The Little Black Dog

Short Story by Aniiat Sovzikhanova

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It was the worst year of my adult life. I have been crashing on my friend's couch for two weeks. I wake up early in the morning, make some tea, get tired, lie down, and stare at the ceiling until someone else wakes up — then I listen to their footsteps and stare at the wall. I am afraid of staying alone: at home, on the streets, in a taxi, in the subway — fear overcomes me everywhere, every time different, always paralyzing, making me cry. So, waiting for the antidepressants to kick in while staying in a house full of dogs and cats seems like the best solution.

I need a dog, too, I thought, as I ran my fingers through the fluffy fur of Juliet, a black-and-white Yorkie. She, like a chameleon, is sticking out her hot pink tongue and has already licked me all over. You little terrier face, I said, smelling the meat-scented whiskers of Julie. What will I do with a dog? You have to walk it, feed it, play with it, and I can barely manage my morning tea. On the other hand, life will get better: we'll go everywhere together, have fun, dance, swim. My friend said it's not that simple and training is needed, but I was sure my dog would be naturally gifted. I like things to be perfect. And when something doesn't go as planned — tears, helplessness, thoughts of death. I’ve crashed on this ship many times. And it feels like I’ll crash again unless a dog fixes everything.

I had been checking out different dogs, and after six months of searching, I received a photo of a little black dog: the perfect size and a charming smile. Her rescuer told me the next car from Sochi to Moscow was in a week. I was lying at my parents’ house with a broken leg, but I agreed without hesitation. Soon enough, I was standing on crutches in a huge, almost empty parking lot. My dog came flying out of a pickup on crooked little legs with her mouth wide open. I got down on my knees to pet her, and she lay down belly up. How cute, I thought, not realizing that she wasn't trying to charm me like I usually do with new people — she was simply scared.

We came home, and this tiny creature followed me into the bathroom. I burst into tears — her gaze was adorably sweet and clumsily naive — and started googling how long dogs live. Of course, I knew how long dogs live, but I couldn’t believe I would be responsible for this little black something for the next fifteen years. Now, I really couldn’t afford to fall into depression. In fact, I probably can't have such a horrible depression anymore — I can recognize it early now. And what kind of depression can you talk about when you live in your lovely new apartment with your little black dog?

Our stable life together with Terra didn’t last long, and within a year, we were gathering documents to move to Germany. The flight was a huge stress for Terra, the soundproofing in the new apartment — ­­terrible, and my neighbours — ­true Germans. So, within a few days, they complained to my landlords about Terra’s bark. I cried and wrote in my journal how much I hated my dog. I could have hated the neighbours, the German laws stating that dogs can bark no more than an hour a day, but not from 12 to 3 p.m. and not from 10 p.m. to 7 a.m., and certainly not on holidays and Sundays, my rental contract, which stated that if neighbours complained, I could be evicted. But instead, I hated my dog.

My hatred grew, burning everything around it, and I found that every thought in my head led me to death. My girlfriend even came up with a system of fines: every time I said I wanted to kill myself, I had to send her ten euros. Of course, I told her that considering how poor I was, it would only make me want to kill myself more, but she was relentless. It seems like suicide is a forbidden word. It makes people tense up, awkwardly giggle, or start showing pity. And I try not to use it, but I don’t know how to talk about what concerns me so deeply. Death, for me, is just the opposite pole of life, a place I try to stay far from because, really, I don’t want to die at all. Never-ever. At least until the next depression.