Текст книги "Открой мне дверь. Выпуск № 3"

Ольга-Лиза Монд

Родилась в Москве. Окончила факультет филологии (отделение теории и практики перевода) Московского государственного университета имени М. В. Ломоносова. Кандидат педагогических наук. Автор ряда научных публикаций.

Живёт и работает в США, где получила также образование актёра музыкального театра и драмы.

Является автором одиннадцати пьес и либретто пяти мюзиклов. Её работы неоднократно побеждали в различных конкурсах драматургов, восемь были инсценированы. Две пьесы опубликованы. Пьеса «L.O.V.E» стала финалистом конкурса «Время драмы, 2021, осень».

Над прозаическими произведениями начала работать два года назад. В настоящее время к изданию готовится сборник рассказов и повестей.

– Мам, а что такое «красные дни календаря»?

– Нерабочие дни по случаю каких-то очередных праздников и суббота с воскресеньем.

– Я про другие…

– Какие?

– Ну, когда девочки не ходят на уроки физкультуры.

– А, ты имеешь в виду месячные?

– Ну да, месячные.

– Это, доченька, когда матка плачет кровавыми слезами по несостоявшейся беременности.

…Дела…

Это один из многих диалогов между мной и мамой-врачом времен моего детства. Лет пятнадцать я потом переваривала эту формулировку, тщетно пытаясь понять, что именно имелось в виду. Но яркий зрительный образ кровавых слез матки (в быту мной именуемых «дела») не позволял забыть этой знаковой беседы, а когда однажды «дела» не пришли и я узнала о своей беременности, то наконец поняла, что теперь девять месяцев моя матка больше не будет плакать! Не знаю, чему я была больше рада: тому, что скоро стану мамой, или тому, что матка успокоится на какое-то время и перестанет раз в месяц лить кровавые слезы в форме лепестков небольшой лилии. Я всегда заранее ощущала приближение «дел». Примерно за несколько дней до начала месячных мне начинает хотеться убить всех особей мужского пола, живущих на Земле, как же они меня раздражают! В календарь можно не заглядывать: стал раздражать начальник, партнер, брат, отец, муж – значит, дела уже близко. А в день их начала я всегда плачу, нет, рыдаю от жалости к себе самой – самой несчастной женщине из всех живущих на Земле. И еще все очень обострено: значения слов, образы, звуки. Я думаю, что матка – мой самый главный орган… чувств.

– Доченька, у тебя завтра контрольная по биологии? – Да.

– Ответь мне: как устроены органы чувству животных?

– Органы чувств у животных состоят из рецепторов, реагирующих на раздражения.

– Верно. Какие органы чувств больше всего развиты у зайца?

– Задние ноги.

– Н-да… Биология, видимо, не твой конек… Дела…

Итак, матка определяет мои реакции на окружающую действительность. Кроме того, она – колыбель всего самого творческого, что во мне есть. Когда во мне рождается музыка, то она рождается там, в низу моего живота, и только потом по каким-то внутренним каналам приходит в мою голову, достигая внутренних ушей (не знаю, есть ли такие, ведь я не сильна в биологии). Только после этого она материализуется, и ее можно услышать и записать в ноты. Самая пронзительная музыка рождается, когда я грущу, кто-то меня раздражает или что-то не складывается. Музыка – всегда продукт неудовлетворенности и никогда не благополучия. И матка реагирует на неблагополучие феерично, щедро окрашивая мое отношение к событиям и людям. Хорошо помню, как с детства я делила весь окружающий меня мир на красный и голубой. Красный – бодрил и толкал на подвиги, голубой – успокаивал, убаюкивал.

Когда у меня впервые появился друг гей, матка спокойно реагировала слегка голубым свечением вокруг него, а вот при появлении среди близких знакомых лесбиянки начинала трепыхаться пойманной в сеть красной рыбкой с золотыми плавниками и хвостом (наверное, таких уродцев нет в природе, но биология, как мы знаем, не мой конек). Справедливости ради скажу, что ни одна лесбиянка у меня в подругах не задержалась. Виновата матка, я думаю.

