The Day I Kicked the Dog

Two years ago, I vocally criticized the statue of a quietly resting dog in the Mendeleevskaya Metro Station. I was quickly told the legend of a stray dog that once quietly also lay in that same spot, until his frame became an obstacle for an umbrella-toting babushka. Apparently, in her fury at being upheld, she raised her umbrella, and with a single stroke, she pierced the poor, sleeping dog's skull. In their shock and anger, the people of Moscow placed this simple memorial statue in the very place it happened.

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My morning started with a plastic bag. What's inside the plastic bag, you might ask? A banana, a tupperware of the leftovers from the previous night's rice dish, and a breakfast roll. Little did I know that this small grocery store bag carrying my breakfast and lunch would put me in such a position as it was about to.

As I do every day, I rode my small marshrutka van to work. I looked at my watch. Plenty of time, no need to rush. I strolled peacefully, listening to Mumford & Sons on my ipod, enjoying the beautiful, slightly chilly morning. Approaching the underground passage, I pulled my jacket and scarf just a bit closer, and briskly walked down the steps.

There he was. The dog. Staring at me--almost laughing at me, it seemed. I looked at his dusty, yellow fur matted down with city dirt. He is one of many happy stray dogs in this huge city. They roam around in packs or alone looking for food and warmth. They ride the metro, knowing full-well where they are going, thinking this is their city. On this day, this unsuspecting mutt learned who I was--a short, little Amerikanka with no patience for his shenanigans.

Our eyes met, and he smiled. Then there was the smell. My little plastic bag was emitting smells of deliciousness, and the mutt strolled toward me, still seemingly laughing.

Now usually for me, these stray dogs are like unwanted men. I am able to avoid their advances with a demeaning glance and cold body language, but this dog was the Pride and Prejudice Mr. Collins of all dogs. Persistently, he ran after me, and jumped on my arm. I pushed him away and continued walking with an unamused, cold stare. Catching the scent of the goods in my bag once more, he bit at my groceries.

"No! Bad dog!"

Undeterred, he jumped on my arm once more, lightly and playfully gnawing on my arm. This was unsettling. I know all too well that when a dog initially nibbles on your arm and you refuse him, the next bite will be more fierce. After another push, his clench became a little firmer.

That's when I kicked him.

My only thought being of holes in my favorite and only Fall coat, I felt my foot rise off the floor and lightly meet his body. As he yelped and released his grip and ran away, it was then that I realized I had kicked him in his "secret regions". Oops?

I also quickly walked away, afraid of further attempts. While I continued to walk, now sure that the mutt had not followed me, I saw an old woman outside in the park in her pajamas. She was unexpressedly enjoying being surrounded by a huge pack of dogs, feeding them her leftovers as they playfully nipped and licked at her.

How is she possibly enjoying that? They're filthy and STRAYS, no less! I thought.

When I reached the school, I was laughing with shock (because that's the generally inappropriate response I have when I get nervous), and I anxiously told my Russian assistants the story.

Their response was barely what I--although probably exactly I should have--expected.

"Oh Shannon! Poor dog! How could you??"

I'm sorry? A dirty, disease-ridden dog starts to nibble on my tender arm and you feel bad for him???

I of the Mendeelevskaya dog statue came flooding into my mind, along with fellow images of old babushki spending time in the parks to affectionately watch the strays eat their leftovers.

That's when I realized:

This city does belong to them. I stand corrected.

The Toothbrush

Here's a story about a day of absolute horror that I experienced a few months ago. Yes, I am just now writing about it.

Earlier that week, I had purchased a beautiful, new toothbrush from the local supermarket, and I was so excited to use it. It had all sorts of special things about it--fading bristles that let you know when it was time to buy a new one, special grips for maximum tooth-brushing comfort, soft bristles. It was going to be the best toothbrush ever.

So, I began enthusiastically brushing my teeth, in of course the same amount of time I had previously, just with more rigor.

A few weeks later at the kindergarten, I could feel my throat starting to feel absolutely terrible. As usual, it was the beginning of a sickness, and my tonsils felt like they were on fire. So I did something totally normal. I went home, and I opened and ate an entire carton of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. It was the only thing that came close to soothing my throat, and in my newfound comfort, I fell asleep with the spoon still in my hand.

When I woke up, the lingering ice cream taste in my mouth was no longer so delicious and sweet, so I ran to my toothbrush! Now, just prior to that, my roommate had been walking around the house getting ready to leave, and I could hear him moving things around in the bathroom. I paid no attention to this.

I stood up to get to my toothbrush, and as always, when I picked it up, I thumbed the bristles. I don't know why I do this. I just always do. To my shock, the bristles were wet. Wet? How could this be? Why would MY toothbrush be wet? Maybe they fell down and someone washed them off? I thought, so I thumbed the other toothbrushes. Not wet. Then it donned on me.

OH MY GOSH. MY ROOMMATE WAS JUST HERE. I'VE BEEN SHARING A TOOTHBRUSH WITH MY ROOMMATE. OH MY GOSH, OH MY GOSH, OH MY GOSH.

I quickly ran to my phone, and sent my roommate a text message.

"Um...which toothbrush have you been using?"

The answer came shortly after.

"The green one."

My response?

"Oh my gosh. I think we've been sharing a toothbrush."

To my chagrin, my roommate answered, "In some cultures, I think that means we're married. Sorry."

How could he?? How could he confuse our toothbrushes? Doesn't he know which one is his and which one is mine? MINE WAS NEW!! How could he confuse them? That is so disgusting! For the past month, I have been sharing a toothbrush WITH MY ROOMMATE. SICK!!!

The following conversation took place later that evening.

Roommate: Yeah, that's gross. Have you been using my green one?
Me: YOUR green one?? That toothbrush was MINE! Uuuuuugh!
Roommate: No, that one was definitely mine.
Me:No, green is my favorite color. Of course I would buy a green toothbrush.

And then I remembered. I always buy kid toothbrushes because I have small teeth, but the supermarket didn't have any more kid ones, so I DID go for green, but they didn't have any good ones, so then I found a blue one with all the bells and whistles. The blue one (which was now in the trash with all the other toothbrushes that I had tossed in my shock and confusion) had been mine.

It wasn't him that confused anything! It was ME!!! And what was my logic? That green was my favorite color, therefore, I would be the only one in the house with a green toothbrush. Of course!!! What an idiot!!!

I buy pink toothbrushes from now on.