I have a friend whose name I will not mention here for some reason. A person, to put it mildly, not of this world. And what else would you call a person who wanders through snowdrifts in sneakers in the cold winter, periodically goes for walks at night, curtains the windows during the day (because the light bothers him), and at night, on the contrary, sleeps with the light on (because he is afraid of the dark)… A person who, obviously for the sake of beauty, puts a skull in the most visible place in the hall and from time to time, having gone into nirvana, does not react to anything and anyone around him…
I think after this, albeit very brief, description, no one will be particularly surprised to learn that this individual has a female rat nicknamed Usik and a male named Chara. Actually, the latter character will be discussed in this story.
“The cute little dog” – no, not a curly poodle or a Pekingese, as someone probably thought – is in reality a very large boxer dog. Insanely angry, incredibly aggressive and sometimes even life-threatening.
At least, that's what I thought for quite a long time, and not without reason. Getting into a marginal friend's apartment was absolutely impossible unless he personally held the “cute little animal” with both hands or locked it in the closet. Otherwise, anyone who crossed the threshold risked being torn into a British flag.
…That day we (me and a couple of other people) holed up in a cheerful little apartment to drink beer, strum the guitar and just take shelter from the biting January frost.
With the speed of racing cars, they rushed through the hallway into the hall, where they barricaded themselves from the evil Cerberus. The people demanded bread and circuses. And if there was plenty of circuses on the TV screen, then for bread you had to stomp to the kitchen, passing the “dog”'s domain on the way. For some reason, there were no suicides among the guests, and the host was once again slowly but surely falling into nirvana. That is, he was still able to get to the kitchen, but to cook something – alas…
We agreed that I would take care of dinner on the condition that he would hold his “four-legged friend” until I locked myself in the kitchen.
…I was heating up fried chicken and potatoes on the stove when I felt someone looking at my back. And not in a friendly way. I slowly turned around and saw a huge red dog staring at me with the unblinking gaze of Ellochka the Cannibal.
At one time I was very fond of man's four-legged friends and even wanted to become a dog handler, and therefore I know very well that this frozen look and the pose of Mike Tyson, ready to deliver a crushing blow, do not bode well. It would be better if the dog growled or barked.
I don't know how the cunning beast got into the kitchen, how it quietly opened the door, but the fact remained: I was about to be eaten. There was no point in calling for help: while my friend, who was in a state of prostration, would tear his soft spot off the sofa and rush to save me, my new jeans would be turned into scrap. And that was in the best-case scenario.
With trembling hands, I grabbed a piece of chicken from the frying pan and began to coo ingratiatingly: “Charochka, good dog, my friend, sunshine, bunny, eat some chicken…” The monster immediately swallowed the meat and stared at me again. But… his gaze was no longer maliciously destructive, but pleading.
Without thinking twice, I poured a good portion of potatoes into the dog's bowl. The dog devoured this offering in the blink of an eye. Then he came up to me, who had sat down helplessly on a stool, and laid his muzzle on my lap… Since then, the “Cerberus” never tried to tear me to pieces, and I, in turn, treated him to something tasty from time to time. Especially since the owner, hanging on delicate matters, often simply forgot to do this.
…In general, the moral of this fable is this. People! Treat not only each other, but also our smaller brothers humanely, and they will respond to you in kind.
After all, how often do we, trying to justify our unseemly actions, like to repeat: “It’s not us, it’s life.” They would probably say the same thing. But they just don’t know how to speak…