– Мама, как ты относишься к женской гомосексуальности?

– С пониманием. Ведь около четверти случаев обусловлено генетически, а также воздействием избытка мужского полового гормона – андрогена.

– Ты им сочувствуешь, считаешь их ущербными, больными?

– Нет, я за них радуюсь, ведь, по статистике, в лесбийских парах девушки значительно чаще достигают оргазма.

– А если бы я стала лесбиянкой, тебя бы это расстроило?

– Нет, скорее меня бы расстроило решение моего сына перейти из гетеро– в гомосексуала.

…Дела…

Хотя такое объяснение соответствует мнению моей матки. Так что проехали. Можно посмотреть кучу фильмов, прочитать немереное количество книг про проблемы геев и лесбиянок, их существование в социуме, но мне кажется, что главное в вопросе принятия гомосексуальных отношений – это осознание того, что их участникам именно от такого секса хорошо друг с другом, потому что их потребности удовлетворяются максимально и полно. И обсуждать это как проблему – глупо и невежливо.

– Мам, что такое секс?

– Секс – это отправление человеческого организма, как сходить в туалет, поесть, поспать. Заметь, базовая потребность, во всяком случае до определенного возраста.

– Какого?

– У всех по-разному.

…Дела…

Может, именно потому, что боится потерять потребность в этом базовом отправлении организма, мой муж с сорока лет измеряет уровень тестостерона в крови ежегодно? А доктор ему объясняет, что незначительное плавное падение – возрастная норма. Он, правда, думает, что «возрастная норма» может кого-то успокоить. И почему учащенное мочеиспускание, часто развивающееся с возрастом как у женщин, так и у мужчин, не является предметом общественного обсуждения, а урежающийся секс между партнерами – проблема для бесконечных телепередач, основа множества сюжетов в литературе и киноиндустрии? Не говоря о том, что это частое физиологическое явление составляет основу финансового благополучия целой армии психотерапевтов и психоаналитиков? Кто-то может себе представить, что основной сюжетной линией фильма является ночной энурез у взрослых, например? Да и с проблемой недержания мочи человек либо обойдется памперсами, либо пойдет к специалисту в области урологии. При этом, думаю, все согласятся, что психологический дискомфорт от еженощного плавания в собственной моче может быть куда сильнее, чем удручающая мысль о том, что секс стал случаться не через день, а раз в неделю, месяц, квартал…

– Мама, а климакс у мужчин бывает?

– Конечно. Тестостерон падает, и они становятся суками: скулят от апатии и угасания либидо, жалуются на сокращение длительности полового акта, огрызаются от неуверенности в себе как достойном половом партнере и плохого физического самочувствия, кусаются не по делу, больше едят и отращивают живот, как у женщин на последних месяцах беременности.

– А когда он наступает у мужчин?

– По-разному, где-то после сорока.

– И сколько длится?

– Может долго, до наступления полного соответствия между новыми возможностями и старыми потребностями.

– То есть они хотят иметь секс так же часто, как раньше, но не могут?

– Нет, они хотят оставаться альфа-самцами. Им тяжела мысль, что лидирующие позиции приходится уступать, да и нелидирующие – тоже. Чем скорее до них доходит, что пришло время молодых альфа-самцов, тем короче их климакс. Есть и такие, кто не переживает этот рубеж, стараясь доказать свою самость, меняя партнерш на все более и более молодых, активизируя себя и усложняя свой образ жизни, чтобы доказать себе свою ускользающую состоятельность. Большая часть относительно спокойно проходит этот период длиной в несколько лет, но бывают и тяжелые случаи, требующие порой медицинского вмешательства.

