“We treat them like babies who cannot speak.” – Oleg Gazenko
I may have come across as pompous, a snob even. Truth be told, Father, great Siberian husky that he was, imbibed in me restraint. He often lay by, watching drearily, even as his comrades before him took to each others throats over the night’s last morsel. I never knew Mother. I was told she was a dainty terrier, which might give some meaning to my slightness. Living thus phlegmatic, and of meager means and form, I must admit, kept the life in me quite supple. Then I turned three.
I was picked up from the dusty Moscow streets by a burly comrade, snarling about Khrushchev, or so I could discern with all my pitiful grasp of Human. My last gaze at Father was, quite literally, unblinking, uneventful. I turned forward, thirsty for a world more colorful.