me.

  At the basket-bag.

  At everything and everyone.

  The essential became trivial.

  And the trivial—essential.

  And the essential—infinitely trivial.

  I lost my senses.

  I was lost.

  I felt sorry for him.

  For her.

  I felt regret.

  I was overwhelmed with guilt.

  He wouldn’t stop.

  And Suzan made not a single sound.

  At her request, I handed Suzan to Mom. But even when Shlomo laughed at the spreading yellow stain, instead of changing my clothes, I approached him.

  I kneeled.

  Her scent preceded me.

  And Champion entrenched himself deeper.

  I tried talking to him.

  He continued to recoil.

  Gradually the barks faded.

  Their frequency diminished.

  And slowly the barks were replaced by grumbles, whether disapproving or complacent I couldn’t tell.

  “That’s one hell of a guy!” admired Dad, whose style of speech and diction change to this day when Shlomo is around.

  “This is his house.

  And he’s guarding it.”

  Shlomo lowered his gaze.

  “That’s how dogs react when they are threatened… strictly between ourselves,” Mom mumbled, “we’re the same… but they… are lucky: dogs keep nothing to themselves.”

  From a distance of time and place I notice emphases that had eluded me when she laughed and said that if Champion hadn’t reacted that way, we would really have something to worry about.

  Shifting her gaze from me to Dad, she was adamant that with all the support, love and warmth we would shower them with, they would gain confidence in no time.

  “What is he saying, after all?! That he’s blessed with healthy instincts.” As she asked, she replied: “And that he’s afraid that Suzan will take his place. What could be more natural than that? More human than that?”

  All at once everything came out:

  “Bec…ause…of… meee…

  The…y… sepa…rated…

  Herrr….

  Fff…rom… her… mo…ther

  And fff…rom… eve…ry…thing

  A…nd… fff…or

  Wh…at…?!”

  Dad asked that I get into my head “real good”:

  “There’s no authority without responsibility.”

  Seeing that the authority to take in Sue is his and Mom’s exclusively, he stressed, they bear the responsibility as well.

  The crying increased.

  Mom handed Sue to Shlomo.

  Approached me.

  Hugged me.

  And let me cry on her shoulder.

  Slowly slowly the crying turned into sobs.

  The weeping gradually abated.

  When they tears dried on their own, once again she implored me to go change my clothes.

  When I returned I was greeted by an almost routine-like atmosphere.

  Even Champion seemed less threatened.

  Dad brought in his old camera and a modern video camera (among the first that came out for home use; had Mom not given it to him as a gift, I doubt he would have treated himself to one), and started memorializing.

  “What do you want to do with the carrier?” she wished to know. “The pleasure is all yours.” With her manicured nails she held her nose and handed me my gift.

  Something shook from side to side.

  I stuck my hands in:

  I took out a wrapped box.

  And a rubber teddy bear—pink as well.

  I casually squeezed it. Her puppish ears, which were still dropped, trembled at the squealing sound.

  Shlomo placed Suzan on the newspaper sheets with which Mom had padded the oilcloth she spread out on the table.

  And I—the teddy bear.

  Suzan stood up to her full tiny height.

  And then she was revealed in all her splendor:

  A delightful tiny teddy bear.

  In the presence of the toy again, it was as if the cry of infancy had brought her closer to a faraway home.

  And when it escaped her, she chased it from one end of the table to the other.

  Champion did not take his eyes off her.

  And did not miss a gesture—hers or ours.

  Mom brought out new bowls.

  And offered Suzan a bit of water.

  “Suzan…” I hesitated.

  “That name… isn’t it a size too big on her?

  She’s more of a Sue, don’t you think…?”

  “After Sue drinks,” Mom went along with the new name, “we’ll wait. If she doesn’t throw up, we’ll offer her something to eat. She must be starving.”

  “How did you know?!” Shlomo was astonished. And said that the Madam had cautioned him not to feed her a single crumb, so she wouldn’t vomit. “And with all the groupies gathered around her with all kinds of goodies—it was one hell of a challenge.”

  Sue licked gently.

  Took a break.

  And resumed her licking.

  When she went back to playing with the teddy bear, Mom asked my permission, just to be on the safe side, to let them separate the dogs for the first few nights:

  Sue would sleep with her and Dad.

  And Champion—as always, with me.

  In the meantime I tore the wrapper off a box of dog food.

  I handed Dad the pink envelope that was inside.

  Shlomo, who is fluent in French, translated a letter from September 30, 1987, the eve of Sue’s arrival, addressed to all of us, and especially to me:

  Madam Lauren introduced herself as a well-experienced breeder, and Suzan—who, together with her six siblings, came into the world on July 22, 1987—hailing from a grand lineage: she inherited her Parisian coquettishness from her mother, who was a French champion. And she directed our attention to notarized copies confirming her French descent, copies of the championships her father won, of her lineage, and of a document stating that there are no blood relations between her parents.

  Her name starts with the letter S, she explained, because in Belgium once a year the first letter of the names of Belgian Shepherd newborns is announced, in alphabetical order. Coincidently, it was the nineteenth whelping in her breeding kennel, corresponding to the letter S in the Latin alphabet.

  And she gave us her word that she had not addressed her by any name until she was given permission by my parents. And she had since allowed herself to call her by the pet name Sue.

  She described Sue as good-natured. Kind. Friendly.

  And she did not hide how difficult the separation was for her.

  She detailed what she ate, how much and when. And added that in order to ease her acclimation, she was also sending along her favorite toy, saturated with the taste of home, and a box of the dry food she had accustomed her to eat prior to the departure. She instructed us to give her a bit of water. And if she di
dn’t throw up, to offer her a little food as well. And to take her out to the yard immediately because she still had the occasional indoor accident.

  She pleaded with us not to expect Ron to rejoice in her arrival. And she guaranteed that if we let him adjust, within a short period he would start enjoying his helpmate. After all, there is no greater gift!

  Ending her letter, she wrote that she had pups around the world, from the Ivory Coast to Japan. And she would be grateful if from time to time we would update her on her development. And if possible, preferably on video.

  Even the beating of a mosquito’s wings could have been heard when he folded the letter.

  Mom was moved by Madam Lauren’s love for Sue and how well she understood her…

  And as if to herself, she mumbled that we all would have been spared quite a bit of grief had we found the letter first. Dad did not stop admiring how well she had coped with the separation… And Shlomo was excited by the Madam, who had driven herself all the way to Orly Airport and back. And he told us that because of how she had “kept her cool…” he too saved face.

  Before he left, he remembered a gift she had sent for Champion.

  He sniffed the beef-flavored shoe with suspicion.

  And did not touch.

  The moment we looked away, he charged at it.

  Sank his teeth into it.

  And shook it playfully.

  * * *

  The silence is broken.

  Sue pushes the door open.