…Дела…

Много вы видели фильмов и книг про мужской климакс? Или, быть может, смотрели пьесы на эту тему в театре? Или участвовали в обсуждении? А ведь это так же естественно, как женский климакс. У моего папы, например, климакс начался довольно рано и был долгим: лет десять он был обидчивым, плаксивым сверх меры, раздражительным – придирался к нам с братом по пустякам и закатывал скандалы. Потом все прошло, и он стал плюшевым и домашним, отзывчивым и готовым всегда прибежать на помощь своим детям и внукам.

Неоднократно замечала, что при слове «климакс» моя матка как-то неуверенно подает о себе знать: жалобно скребется, я бы так охарактеризовала это ощущение. Интересно, она понимает, что однажды наступит такой момент, когда она наконец перестанет плакать от жалости к себе раз в месяц? Понимает, что ее главное предназначение – дать новую жизнь – навсегда исчезнет и, возможно, она сама дематериализуется?

– Мама, а что становится с маткой при женском климаксе?

– Она инволюционирует.

– Исчезает?

– Нет, осуществляет обратное развитие: уменьшается в размерах, упрощаются ее функции.

– Этот процесс необратим?

– Да.

…Дела…

Что будет, когда «дела» кончатся? Я перестану ощущать свою матку? Мой самый главный орган чувств перестанет посылать в мой мозг сигналы, и я потеряюсь, мне не на что будет опереться в своих суждениях, мнениях, догадках? Я ослепну, оглохну и перестану ощущать прикосновения?

– Ты веришь, что матка может реагировать на внешние раздражители, обеспечивая энергией мысль, образы, чувства, желания?

– Конечно. Муладхара – начальная или корневая чакра, которая в оккультных системах и альтернативной медицине считается основой энергосистемы человека. Она властвует над маткой.

– А на что она похожа?

– На красную лилию с четырьмя лепестками. Конечно! Слезы матки мне всегда напоминали лепестки лилии или, скорее, прекрасного лотоса, которые подбрасывает изящная танцовщица, медленно вращающаяся вокруг своей оси в индийском танце нритта. Лепестки, слетающие с ее длинных ногтей вслед за движениями рук, каким-то неимоверным образом складываются в сменяющиеся геометрические фигуры, образующие причудливый восточный орнамент. Лепестки никогда не достигают земли. Как только они к ней приближаются, танцовщица взмахами своих рук заставляет их подняться и продолжать свой собственный танец.

– Как сохранить свои чувства, ощущения?

– Есть только один способ – постараться создать образ и запомнить: ощущение, картинку, вкус.

– А как это сделать?

– Нет универсального рецепта.

– Положим, я запомню свои яркие образы, но вдруг – беспощадный Алъцгеймер в старости?

– Тогда эта проблема уже не будет тебя волновать.

– Почему?

– Как в анекдоте: ты просто о ней не вспомнишь.

Когда последние лепестки лотоса достигнут земли, я потеряю точку опоры – уйдет моя энергия. Во всяком случае – творческая. И для того, чтобы продолжить свое существование, мне придется навсегда сохранить в своей памяти то, как моя матка реагировала на прикосновения к моему телу, которые мне были приятны, на вкусную еду и хорошее вино, на захватывающий эпизод в фильме и тревожащий душу отрывок книги, на музыку, трогающую за главный нерв души, розовые восходы и кровавые закаты, тревожное полнолуние, белые ночи севера, темные ночи юга, ласкающие волны теплого моря и лизнувшую руку собаку, проникновенные и искренние слова, заставляющие сердце отзываться. В отдельный файл я соберу негативные и нейтральные реакции моей матки, они мне тоже пригодятся, когда наступит период моей инволюции.

Если я справлюсь с ним, то обязательно напишу роман и назову его «Календарь без выходных». Она будет про то, что свои ощущения, получаемые от главного органа чувств, который у каждого свой, нужно ежедневно собирать, классифицировать и сохранять, чтоб они ни в коем случае не потерялись. И заботливо беречь свою коллекцию.

А своей дочке, когда она дорастет до вопроса «что такое месячные», я отвечу так:

– Это праздник, который всегда с тобой, пока ты молода, здорова и можешь родить мне внуков.

