Moscow
Never—not at the farm where he was born, or even at Moira’s cottage by the sea—had JR felt so free. He sprinted straight down the sidewalk, dodging several pairs of legs, then hung a sharp right at the corner and zoomed up the next street. The wind rushed deep into his ears, and he opened his mouth wide so that the smell and taste of dirt and pavement could flow right through him.
After a few minutes, though, he realized that if he ever wanted to find his way home, he had better pay attention to where he was going. He slowed to a jog and looked around. There was the corner store they’d passed on the way to the park, except now it was dark, locked up for the night.
The sun was setting behind the buildings, giving them a soft, purple glow—much nicer than their usual off-white. Somewhere, someone was practising the flute, and across the street, the lights were coming on in an apartment building. In one window, a young boy set the dinner table while his older sister supervised. In another, a woman collapsed in an armchair and grimaced as she tugged off her tall black boots.
This was much, much better than those figure skaters he’d be watching if George had stayed home. And to think he’d almost missed this! Good old Conrad, the executive assistant. And good old Phil, the mysterious artist.
JR was so taken by the window scenes that he didn’t notice the couple strolling toward him until they were almost on top of him. Then he jumped out of the way, squishing himself up against the nearest building before they could—well, who knew what Muscovites did with dogs they found off-leash? But the couple just strolled on past, she in a long fur coat and he in a black suit jacket. Neither gave him so much as a glance.
He watched them go, remembering what George had said about all the stray dogs in Moscow. Could there really be so many that people barely noticed them?
Which brought up another question: had the couple actually thought JR was a stray? He wrinkled his nose, picturing the stinky dog at the corner store. Surely these people knew a civilized dog—a purebred—when they saw one.
He took another deep breath of evening air, choked a bit on the gasoline fumes, then set off in the same direction the stray had taken. He had no idea where the street would lead, and that in itself felt wonderful. He was an explorer. An adventurer. A real globetrotter.
His hind legs did a little dance.
Soon, more and more people were joining him on the sidewalk. Some pulled squeaky grocery carts while others tapped messages into their phones as they walked. Three teenagers ran by, shouting, and an old woman in a head scarf shook her fist at them. But no one seemed to take any notice of JR.
He looked down at his paws, wondering if maybe he wasn’t really there at all. Maybe it was all a dream, and he was actually home in bed.
But then, he was hit with a waft of something powerful—something so delicious that he knew he couldn’t be dreaming. Some mix of tomatoes and garlic and … He sniffed and concentrated. Pork. A sweet, smoky pork stew. The fumes were drifting over from a nearby restaurant.
JR went to the window and pressed his nose up against it. Inside, humans hunched over bowls of steaming stew and plates of crispy lamb kebabs.
He was watching so intently that, once again, he didn’t notice the approaching human until he was standing right beside him. It was a server from the restaurant, out to wipe down the glass menu case. JR held his breath, bracing for the man to yell at him to get away. But the server simply cleaned the case and then went back inside without even looking at JR.
Stunned, he turned and walked away. Maybe … he mused. Maybe Moscow wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe it was a place where humans and canines lived side by side in an equal, respectful partnership. A place where dogs could wander free and unleashed. A place where—
“Sobaka!”
He looked up to see a tall, skinny man in sunglasses and a black hat walking toward him, holding a cardboard box in one hand. A cardboard box that smelled like potatoes, cheese, and … JR sniffed and concentrated again. Bacon.
Handouts? JR stopped, unable to believe his luck. Moscow truly was amazing!
“Sobaka!” the man said again, stopping right in front of JR and bending over, holding out his empty hand. JR looked from the man’s hand to his face. There was something unsettling about not being able to see a human’s eyes. You could tell so much just by looking into them.
But before JR could take a step back and study him, the man reached out, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and lifted him several feet off the ground.
JR squealed and squirmed, but the man held fast. He smelled like onions and paint thinner—a smell so powerful that even the thing in the box, which seemed to be a stuffed potato, couldn’t overpower it. JR felt faint.
Then the man began muttering something— quite possibly about how he was going to make JR into a shaving brush. He held him up higher and turned him around, inspecting him for who knew what horrible purpose. A passing couple stepped out of the way, eyeing the man warily but not bothering to rescue JR. He whimpered and squirmed again, but the man wouldn’t let go. Instead, he cocked his head to the side, then nodded, satisfied about something.
This was it, then. This was how it was all going to end—on the streets of Moscow, which, as it turned out, wasn’t a nice place after all. George would feel just terrible. He’d probably bronze JR’s leash. But who would eat the new box of treats in the hall closet? Would George bring them to the dog park for those embassy dogs to devour? Would he—
Just then, the man let out a piercing scream, followed by what even JR could tell were some nasty Russian curse words. And before he knew what was happening, the man had let him go, and he was falling to the ground.
It all seemed to happen in slow motion. The ground was moving toward him, or maybe he toward it. Either way, it was going to be painful. And something was falling alongside him. Something that smelled like … bacon. The box! He watched it open as it fell, releasing a potato wrapped in foil. It glinted in the headlights of a passing car.
But then, something was leaping up! Something big and golden, grabbing the potato in mid-air! It was … it was …
At this point, JR hit the pavement. There was a thud, and for a few moments, everything went black.
When he opened his eyes, time was back to normal. Unfortunately, nothing else was. The skinny man was still standing above him, yelling, but now there were two, no, three other dogs swarming around his legs. One—tall, sleek, and golden—had the potato clamped between her teeth, and the other two were making sure the man didn’t touch her.
There wasn’t a leash in sight, which could only mean one thing.
They were all strays.
