Sochi Dog
by Michael C. Keith
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: It's a dog's life, especially in an Olympic city.
_____________________________________________________________________
Animals are such agreeable friends – they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms. – T. S. Eliot
Zorya had survived by being the fastest dog in Sochi, Russia. This meant he was able to scour the garbage pails for sweet bones and sauce soaked stale breads before any of the other hundred or so canines that existed in the city. It was a hard life, but Zorya loved being near the Black Sea and counted himself lucky to have so many good friends among his fellow strays.
“Come Pavel, Mitya, and Bimka! Eat what is left of my scraps,” barked Zorya to his best friends, with whom he often shared his find.
Residents of Sochi had long tolerated the existence of the homeless canines, and some actually showed them kindness, especially the children. In the end, despite all of its many shortcomings, the coastal Russian municipality was home to the roving mongrels.
Then, in 2008, the tranquility of the region was suddenly shaken with the beginning of huge road and building construction. Why this was happening was beyond the understanding of Zorya and his comrades, but some good fortune came with the giant trucks, towering cranes, and rumbling steamrollers––and thousands of workers.
A large number of Zorya’s canine tribe were rounded up and trained to keep intruders away from the various building sites. This meant that for first time the Sochi dogs did not have to scrounge for table scraps, since they were fed regularly for their services.
For five years, the dogs had shelter and enjoyed the kindness of their caretakers. But one day the work stopped and the construction equipment was taken away, along with fences that had contained them. The workers left, and the Sochi dogs were set free and left to return to their lives as scavengers.
“So be it,” said Zorya to his mates. “We’ll return to the life we had before. It wasn’t as good as the one we’ve now lost, but it wasn’t terrible.”
“Close to it,” whimpered Bimka.
“We still have each other, so it is not terrible,” replied Zorya, placing his paw on the old mutt’s head.
“Da, we are a clan,” added Pavel.
As their hunger grew, the dogs scurried about Sochi hunting through garbage for something edible. And as before, Zorya was always ahead of the other strays. To his surprise, he found more refuse than ever before. The builders had made many new structures to accommodate the needs of visitors, and this in turn produced a virtual overabundance of discarded consumables.
“It is better now than when we were guard dogs. We have our freedom and more leavings than ever before,” noted Mitya, lapping up a glob of pork grease.
“Things keep getting better,” declared Zorya.
But these good days for the Sochi strays were to be short lived.
* * *
Complaints from several officials of the Winter Games about the town’s high derelict dog population weighed heavily on the mind of Sochi Mayor Sergey Rybkin. If the famous international athletic event were marred by problems, he would incur the wrath of the State Duma and probably find himself out of office and even working on a rock pile somewhere.
Rybkin’s time in office had been marked with great success. During his tenure, the number of restaurants, stores, and hotels had multiplied. Sochi had taken on a more prosperous appearance, and the mayor prided himself on that transformation. He had become a rising star in the regional government and was looked upon with great favor by the Kremlin.
“The strays must be eliminated, or we will be ruined,” he informed his wife, Olga.
“No, they cannot be harmed,” she replied, horrified at the idea that the animals she loved would be mistreated.
Since she was a child, Olga had formed close friendships with many of the strays. She had fed and cared for them when they were sick or injured. Among her favorites was Zorya, who frequently visited her and her daughter, Anna.
“Moscow has given orders that they be exterminated. They are a public nuisance to the Games, because they frighten visitors. Vendors do not want them around their businesses. It is for the good of the town that the hounds either be driven out or put down. I have my orders, and there is nothing I can do.”
Despite his family’s protestations, Rybkin set about to implement the directives from the capital, which had recommended that the homeless dogs be poisoned in much the same way as diseased vermin were.
“But they are not rats!” protested Olga, when her husband admitted to the plan to dispatch the strays.
“They are to the businesses of the town and they are to our future . . . my future. If they are allowed to stay and roam free, it will be our ruin if someone is bitten. No, they must go!”
* * *
Three days later, animal exterminators from Rostov began to place deadly chemicals in the best-known feeding spots of the canine packs. Their actions did not escape the keen eyes of Zorya, who immediately spread word of the deadly initiative.
“Do not eat from the garbage. It will kill you,” Zorya warned his mates.
“But why? It is what sustains us,” replied the strays.
“They wish to remove us from Sochi by poisoning us.”
“That cannot be. This is home to us just as it is to the humans.”
“We are now considered a scourge because of the coming Games. They want us gone,” continued Zorya.
“No, that’s not it. This really is your scheme to keep all the scraps for yourself . . . and your dear comrades Bimka, Pavel, and Mitya,” growled several of the canines.
“That is not true! You will die if you devour the garbage!” barked Zorya, as the pack dispersed.
