Trekhprudny Lane

Taking the dog for a walk: a far more fraught endeavor here than it would have been in our old neighborhood in Chicago, where every other shop had a "doggy depot" for securing the leash, and bowls full of water and biscuits. The very memory feels hilarious to me. Here, I make it down the three wobbly flights of steps alive (dog straining ahead at top speed) only to pull up sharply on the mezzanine, as the babushka always seems to be mopping the chipped tiles in the lobby when we pass through. Look repentant beneath her scowl as we track across the wet floor. Outside, old uneven paving covered with thick ice, very tricky. 

Then, when we reach the playground, there is the problem of meat. Every morning there are chunks of meat or fish scattered about, sometimes open cans of it standing in little corners. This pleases the dog, but it requires constant watchfulness from me, since Russians apparently leave meat out for both strays (kindness) and rats (poison). Both represent a kind of neighborliness, I guess, but there's no way to tell whether a chunk is intended to keep a stray dog or cat alive or finish off a rodent. I've been warned by a number of people, including our vet, not to let the dog get close to any food left outside, ever. 

When we reach the park, the strangeness continues. Bums here tend to be holy fools, not vets looking for spare change. "If you and your dog walk around the pond two times," one toothless gentleman with a hockey stick greeted me today, "you'll have no problem with appetite." Duly noted (not that we have any problem with appetite). "I wish you had a hat on this cold day," he continued pleasantly. I thanked him and he cut me off: "Good luck."

The park is nice in the mornings, when mothers and nannies take babies for their constitutionals, hoisting them up, inflated but immobile in their snowsuits, like the grand prize stuffed animals won at fairs.