MY KUDRYAVKA
I had a big box. My Kudryavka had a much smaller one. I think she was happy in it, anyway. When I first found the box, I don’t think she knew all too well what it was for. She’d sat outside my box for so long, the idea of having one of her own was probably a little strange to her. I tried to show her it was a box just for her, but she didn’t understand until I put a fish head in it. Kudryavka was happy with fish heads. If the little box had fish heads in it, she was happy.
Our boxes sat at the end of an alley off Nikitskiy pereulok. Two restaurants were at the front of the street, so there was always a good amount of food. I could usually find some bread for myself and at least one fish head for Kudryavka. Some days, it was all I could find. Kudryavka would get all the food if there wasn’t enough to share. She was so much smaller than me and didn’t understand that I couldn’t afford to feed her properly. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t understand; being a dog. So I didn’t fault her for it, and she got my food.
I named her Kudryavka because of her tail. It was small, like the rest of her, but curly. When she wagged it hard enough, she looked like a little pig. But a soft white one who liked cuddles and fish heads and hated thunderstorms. They were so loud. Kudryavka hated loud noises. She would howl as loud as she could every time they happened so that she could prove she was tougher. Kudryavka might have been small, but she was tough, and I assured her so every day. She could take a far bigger dog in a fight if she ever wanted to. She just didn’t want to, that was all.
Some bigger dogs lived on our street too. They might have been dogs, but they were smart enough to know that the restaurants had the most beautiful foods. Cheburek and smoked herring and vareniki. When Kudryavka and I started smelling them, we knew it was time to wake up. The bigger dogs would start coming out soon and they didn’t like seeing us when they were hungry too. We were competition. Much smarter competition. So Kudryavka and I would start out on our morning walks.
When it was early like this, vendors would be setting up their stalls in the streets. Kudryavka walked alongside me, staying very close. If I noticed a vendor had their back turned, I would whisper one word to Kudryavka: “prinosit.” As soon as she heard the word, Kudryavka would walk over to my other side and take just one piece of food from the vendor. Just one, and only ever a small one. Kudryavka didn’t have that big of a mouth. As fast as we could, we’d find an alley and share the food. If we could split it right down the middle, we would each get half. If it broke into a big piece and a small piece, Kudryavka would get the big one. She did the work, after all. It only seemed fair.
We never got caught. Not ever. Kudryavka was too smart for that.
After breakfast, we would pay a visit to our friend on the street corner. Anatoly sold newspapers to the men who walked to work every day and would be just setting up by the time we reached him. Anatoly couldn’t read very well, but he always knew everything that was happening. His boss gave him the headlines and he would yell them to passers-by. He was very good at yelling.
“What’s new today, Anatoly?” I’d ask.
“Everyone wants to go to space, but we’re getting there fastest,” he’d recite.
“Everyone wants to go to space every day. I mean what’s really new?”
Anatoly would shrug. The space race was what sold the newspapers, so that’s all he was told about.
Kudryavka would run up to him and lick his fingers once he set down his bundles of newspapers. Even though she’d just eaten, she wanted a taste of his breakfast too. Anatoly lived in an apartment with his parents and ate syrniki almost every morning, so his fingers always had a little jam on them. I would scold Kudryavka over and over, but she would never listen. I didn’t blame her much; I loved jam too.
Once the workers started passing by, it would be time for Kudryavka and I to move on. Anatoly would have to start yelling about the space race and Kudryavka would try to howl over him. Sometimes we kept exploring the city and sometimes, if we were really hungry, we would look for some more food.
On occasion, if we were exploring, someone would shout at us. Children doing nothing in particular frightened grownups for some reason. Once I explained that neither Kudryavka nor I had parents or a school to attend, they would be a little less angry. They usually looked a little sad. I always supposed that Kudryavka was as good a family as any, but most grownups didn’t think so. Sometimes they would say if I did a chore in their house, they would give me a few rubles. Other times, they just gave me the rubles without having me do any chores. I liked those grownups best.
Rubles meant I could buy things. Honestly. Without having Kudryavka steal them. If my shoes were getting old, I would buy a new pair, but usually, I would go to the market. The real one where vendors don’t turn their backs. The ones where the bread smells like a hug and the fish is so fresh, it’s practically swimming. Unfortunately, these markets were indoors, so Kudryavka would have to sit outside and wait.
When I stepped outside with two large smoked fish, bought and paid for, I couldn’t find Kudryavka. But that was alright. Sometimes she wanted to explore by herself. She would find her way back to our boxes. Especially if she knew I had fish. Kudryavka loved the heads best.
She didn’t return that night. I ate one fish and put the other in her box. It was still there in the morning and Kudryavka was not. I felt bad doing so, but I ate her fish too. I left her the head, of course, but I still felt bad. If she had gone off to explore a little bit by herself, she would probably feel a little put-out that I had eaten her fish. I would make it up to her by letting her have both fish next time.
It was three days before I saw Kudryavka again. I was sitting on the walkway and looking through one of Anatoly’s newspapers. I didn’t understand what the words said, but I found a photograph of Kudryavka. She looked like she was sitting in her little box, with one paw sticking out.
“Why is Kudryavka in the newspaper?” I asked Anatoly.
“That’s not Kudryavka,” he scoffed. “That’s Laika. She was inside the satellite that orbited Earth.”
“What does that mean?”
Anatoly didn’t have an answer. It was part of the space race. I wished I knew how to read as I stared at the picture. Anatoly may say the dog in the photograph was named Laika, but that was by grownups who didn’t know any better. I knew Kudryavka anywhere, no matter how far away. She explored. That was what she liked doing. She even had a little box in space, just like the one I had found for her.
I hope my Kudryavka had fish heads in space. She loved fish heads.
Arin Calaway began writing short stories in a Hello Kitty diary at the age of four and hasn't stopped since. Accompanied by an ever-growing collection of pens and poor impulse control, Arin considers herself an author, fibre artist, collector, student of computer science, blogger and professional wrestling aficionado.