The camp fire dies down, and so does the conversation. The darkness blacks out the imperfections of the dusty Californian chaparral. Under the Big Tree, four slumped silhouettes sit, dissolving the week’s worries with cold brews.
“Woof, woof, woof!” cry chops the stillness, urgency increasing with every bark.
“Where’s that dog’s owner?” Maura’s logic becomes lost in the obscurity of the night.
“Maybe he ain’t got one and has a story to tell.” Josh, her boyfriend, responds in a southern drawl, rich and sticky like sweet tea.
The Irish dancer she is, Maura sits up straight, arms down.
I push a eucalyptus log into the fire and the hungry flames embrace it. The burst of light wakes up Ewelina, who has been drifting in her camp chair. A brown-eyed Polish brunette tilts her head, listening to the invisible dog’s complaints and then speaks.
“I had a little dog, Cuba, when I was in the first grade, back in Gdansk. I fed him with Mom’s beef cutlets and cuddled his smooth fur. But one day, he got sick. Didn’t move much, ignored food. I wrapped him in blankets and rode the tram with ice-frosted windows to the other side of the city to see a vet. And guess what?”
Three attentive half-lit faces turn toward her. Even the barking in the distance pauses.
“The electricity in the whole district shut down and the powerless tram stopped. A man pushed the door open and everyone scattered into the flurries. I had no directions and followed the curves of the metal tracks until I reached the stop near the clinic. My tiny brown shoes were soaked throughout from plowing through the sticky snow.
I had no money, so the doctor had no solutions for Cuba’s lung failure. When I returned home, I sat with my puppy on my lap day after day, missing school, until Cuba closed his eyes for the last time and his breath escaped. I cried for such a long time; I don’t think I want to go through this ever again!”
I look at Ewelina’s feet, small in black sandals. Always taking little steps forward in the two years since we met.
Gulping the last splash from a green bottle, I clear my throat.
“I got a kitten on my eighth birthday. We called him Max. A Persian cat from a family of a literature professor, my dad’s colleague, Max refused to eat anything but fish. He’d walk on piano keys and listen to tones or he’d slept on a dining chair behind a curtain of an overhanging tablecloth. His favorite trick was to sneak out through the open window and watch the world from a cornice. We lived on the fifth floor in a crammed apartment in the Old Riga in Latvia. Perhaps too congested even for an agile cat. I could barely watch Max through the glass from the inside.
“Cats have excellent balance, don’t worry!” Dad tried to calm my pounding heart.
“Max!” I whispered hoping no sudden sound on the tilted metal will send him flying to his death.
But Max didn’t listen. He’d walk from one cornice to another, looking at alerted pigeons and the restless crowd on the street below.
He’d return when the smell of cooked cod through the cracked window tickled his wet nose. After dinner, he’d lay on Dad’s lap while Dad analyzed unpublished letters of Dostoyevsky. My interaction with Max was punctuated by toothmarks on my hands and long scratches on my arms. A punishment for the crime of being a rough playmate.
One spring day, Max walked past the pigeons, across the rooftops, and descended to the street where felines socialized. We had not fixed him, of course, it wasn’t common at that time. He never returned.
Dad saw him months later, a skeleton of a cat, whatever fur was not missing, stuck out in patches at odd angles. Eyes hungry, but indifferent. “
“Did he want to come back?” Ewelina asks.
“No, when Dad called his name, Max looked at him as if to say “yes, I remember you, but this is my life now,” before turning away. I think animals should be free to follow what’s natural for their species. I’m not getting another pet, that’s for sure!” I conclude.
Uncertain silence hangs around the fire circle.
“Did you have a pet as a kid, Josh?” I turn in the direction of my curly-haired friend.
Josh’s teeth shine a smile he wears no matter what he is talking about.
“When I was seven years old, I got a monkey.”
“In North Carolaaaina?” I mock.
“Nah, my father was a missionary in Africa. We moved a lot and I didn’t have friends. Folks from the local village gave me a monkey. Toto, a baby with black and white fur stayed with me as if I was his father. The poachers took his mom, or at least that’s what people said. I fed Toto with young leaves and fruit and he snuggled with me.
One day, we were playing on the beach, watching waves soak the sand. Toto on my shoulder stopped fidgeting all of a sudden. I picked him up, turned around and froze under the tropical sun. Out of the thick jungle, a group of large monkeys was walking toward us on the beach. Not running and hollering, but silent, taking their time. I picked up Toto and held my breath, terrified they’d tear both of us to pieces.”
“Something tells me they didn’t.” Maura interjects.
“Well, the biggest male came right to me, his eyes serious, but not angry. He picked up Toto from my arms, placed him on his back and turned around. Then, the whole troop walked back to the jungle, just as unrushed as they appeared. Not one turned around, not even Toto. When I woke up from stupor, I ran home, sinking into the sand with each step as in a bad dream. I never had any pets since that day.”
“Pretty wild!” Maura sums up everyone’s thoughts. “I think I’m ready to call it a day.”
Josh and I pour water on the hot coals and the grey smoke smears the night sky. When it clears, blinking lights of distant galaxies mix with twinkles of the planes carrying exhausted travelers to Los Angeles. Spent, we also crawl to our tents and pass out.
***
The following Friday, I offered Ewelina a red sapphire, promised to cook her fish and respect her decisions. She agreed to care for me in sickness and in health. And a couple days later, Josh mentioned he’s planning to ask Maura the Big Question.
“Don’t know what to tell you, I’m pretty new to this myself.” I responded.
In a whirlpool of schedules and appointments we lost track of Josh and Maura, but a mutual friend told us that they broke up.
Ewelina bumped into Josh in a grocery store a few years later.
“The same old Josh with undeniable smile, just bigger,” she commented. “And, he had a little girl peeking from a shopping cart, and a curly-haired boy on his shoulders, perched like that little monkey he once had.”
After completion of Ph.D. in 2001, Oleg Daugovish has been researching the delicate lives of California strawberries. He rushes to tell growers about his discoveries and documents them in peer-reviewed journals. Aside from writing about plants, Oleg completed a humorous 61,000-word memoir about growing up in Latvia during Soviet times and sixteen ten-minute stories of creative non-fiction he’d love to share.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 