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Saturday, November 06, 2004
These were my current three dogs:
From left to right, they are
1) Lăurică (named after Laura, his first advocate),
2) Rîngilă (or Smiley, father of the next dog),
3) Flocea (or Pubic Hair).
With the exception of Flocea, they and others before them were all Romanian street dogs. My parents have a habit of adopting any dog that moseys into their yard. They sternly beseech the mangy pup to git along. In the end, they forget to close the kitchen door and leave kitchen scraps in a little pail under the sink. The dogs take this to be an open invitation.
Lăurică and I really hit it off. I turned a blind eye when he wandered into the kitchen and ate the scraps. I broke all the rules and overlooked the fact that he wandered inside and upstairs behind me. Lăurică got baths and he got cardboard boxes for his sleeping spot behind the Coke vending machine.
In seeking pardon for the sin of an enforced bath, Florinel decorated Lăurică's box with posies.
When Lăurică first wandered in circa 2001, his gypsy-cart chasing habit turned deadly. An oncoming car left him with his intestines dragging along the ground. My father slipped them back in before Lăurică very nearly nipped him. Lăurică crawled to the doghouse, attacked anyone - dog or human - who approached him and cloistered himself inside for three days. He never came out for food or drink. My parents expected to find him dead soon.
On the fourth day, Lăurică managed to walk out to his food dish. My parents noticed his wound had begun to heal.
He survived that time.
No one knew his past. He was a nasty enough hermit dog, preferring the company of his canine brethren, the father-and-son dogs.
Lăurică's fur looked so soft and he had short corgi-esque legs. Plus he flew into a rage when the big dogs from the paint and shoe factories trespassed in his territory. I liked him right away.
We became good pals. Lăurică followed me around everywhere. I even thought about bringing him to Canada. But he had his good buddies, the stoic Rîngilă and the nice guy best friend Flocea. And he had a huge backyard filled with field mice ripe for the picking. Canada would be no good for him.
In the end he stayed put and I left. Afterwards he waited faithfully outside my rom for weeks. He partnered up with the profligate folkart vendor Pişta. Then Pişta went to earn money on Hungarian construction sites and Lăurică was alone again.
On Friday September 17 of this year, Flocea implored my parents to follow him. He led them to the road and there was Lăurică. They don't know if someone hit him intentionally. In Romania, it happens. They buried him beside my late grandmother's dog Azorel and Anişoara the puppy (not the hamster).
His is one ghost whose haunting I would welcome.
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