His warning went unheeded, and within a matter of hours, several dogs had succumbed to the poison chemicals placed in neighborhood refuse containers and bags. Their carcasses were tossed onto trucks and quickly removed in the deep of night so as not to attract undue attention
“You were telling the truth. We have lost many comrades,” admitted members of the stray community to Zorya.
As the dogs abandoned the urban streets for safer outlying areas, they noticed a caravan of large black cars streaming toward Sochi.
“It must be an important visitor,” observed Pavel from a hilltop.
“Yes, someone of great importance,” said Zorya, who then scampered down to the road and followed the vehicles as they entered town.
He made his way into the crowded village square to where the cars came to a stop. The assembled mass cheered loudly as a familiar figure took the stage and began to speak.
“Welcome, my fellow citizens and visitors from afar. As Mayor of Sochi, I am honored to introduce the Premier of the great Mother Land . . .”
It was at that point, Zorya decided to risk everything to show the dignitaries that stray dogs were not dangerous and were worth saving. He scampered up the stairs to the stage and ran to the dignitary, who was about to speak. When Rybkin spotted the canine, he attempted to wedge his body between himself and the Russian leader, but he was too late. By then, the Premier had started to pet Zorya, whose tail wagged enthusiastically.
“Leave him,” shouted the high official to the mayor. “He is a good animal. Look how friendly he is. We must be kind to these beasts.”
It had become well known to the Russian hierarchy that the project to exterminate the Sochi dogs was causing an outcry around the globe, and the Premier recognized the moment as an opportunity to reverse the negative image.
“You are my friend, doggy. Indeed, I will take you home with me,” declared the Premier to the approving audience, as he lifted Zorya in his arms.
* * *
In the days that followed, the poison was removed from the Sochi garbage heaps and the strays were welcomed back into the village. Due to the press and social media, they had become as popular as the renowned athletes participating in the Games. Visitors from foreign lands adopted many, and the residents of the seaside Russian community treated the remaining dogs with increased charity. For the hounds of Sochi, it had become the best of all possible worlds.
Unfortunately, Zorya had met a different fate. Thirty kilometers away from Sochi, the Russian Premier had pushed him from his vehicle, saying, “Out, you flea-bitten mutt. You are lucky you have lived so long.”
In the car immediately behind the Premier’s, a thickset man heard the words coming through his earphone––and removed a pistol from a holster inside his coat.
Swearwords: None.
Description: It's a dog's life, especially in an Olympic city.
_____________________________________________________________________
Animals are such agreeable friends – they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms. – T. S. Eliot
Zorya had survived by being the fastest dog in Sochi, Russia. This meant he was able to scour the garbage pails for sweet bones and sauce soaked stale breads before any of the other hundred or so canines that existed in the city. It was a hard life, but Zorya loved being near the Black Sea and counted himself lucky to have so many good friends among his fellow strays.
“Come Pavel, Mitya, and Bimka! Eat what is left of my scraps,” barked Zorya to his best friends, with whom he often shared his find.
Residents of Sochi had long tolerated the existence of the homeless canines, and some actually showed them kindness, especially the children. In the end, despite all of its many shortcomings, the coastal Russian municipality was home to the roving mongrels.
Then, in 2008, the tranquility of the region was suddenly shaken with the beginning of huge road and building construction. Why this was happening was beyond the understanding of Zorya and his comrades, but some good fortune came with the giant trucks, towering cranes, and rumbling steamrollers––and thousands of workers.
A large number of Zorya’s canine tribe were rounded up and trained to keep intruders away from the various building sites. This meant that for first time the Sochi dogs did not have to scrounge for table scraps, since they were fed regularly for their services.
For five years, the dogs had shelter and enjoyed the kindness of their caretakers. But one day the work stopped and the construction equipment was taken away, along with fences that had contained them. The workers left, and the Sochi dogs were set free and left to return to their lives as scavengers.
“So be it,” said Zorya to his mates. “We’ll return to the life we had before. It wasn’t as good as the one we’ve now lost, but it wasn’t terrible.”
“Close to it,” whimpered Bimka.
“We still have each other, so it is not terrible,” replied Zorya, placing his paw on the old mutt’s head.
“Da, we are a clan,” added Pavel.
As their hunger grew, the dogs scurried about Sochi hunting through garbage for something edible. And as before, Zorya was always ahead of the other strays. To his surprise, he found more refuse than ever before. The builders had made many new structures to accommodate the needs of visitors, and this in turn produced a virtual overabundance of discarded consumables.
“It is better now than when we were guard dogs. We have our freedom and more leavings than ever before,” noted Mitya, lapping up a glob of pork grease.
“Things keep getting better,” declared Zorya.
But these good days for the Sochi strays were to be short lived.
* * *
Complaints from several officials of the Winter Games about the town’s high derelict dog population weighed heavily on the mind of Sochi Mayor Sergey Rybkin. If the famous international athletic event were marred by problems, he would incur the wrath of the State Duma and probably find himself out of office and even working on a rock pile somewhere.