That year was a rough patch in our lives. At first, my grandmother was seriously ill, then, within a couple of months, two of our dogs died: a huge, terrible-looking, but kind on the inside Scolann Ku – an Irish wolfhound, and a hurtful, but cute Sona – a Central Asia Shepherd dog or Alabay The first one died of old age, the second – from a complication after a planned surgical intervention. She was only 2 years old.

"I told you, don't take any dogs, it's so hard to experience their death," my husband used to grumble; according to his logic, "it's better not to be born, then you won't die".

"You're right, my dear. No more dogs! That's it, I promise!"

It is impossible to convey in words the pain of such loss. So that no one could see my tears, I went wandering into a forest, following the same paths where I used to walk first with my three dogs (at that time Whita, my beautiful Whita, the Polish Tatra Sheepdog, was still alive), then with the other two, then with one… During one of those walks, I met a woman, a familiar face, one of the dog owners in the area.

"So, what happened? Why are you alone, without your dogs? Why are you crying?" she enquired and turned to me in the hope of starting a conversation.

"I'm crying, because I'm all alone, my dogs are no more… they died!" I sobbed in response.

"Oh, what a grief! But don't cry, take a dog from the shelter!"

"Me? From the shelter? What are you talking about? I have always had purebreds, expensive dogs of rare breeds, which most people have seen only in movies. And in the shelter live mongrels, unimaginable hybrids, and they are all with a broken psyche. No, that's not for me."

"Well, do as you like. Otherwise, go to the website of our shelter. It's called "Eco", I'm a volunteer there. Tell me if you decide: we will help you choose a dog".

"No, thank you," I sobbed and continued further.

All the next week, sitting at work in front of my computer monitor, I would ever so often sniffle, remembering my loss. On Friday, at lunchtime, holding in my left hand a glass of warm sugary juice "Multivitamin", which could only be drunk because of the lack of any alternative, the fingers of my right hand typed in the search engine by themselves – shelter "Eco". A couple of clicks and I was on the main page, from which two pairs of eyes were looking back at me – belonging to mongrels, black and mostly white. One of the volunteers did his best and made the artistic design of the photo: the dogs, gently snuggling up to each other, looked happy, a heart was drawn over their heads with a red line, a few kisses and some pink petals, obviously borrowed from a greeting card, perhaps intended for the newlyweds, but the main thing was, of course, the text: A he-swan and a she-swan, a hussar and his girlfriend, Pirate and Molly, a couple in love! They met in our shelter and can't live without each other. Pirate is a strong, healthy, sociable dog, always ready to stand up for himself, and Molly is timid and unsociable, hut gentle with Pirate. Without him, she will die. Help keep this couple together! Take two dogs to live in a country house, save their Love!

If the phrase "he-swan and she-swan" mentally transformed in my imagination into a pair of sugar swans on the upper tier of a wedding cake, then the situation was more complicated with "hussar and his girlfriend": all previous experience, save for the picture of a brave hussar with a magnificent mustache and an obscure image of a sutler girl looking for the company of brave soldiers, did not suggest anything. But I didn't want to overthink it, deciding that Pirate really looked like a hussar – brave, strong, a real warrior, and Molly was just like a swan.

A copy of the page somehow printed itself out in the printer and crawled into my briefcase, hiding until the end of the working day, in order, I think, to go home in it. In the evening, after dinner, when my husband sat down to watch TV, I put the page in front of him.

"Please, take a look. Aren't they cute? Let's take them, huh?"

"You promised!"

"They feel so bad there, in the shelter. Winter is coming, they will freeze there. We can make them happy!"

"Don't even start!"

A lot of arguments, promises, all sorts of deceptions and oaths did not lead to the desired result. My husband kept saying that he would not go to the shelter, and if I went, I would certainly be terribly upset by what I saw…

"I'll tell you what, there's a compromise."

"Which one?"

