Friday, September 19, 2008

It's name was Smokey, but I knew it as Tamas

Going door to door last night I ran into a woman who owned a Hungarian sheep dog called a pulli. I grew up around these very unusual dogs because my grandparents used to breed them, and sure enough after a few more questions it came out that she had bought it from them.

It was weird to stand in that doorway staring down at perhaps one of the few surviving dogs that my grandmother had raised. It was 12 years old and it had out lasted her, it had outlasted my memory of her. It took a while for her name to come back to me, but it felt nice when it did.

It was the last thing she put her hand to, fighting Nazi’s, fighting Commies, raising children, immigrating, building a business and then this, this floppy little dog. Far from home and it too dying, happily.


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