My Heart Breaks

Elska likes rugs. Indoors and outdoors

Certain things about me have to clarified at this point. I run, what I can confidently call the best boarding kennel in Sri Lanka in my backyard (as you have probably deduced if you are reading this blog).  This career move came out of a sincere love of all things furry which is a congenital defect and there is no known cure. The moment I got married to a man, who loves animals as much as I do but cleverly disguises it beneath his thin ‘I am a man and I have no feelings’ veneer, I began to systematically acquire every kind of animal I could afford to keep. My household now has within it five dogs, three silkie hens, one silver phoenix rooster and two phoenix hens, two guinea fowls, four cats and two guinea pigs. Throw in the twenty something guppies that swim around in a large cement bowl and you have yourself an authentic menagerie. 

So when Elska went upstairs for the first time, she waddled around, sniffing here and there and found herself in my large upstairs bathroom. The bathroom is also where my guinea pigs (Peanut and Ball) live, beneath the sink and accompanying counter where there is an open space that has been boarded off just for them. Elska couldn’t see over the wooden boards which the other dogs could, but just like any other dog she smelled a rat, or in this case some kind of rodent to be sure. I was afraid that in her excitement or having never  been exposed to a guinea pig she may hurt them or make one her dinner. I allowed her to sniff but the moment she jumped up to bang her paws against the wooden boards, I reacted.

I don’t hit my dogs. Sure, I give them an obligatory and completely useless pat on the bottom when they misbehave and equally useless warnings of ‘mummy will smack’ permeate the air in my house several times a day, but my dogs know that ‘mummy’ wouldn’t hurt a fly, though she has murdered her fair share of mosquitoes. What I do when they do something to upset me is voice a sharp “no” which happens simultaneously with a stern wag of my index finger. So when Elska jumped up, I said ‘no’ and raised my hand to wag my finger at her.

As she saw my hand come up, she shrunk from me, turning her head to a side, her eyes closed in anticipation of pain. As Elska cowered from me, I lowered my finger and got down on my knees to turn her face toward mine. I knew she had been hurt then, beaten perhaps. Tears flowed freely down my face as I wept for my Elska and what she had endured. I wept for her, as I am sure no one had done before. I wept because it seemed so unjust. Elska was a dog and she could have bitten anyone who tried to hurt her. She could have bitten me or growled in warning. She could have even run away and found a hiding place. But Elska chose to accept what she thought was a beating. As though if I had deemed that she deserved it then she must deserve it after all. I held her little head in my hands and I said my promise to her out loud. “Don’t worry Elska. No one will ever hurt you ok? I promise”

I worried that on her first night in the way that most new dogs do, Elska would want to join me on the bed. I already share my bed with Tinkerbell, my Dalmatian who hogs my sheets and snores in my ear. I had to be mindful of what Elska may have brought along with her from the pet shop, like ticks and mites so I hoped she wouldn’t whine to sleep with me. Most dogs immediately figure out that the way to my heart is through whining. But I had forgotten of course that Elska knew nothing of furniture, of pillows and sheets. She only knew of the chicken wire in her cage so she found a rug and curled up and slept for the first time, in her new home.