"If I go to this shelter, I will most likely take all the dogs from there, and if you go, you will take only these two, and I promise not to enter the territory."

On Saturday, on the way to the country house, we stopped at the shelter, having previously phoned and informed that we were taking Pirate and Molly. I stayed in the car as promised, and my husband went to draw up the documents.

"Hold, hold, Pirate! He's going to run in now," I heard from behind the fence, not really understanding where the Pirate will run in from and why he's running there at all. All the drawing-up took about half an hour, then the shelter worker and volunteers brought us two thin, smelly, scary looking dogs, not at all like in the picture…

"Are you sure? Maybe we won't take them?" asked my husband hopefully.

"We will, since we have decided," I replied I with feigned confidence.

"Here are the certificates. Pirate has been neutered, Molly has been sterilized, so they will not have any offspring. The age is about 4–5 years, they have been vaccinated," the employee said, handing me their documents.

On the way, the dogs, huddled together, behaved quietly. Pirate even took a nap, Molly was on guard, she, of course, was extremely nervous and burdened by the unknown. I can't even imagine what they were thinking!

Immediately upon arrival, we placed them into an enclosure, several times larger than their shelter home, put two bowls of porridge and meat in front of them. The speed with which the food disappeared in them, impressed all of our household and brought the family to tears. Of course, we immediately gave them a second portion, slightly fearing that they might overeat. Then we took them with us to show the plot. Pirate was happy and interested in getting acquainted with our other animals – ducks, chickens, goats and sheep, being careful only of the cow, which impressed him with its size; Molly was shy and tried to get back into the enclosure, hide in the doghouse. Having decided to leave them alone, we went away.

For the first week, the dogs practically did not leave the enclosure: they slept and ate. There was silence all around, no one barked or whined; in short, there was no constant noise that did not stop for a minute in the shelter. Molly, in an accomplished way, decided on the place where they began to follow each other having a shit. We never heard their voices during that time.

"Why do we feed them, they don't keep watch, they just eat and sleep" – my husband would say indignantly.

"The dogs hit the jackpot, like in a lottery," I replied. "They had nothing, and suddenly – please: the doghouse is warm, the litter is soft, the meat is fresh, eat as much as you want, the milk is in their bowls, enough place to walk – the territory is large and everyone wants to treat them with something, win favor and give love!

The dogs quickly began to gain weight, to round up. This was especially noticeable in Pirate's case: at first, he swelled a little in the chest, then the sides appeared out of nowhere, the neck girth increased so much that I had to buy a new collar. The coat changed: it became thicker, glistened. Snow fell and they washed themselves – they stopped smelling like shelter dogs. And after a month or two, my husband and I took Pirate out for a walk behind the fence without a leash for the first time. He snubbed local dogs instantly, showing who was in charge. Having dispersed the dogs that rushed to him with barking, he stood in a majestic pose – the same as Akela, on a stone block from the Disney cartoon "Maugli", so that everyone quickly realized and accepted everything, and the most quarrelsome began to crawl up to him on their bellies with howling, demonstrating complete submission. Once, apparently considering that they got too close to us, Pirate lifted his leg and pissed onto my husband's shoe.

"He marked me, showed that I am his!" admired my husband, letting out a tear of emotion.

"Defender," muttered I, wondering how I could save my own shoe.

"You know, you said back then that they hit the jackpot when we took them. No, it was we who won a million! They are wonderful dogs; we were lucky to get them! I am proud of Pirate – he is a real man. However, he is our first male dog – before him all of our dogs were bitches. Now our male regiment has arrived, it will be my dog," finished my husband, already quite sure that the men's brotherhood had received a replenishment.

Pirate chose me as his master. He became my tail, my shadow, my protector and helper, and I became his cosmos. Especially after he got piroplasmosis and realized that he was dying. Our life had just got better, and then – that ordeal! In his already faded eyes, already covered with a white film, the following was clearly read: "I will not leave you of my own free will, but I would like to leave my love, so take care of Molly, please," well, so I read that expression. No one believed that it was possible to cure his disease, to save his life. For some crazy money, I got German medications, and I injected him myself. He didn't mind, accepting everything without a sound. He was aware of everything and, as he recovered, made it clear: you saved me, my life now belongs to you, do with me what you want.