Rybkin’s time in office had been marked with great success. During his tenure, the number of restaurants, stores, and hotels had multiplied. Sochi had taken on a more prosperous appearance, and the mayor prided himself on that transformation. He had become a rising star in the regional government and was looked upon with great favor by the Kremlin.
“The strays must be eliminated, or we will be ruined,” he informed his wife, Olga.
“No, they cannot be harmed,” she replied, horrified at the idea that the animals she loved would be mistreated.
Since she was a child, Olga had formed close friendships with many of the strays. She had fed and cared for them when they were sick or injured. Among her favorites was Zorya, who frequently visited her and her daughter, Anna.
“Moscow has given orders that they be exterminated. They are a public nuisance to the Games, because they frighten visitors. Vendors do not want them around their businesses. It is for the good of the town that the hounds either be driven out or put down. I have my orders, and there is nothing I can do.”
Despite his family’s protestations, Rybkin set about to implement the directives from the capital, which had recommended that the homeless dogs be poisoned in much the same way as diseased vermin were.
“But they are not rats!” protested Olga, when her husband admitted to the plan to dispatch the strays.
“They are to the businesses of the town and they are to our future . . . my future. If they are allowed to stay and roam free, it will be our ruin if someone is bitten. No, they must go!”
* * *
Three days later, animal exterminators from Rostov began to place deadly chemicals in the best-known feeding spots of the canine packs. Their actions did not escape the keen eyes of Zorya, who immediately spread word of the deadly initiative.
“Do not eat from the garbage. It will kill you,” Zorya warned his mates.
“But why? It is what sustains us,” replied the strays.
“They wish to remove us from Sochi by poisoning us.”
“That cannot be. This is home to us just as it is to the humans.”
“We are now considered a scourge because of the coming Games. They want us gone,” continued Zorya.
“No, that’s not it. This really is your scheme to keep all the scraps for yourself . . . and your dear comrades Bimka, Pavel, and Mitya,” growled several of the canines.
“That is not true! You will die if you devour the garbage!” barked Zorya, as the pack dispersed.
His warning went unheeded, and within a matter of hours, several dogs had succumbed to the poison chemicals placed in neighborhood refuse containers and bags. Their carcasses were tossed onto trucks and quickly removed in the deep of night so as not to attract undue attention
“You were telling the truth. We have lost many comrades,” admitted members of the stray community to Zorya.
As the dogs abandoned the urban streets for safer outlying areas, they noticed a caravan of large black cars streaming toward Sochi.
“It must be an important visitor,” observed Pavel from a hilltop.
“Yes, someone of great importance,” said Zorya, who then scampered down to the road and followed the vehicles as they entered town.
He made his way into the crowded village square to where the cars came to a stop. The assembled mass cheered loudly as a familiar figure took the stage and began to speak.
“Welcome, my fellow citizens and visitors from afar. As Mayor of Sochi, I am honored to introduce the Premier of the great Mother Land . . .”
It was at that point, Zorya decided to risk everything to show the dignitaries that stray dogs were not dangerous and were worth saving. He scampered up the stairs to the stage and ran to the dignitary, who was about to speak. When Rybkin spotted the canine, he attempted to wedge his body between himself and the Russian leader, but he was too late. By then, the Premier had started to pet Zorya, whose tail wagged enthusiastically.
“Leave him,” shouted the high official to the mayor. “He is a good animal. Look how friendly he is. We must be kind to these beasts.”
It had become well known to the Russian hierarchy that the project to exterminate the Sochi dogs was causing an outcry around the globe, and the Premier recognized the moment as an opportunity to reverse the negative image.
“You are my friend, doggy. Indeed, I will take you home with me,” declared the Premier to the approving audience, as he lifted Zorya in his arms.
* * *
In the days that followed, the poison was removed from the Sochi garbage heaps and the strays were welcomed back into the village. Due to the press and social media, they had become as popular as the renowned athletes participating in the Games. Visitors from foreign lands adopted many, and the residents of the seaside Russian community treated the remaining dogs with increased charity. For the hounds of Sochi, it had become the best of all possible worlds.
Unfortunately, Zorya had met a different fate. Thirty kilometers away from Sochi, the Russian Premier had pushed him from his vehicle, saying, “Out, you flea-bitten mutt. You are lucky you have lived so long.”
In the car immediately behind the Premier’s, a thickset man heard the words coming through his earphone––and removed a pistol from a holster inside his coat.
About the Author
Originally from Albany, New York, Michael C. Keith has paternal family roots stretching back to Clan Keith of Caithness and Aberdeenshire. A leading scholar in electronic media in the United States, he is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. Much more about Michael and his publications can be found on his website: http://www.michaelckeith.com