Открой мне дверь. Выпуск № 3. Коллектив авторов

      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.

      Pirate gets drunk

      (A story)

      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.