I have never received so much warmth, adoration and devotion from any dog. At the same time, he never left Molly, all the time making sure that no one offended her. It took her a very long time to adapt. It was hard for her. For many hours, my mother and I took turns sitting at the booth, talking to her, persuading her to come out, let herself be combed or washed, her ears cleaned, her nails cut. After living with us for almost six years, she did not recognize anyone except for me and my mother to be her friends, and she did not let men get close, steering clear of them. Apparently one of them offended her once, and she remembered. She was the main watchman, while Pirate, although he barked at night, warning that strangers were not expected on the grounds, was too loving and affectionate not only to his own, but also to strangers. Everyone who entered the yard was immediately greeted and licked by him, until the wild Molly came running with threatening barking and the most serious intentions.

"Please, take away your evil dog," would say summer residents who came to buy milk, referring to Molly.

One of the features of Pirate was his love for children. Perhaps, before he got lost and was taken into shelter, he lived in a large family. If he saw a child, he ran to him as fast as he could and tried to lick him, he also loved playing with older children: sledding them, making snowmen, running after snowballs.

He just thought it was lucky to accompany a little cyclist! Local parents knew him and did not object to such communication of their children with Pirate.

"Lady, why was he called Pirate? He's kind!"

"Look, the eyelid on his right eye was torn in a fight and cilia grew in, so the eye seems to be covered, and he looks like the one-eyed Ragetti from Pirates of the Caribbean, remember? Well, he is also brave, strong and independent."

As it turned out, he had two more similarities with real pirates: craving for long journeys and love of alcohol. We found out that much later, about five years after we had taken him from the shelter.

It was early summer. Molly kicked Pirate out of the doghouse and he, carrying his bowl and an old drape coat given to him by my husband – all of his personal movable property – settled on the terrace of our house. We didn't know what they didn't agree on. Sometimes they quarreled, sometimes she would beat him in the face with her paw for some offenses, but this was the first time such a divorce and separation happened. My husband, wanting to support him, brought a whole box of substandard sausages and sausage trimmings from the nearest meat processing plant, my mother, a kind soul, offered to let him into the house so that he "did not get depression". I didn't allow it. Perhaps, in vain.

"He snores like a drunk, so loud, and does not even wake up when I call him," my mother, who constantly lived in the suburbs and had the opportunity to communicate more with the dogs, began to complain.

"Well, with age, all dogs begin to snore like people. It's just that now he doesn't sleep in a doghouse in the backyard, but under your window," I explained authoritatively.

"Oh, well! Okay," she agreed uncertainly.

Then he began to disappear. In the evenings. Where he found holes in the fence, we did not know; apparently, he was digging holes under it. Several times, fearing for his disappearance and organizing a search, we found Pirate at the store near the train station in the company of local alcoholics, drinking beer, where he was seen as one of their own, and was valued as a good listener: he could sit and listen to their chatter for hours. One day, when I found him sleeping in a ditch, snoring loudly, my husband and I shoved him into the car, dirty and sleepy, alcohol odor coming from his mouth. I was not ready for such a turn of events.

"Pirate got drunk," I said to our veterinarian whom I called the next morning.

"God, I'll come and see him now. I've heard about dog alcoholism, but I've never seen it!" she chattered happily.

"Don't come! Just tell me, what I should do with this," I shouted into the phone.

"Maybe, try giving him non-alcoholic beer? It's not as harmful."

"Maybe, I shall put an electronic cigarette in his teeth?" I answered, and hung up.

Mom continued to sing her song: you didn't let him into the house, so he drank because of frustration.

