Trekhprudny Lane

I've been a bit down, mostly tired, wishing for anything bright in this landscape drained of all color. Inspired by Peter Schjeldahl's scrumptious review in The New Yorker, I thought some Bonnard, with a side of Matisse goldfish, might help. So off we went to the Pushkin museum last Saturday morning. It was a glorious visit, one of the best experiences I've had looking at art with EB. We stepped out of the museum in the shadow of the great cathedral feeling cheerful and revived.

Long story made short, with certain parts, such as when we were shouting on the street and A. grabbed me around the neck with both hands, censored: we have a dog. Or a dog lives here, with or alongside us, for now. She's a foxy young lady with long deer-like legs, very mild mannered, house-trained and now vet-approved. We cannot keep her -- the cats, so incredulous that their tails will not shrink fully back down, have not eaten in two days -- but after passing up so many strays this winter and leaving them to their fate, I just could not let this one wither and die. 

It has been extraordinary, in recent days, seeing Moscow through a dog owner's eyes. So many people have had bad experiences with animals here, or have been taught to be afraid -- they shrink from us, the dog and I, as we walk down the street. High-heeled ladies carrying little coiffed terriers waltz right past us into shops, no one blinks, while the security men look disapprovingly at me in muddy clogs and at Foxy and insist that she remain roped to a railing outside. Initially I had no leash or collar for her, and with a tattered scarf tied around her neck she struck almost everyone we passed as rabid and dangerous. Eventually I slipped a shiny new lead/collar ensemble on her (bought for almost $100 at the only nearby pet supply shop, where Burberry dog clothing and bottles of scented shampoo outnumbered bags of food and litter). Within minutes we were stopped by a dapper guy in a blond leather motorcycle jacket, who asked interestedly, "Eta dinga?" (Is it a dingo?) 

A. has been a (grumpy) hero, and I am reminded of why I adore him and always will. He'd rather have a wife with a manicure and an apartment free even of houseplants, but he gives everyone space to be be what he/she must be, and I know he will let the girls do what they need to do as they get older, even if it's more Julia Butterfly Hill than National Honor Society.