can also lift his head and, in the heat of creative inspiration, perform an eerie moonlight romance...

An urban dog can remember up to five hundred words. Silently sitting in her corner, she is perfectly oriented at home: she knows when a quarrel is brewing in the family, and, sometimes, she tries to prevent it; perfectly feels the mood of each family member; can bring you slippers or boots from the hallway without reminders in the morning, pick you up on time for work - you don’t even need an alarm clock; she will stoically wait until you take her outside, and her patience is limitless. Yes, what to say! Dozens of books have been written about sensitivity, nobility, delicacy, resourcefulness and especially devotion of four-legged friends, and how many amazing stories can be heard from dog owners! ..

Many people perceive the death of a dog as the loss of a loved one. When I lived on the former Staro-Nevsky Prospekt - Karay was a little over a year old - I met all the dog lovers at home. Most often we walked the dogs along Poltavskaya Street, went out to Goncharnaya Street, and sometimes we went past the warehouses to the Obvodny Canal. One floor above, directly above me, lived Ivan Nikolayevich, a driver by profession. He was a non-drinker, reserved person. He had a Western European Shepherd Martha, and he did not have a soul in her. The wife of Ivan Nikolaevich said that they do not regret anything for their favorite. The best meat is for her. The husband was in a hurry from work to quickly take her out into the street. And I walked two or three hours a day. He always kept aloof with his Marta - nevertheless, we got along with him, or rather, the dogs brought us together. My little Karay fearlessly poked his muzzle into the tail of the shepherd, flirted with her, swooped in with a growl, offering to frolic. Martha was a stern, distrustful, angry, sullen dog, who, except for the owner, did not arouse the desire to stroke her or caress her, but, although all the other dogs of our yard tried to bypass her, she tolerated my baby and never even growled at him. (an adult dog usually will not offend a puppy, just as a male dog will not offend a bitch, sometimes suffering all sorts of humiliations from her). And then one day Marta was hit by a truck on Poltavskaya Street - there are a lot of them here with containers. Ivan Nikolaevich took the dog to the veterinarian in his arms, but it was not possible to save her. A few days later, meeting him at the arch of the house, I hardly recognized my neighbor - he had changed so much. Later, unexpectedly for everyone, he drank for a long time - he was almost fired from his job for absenteeism. His the frustrated wife ran to the dog breeding club and dragged out a puppy of the same breed - Ivan Nikolaevich did not even want to look at him. Later, having somewhat recovered, he told me that since the death of his mother he had not experienced such strong grief ... And later he fell in love with the puppy. They called it Baikal. He waved like a calf, but unlike Martha, he was still a very good-natured dog.

I loved Kara very much. Wherever I came back - and I often have to travel around - I always looked forward to meeting Karay with joy and even excitement, because - neither before nor after - no one greeted me after separation so joyfully, sincerely and violently expressing their feelings ... Yes if my ex-wife forgives me (she was indifferent to animals, that's why she left Karay to me), I first of all, trying to go home, thought about him.

Wherever he went with me, what he didn’t ride, swim or fly! It happened that I secretly settled him in my hotel room or the House of Creativity, where sometimes I lived and worked for months. I rolled it around the country in a car, took it with me when I went on trips to relatives or parents in Velikiye Luki, and went skiing with him on an electric train out of town in the winter - after all, a dog needs fresh air. Driving down the steep Pargolovsky mountains, I used to put it around my neck like a living fluffy collar and rush down with a whistle ...

As soon as Karay felt that I was going fishing, he would become terribly excited. If I tried not to take him with me at least once, he probably would never forgive me for this! Fishing was a holiday for him after a boring city life. And it’s not by chance that he would suddenly, for no reason at all, drag rubber boots to my office and, placing them at my feet, peer at me with a long, begging look, which seemed to say: “Drop your typewriter, collect the fishing rods and go to the lake!..” And it happened, of course, not at the same moment, that I would begin to draw enticing pictures of a trip to a distant beautiful lake. This thought took possession of me more and more ... And now the three of us - me, my artist friend (an inspired fisherman) and Karay - are rushing by car along the Moscow highway to the Novgorod region.

That time we pitched a tent on the shore of Lake Velyo - this is near Valdai. We launched the motor boat into the water and, leaving Karay to guard our camp, drove off to the islands to go fishing.

Heavy rain drove us off the lake in about three hours. My friend, like me, drenched to threads, dreamed aloud how he would take off his wet clothes, put on a dry training suit, prudently taken with him, and - the crown of happiness! - climb into the sleeping bag, which he was eager to update. I didn’t have such a wonderful sleeping bag, and therefore my dreams were more modest: to return to the camp, build a fire and dry off - this damned rain will not sow from the sky forever! And then - to the tent, where I sketched the spruce branches in advance.

Our boat hit the shore. Through the dotted silvery streams of rain that lashed obliquely from the low gloomy sky, an orange tent, sheltered under the canopy of a spruce, was barely visible. Karai was nowhere to be seen. This caused a mocking smile on my friend’s wet face: “Watchman, it’s called! He probably dug a hole nearby and sleeps there. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to jump to conclusions.

My friend dived into the tent first, and immediately I heard his scream! I followed him - and, collapsing on the tarpaulin, burst into loud laughter: a friend, squatting in front of his brand new sleeping bag, uttered an angry, diatribe speech - and Karai's bearded muzzle with shining eyes stuck out of the sleeping bag. The sheet covered Karay's head like a cap, and now he surprisingly looked like a wolf pretending to be a kind grandmother in order to eat poor Little Red Riding Hood. When my friend's voice broke into a scream, Karay - he did not even think of getting out of the bag in which he warmed himself so well! - he wrinkled his upper lip, showed fangs, and then a low, but impressive roar was heard.

The friend, fortunately, had a sense of humor, and it all ended with the fact that we, laughing to our heart's content, dragged the sleeping bag out into the rain with Karay and mercilessly shook the dog out of there ...

By old age, Karay became a very bad watchman - he was almost deaf. But I did not notice it immediately, and again on a fishing trip. This time - we are all in the same composition - we lived on the shore of Lake Dolgoe. There was a pioneer camp nearby, and children often passed by us, heading into the forest or somewhere else. One day at noon we were returning from the lake, and just one such group passed by the tent. Karay, who should have been on the alert, did not even raise his head - he was dozing in the sun, hiding his muzzle in his fluffy paws. He did not hear when we approached. Later, my friend, speaking figuratively about this case, argued that everything happened like this: “Karay!” The dog lifted his head and stared at my friend, "What?" - "Aliens!" - Karay jumped to his feet: "Where?" - "There!" (A detachment with a horn and a drum retired to the forest.) - "Ah! .. I'll show them-y! .." And Karay, with a loud bark, rushed off in the opposite direction. He returned soon, and he looked as if he had done away with all the violators of our border ...

Already knowing that he did not hear well, I was amazed at his embarrassment and bashfulness, when he felt that he was in a mess again and people noticed it. In such cases, he averted his eyes, lowered his tail, and sighed heavily. And a little later, frightening us with a loud bark, he rushed like a bullet at an imaginary enemy, barked at the trees and returned with a sense of accomplishment. But there was no one around, and the sense of accomplishment was feigned. The smart dog understood