My husband was strengthening the fence. I begged Pirate not to leave the territory, but it was all in vain. Pirate ran away and drank, gradually turning into a habitual drunkard. At the shop near the station, in the bushes, he hid an old rusty lid from some kind of aluminum can, which served as a bowl, or rather, a glass. He used to bring it, put it in front of him, showing with all his appearance that he, well, so-o-o needed to freshen the nip… I already knew who poured it for him, swore at them, threatened, but there were always others who could not refuse: I saw how he asked, it was impressive, and only a few could resist. At the sight of a person with an open can or bottle of beer in hand, he lost control of himself, became completely deaf to any commands and simply "stuck" to the happy owner of the drink, making movements with his nose that made it clear that he smelled the presence of the desired drink. He peered into the eyes, delicately blocked the trajectory of movement, in every possible way inviting to share with him what remained. It is interesting that such an unusual, to put it mildly, request from the dog, for some reason, was almost always correctly interpreted and unconditionally satisfied by passers-by.

"You want beer?" they exclaimed, rejoicing at their guess, "Well, you're outrageous! What do you want to splash it in?"

After searching him for half of the night a couple of times, we gave up. I said:

"If we can't keep him, let it be as it will be, we can't kill him for that. Maybe it will pass by itself… Pirate imbibed a secular lifestyle: he slept until lunch, rested in the shade during the day, went on a spree in the evening, sometimes visited the stadium when local football teams competed there. Now there was not one person in the area who did not know my Pirate – he became very popular.

"Mom, look, Pirate's coming! Remember, he came to our football game!"

"Look, Pirate! Hey, Pirate! He swam with us in the pond".

"Pirate, Pirate, Pirate!"

"Look, the Pirate's owner is coming… Remember, we met Pirate in the forest, he found someone's jacket there and brought it to the owner…"

There was nothing I could do about it. I could not protect the local kindergarten from his intrusive visits: he would come, lay down in front of the gates, put his head on the crossbar and watched the children. No matter how the teachers chased him away, he would always come back again.

He also suddenly had a craving for distant wanderings. He began to go to the railway station, sat on the platform and spent hours meeting and seeing off the commuter trains.

He always had a badge on his collar with our phone number, name and address, just in case.

"Tell me, is this Pirate, your dog?" says an unfamiliar voice on the phone.

"Yes, why?"

"He's getting on a train."

"What train?"

"To Shatura."

"Don't let him in, we'll come now!" I shout.

And we ran, led him back home on a leash, scolded. Once I even beat him up when he took a bus to a neighboring village and came to the communal steam bath, where light relaxation after a free afternoon session was strengthened with beer and not only by local aborigines – mainly poor men.

"Is this your dog? Smart, respected. You should teach him how to collect bottles – then there would be no price for him," they suggested to me dreamily.

I imagined how Pirate drags all the empty beer bottles home, puts them on his favorite drape coat and, having collected a bunch, drags it by the collar with his teeth to the "Beer" kiosk, and the glass empties jingle merrily. Movable property, damn it.

"I'll kill you!" I screamed and, waving my arms, tried to grab and hit him. Having caught him, I beat him with a bag, and he did not resist, firstly, because he was aware of the guilt, and secondly, it did not hurt him, of course. In general, after that incident, he became quieter, head down and mouth shut, trying not to catch the eye, but he did not change his lifestyle. In the morning, especially after nights filled with libations, he looked guiltily into my eyes, tried not to annoy me, begged for treats less, and even abandoned his favorite ploy – to break through from the terrace to the kitchen, which I generally objected to for hygiene reasons.

By the end of the summer, Molly stopped going outside the fence, into the woods, for a walk. It used to be her favorite activity, especially mushroom picking. In the forest, she frolicked like a puppy, ran a race with Pirate, instantly, as soon as I crouched for a mushroom, I would find her laying on her back, belly up, rightly believing that if I crouched down and had two hands free, then the best thing for them to do was to scratch her belly. Clearly, not every mushroom retained its marketable appearance after meeting with Molly's back, but we brought home the best and strongest of them.