“Let’s go!” yelled a lanky male with short hair that was probably reddish-brown underneath all the dirt. He turned tail and ran, and the golden dog followed with the potato. JR was just debating whether he ought to go, too, when once again he was lifted up by the scruff of his neck. Except this time by teeth.
“Come on, son.” A dog he couldn’t see set him down, then gave him a shove, propelling him after the others. “Time to go!”
He didn’t argue, didn’t even turn around. Off he scampered, weaving in and out of human legs, dodging grocery carts and baby strollers, trying to keep his eyes on the golden dog loping away on her long, long legs.
“Into the alley!” the dog behind him barked. “On your right!”
JR veered into a dark, narrow space between two buildings. Only when he was already deep inside it did he pause to consider whether following a pack of strays into a dark alley was really a good idea.
“Are you all right, son?” His rescuer drew up beside him.
Finally, JR turned to look at him. It was an older dog, brown and dirty with matted fur and—
The stray from the corner store! Up close, his face was criss-crossed with scars, including the nasty one over his right eye.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” JR said, trying not to stare. “Um, thanks … for the rescue.”
The old dog chuckled. “I think Ania was actually going for the Kroshka Kartoshka.”
“Who? What?”
He nodded toward the potato, which the other two were in the midst of devouring. “Kroshka Kartoshka. The street food of the gods. Except now it’s the food of the street dogs!” He grinned at his own joke and smacked his lips. “I’d usually partake, but I’m still full from those sausages.” He winked at JR.
“Oh. Right.” So he did remember him! JR wasn’t sure what else to say. He looked around the alley, at the piles of rotting garbage and puddles of cloudy water underfoot. Then he pictured his apartment. He could be sleeping by the fireplace that wasn’t really a fireplace right now, but instead, he was in a filthy alley with strays that probably had fleas, and quite possibly rabies. He was starting to feel sick.
The golden dog swallowed the last of her share of the stuffed potato, then shook herself hard. Without even glancing at JR, she trotted back to the entrance of the alley and peered out. Moments later she returned, shaking her head. She had furry gold ears that stood straight up, a long, narrow snout, and almond-shaped eyes.
As an average-sized Jack Russell terrier, JR was used to feeling intimidated by other dogs, although he tried never to let himself sink to the ground like Pie had. But this one—Ania, his rescuer had called her—was different. She didn’t make him want to sink to the ground, but she did make it difficult for him to stop staring at her.
Still, he forced himself to say something. “Thanks,” he offered, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Um … I owe you.” Which was a ridiculous thing to say. What could he possibly do for her?
Finally, she turned to look at him. Her eyes were grey, like the sky over Dublin in November. He stared down at a murky puddle to stop himself from staring.
After a long moment, she said, “You’re welcome. You all right?”
JR nodded, hoping she hadn’t heard him whimpering.
“I think some introductions are in order,” said the brown dog. “I am Boris, and this is Ania. And that stomach on legs is Fyodor.” He waited for Fyodor to glance up from his meal, but he didn’t. Boris sighed. “Kids these days. No manners. And you are?”
“JR,” said JR.
Finally, Fyodor looked up, burped, and wandered over. He was a few inches shorter than Ania, skinny and small-eyed. He stopped beside JR to sniff him thoroughly, and JR willed himself to stay upright. This was no time to pull a Pie.
“Not from around here, obviously,” Fyodor observed. “Where you from? The suburbs?”
“No,” said JR, trying to stop the tremor in his left hind leg. “I’m … I’m with the Canadian Embassy.”
As soon as it was out of his mouth, he knew it was the wrong thing to say.
Sure enough, Fyodor hooted. “The embassy! Well, we’re honoured, Your Majesty.” He bowed, then turned away. “Come on, Ania. Let’s get back to business.” He didn’t say “without this guy,” but it was obvious he meant it.
“Fyodor,” Boris said sharply. “Mind your manners.” He turned to JR. “Why are you out by yourself, son? Where’s your human?”
JR shrugged, looking away from Fyodor’s jeer. “I just … wanted to see the city. I wanted to explore.”
“You did!” Boris’s eyes lit up. “Ania, did you hear that? He wants to see the city!”
“That’s nice,” Ania replied, looking back at the entrance to the alley.
“That is excellent,” Boris told JR. “Embassy dogs rarely care to see the city. We met one once—a chihuahua from the Mexican Embassy. Remember, Ania? What was his name? Juan?”
“Jorge, I think,” Ania said, still looking away.
“Anyway, he wanted nothing to do with Moscow. Never even gave it a chance. But you, well, if you want to see the city, then we will show it to you!”
Fyodor groaned. “C’mon, Boris,” he said. “We don’t want him tagging along. He’s … he’s …” He lowered his voice. “One of them.”
JR cringed, wanting to protest, to tell them that he wasn’t like the other embassy dogs—or at least, he didn’t want to be. But he stayed quiet, knowing they wouldn’t believe him anyway.
Boris shook his head. “You need to learn to be a good ambassador.”
“Ania, what do you say?” Fyodor turned to her. “Do we get back to business? Or do we spend our night taking Embassy here on a tour?”
“And doing our duty as Muscovites,” Boris added, also turning to Ania.
She tore her eyes away from the alley entrance, settling them on JR once more. She looked him up and down and back up again, and he drew himself up as tall as he could. Finally, she shrugged. “I don’t see why we can’t do both. Do you?” She turned to Fyodor, who opened his mouth to argue, then seemed to think better of it and snapped it shut.
Ania turned back to JR. “Think you can keep up?”
He glanced quickly at Fyodor, who curled his lip, then at Boris, who nodded encouragingly. He gulped and nodded.
“Then we’ll give you the Grand Tour,” said Ania.