Damien Galeone

It’s a Thursday, which means it’s my short day. I finish teaching at 10:30 and unless I have some pressing deadline of some pressing work that’s pressing my sinuses, I more or less have the rest of the day free. Sadly, it’s usually the former and I often come home to sit and work while my cat and dog surround me in an obsequiousness borne of sleepiness and too many treats.

Today, however, I seem to have the day free. Since I rarely take a full day off, I tend to take my days off in afternoons. My deadlines for the week were all earlier and as far as I know, nobody is expecting anything from me in the new few days. I decide to celebrate my liberation by attending to tasks, given that it’s too early to hole up in a bar. Besides, I’m on a mission.

A year ago, I bought a pair of light pants perfect for summer travel. But there’s a problem – cause when you’re 5’7 and built like a guy who swung a double-headed battle axe to save Middle Earth from Sauron – pants are never not a problem. These pants are larger around the waist than is totally comfortable. Perfect for sitting in a pub or a restaurant while on holiday and for providing extra space between waist and waistband in which to fit holiday food intake. However, these pants have no belt loop and, though they are comfortable while sitting, are just too large. The one time I used them I grew tired of taking pictures of the Janiculum while holding up my pants with my other hand. I need a solution.

That solution came to me in my sleep one night. I awoke with a vision. The vision made so much sense that I was near certain nobody here would do it. I would get another button hole put in the pants about 2–3 centimeters in from the original button hole. This would be the button hole used for walking when I need a tighter fit. The (original) button hole which made the pants looser would be for sitting and eating ice cream and his assortment of tasty siblings. I’m a genius. Now, let’s just see if I can a. explain it to a tailor and b. convince them to do it.

First, I need a tailor. Preferably one I won’t mind being rejected by. I read about a good one near my flat, but her shop is on the other side of the tracks. In this case, the tracks are those of the metro that separate us from the other side of the road. And, not to sound snobby, between their side and our side, there is a distinct difference in feel, mood, tone, and number of people mostly naked and under the influence of something that makes them think that being naked in public at noon on a Thursday is OK. Nevertheless, I get ready to go.

The dog makes it clear that she had no intention of remaining at home base while I go for an adventure. She stands at the door and sings her weird elvish throat music until I put the leash on her. We visit our normal spots – which she defiles – and then I throw in our monkey wrench by crossing the street. She is excited but curious. As always – and possibly because of my prejudices – right away we note the other side of the tracks’ gloomier and shabbier atmosphere. Two men speak louder than Czechs usually do and pass a bottle of bottom-shelf clear liquor back and forth. They ignore me. As they approach and pass, I feel the leash vibrate with a back-of-throat growl from my tiny dog.  

Now my dog is small and good-natured. She curls up against us and sleeps on the couch while you pet her rhythmically as might a Roman emperor. But she doesn’t exactly scream ‘combat dog’. People don’t avoid us because they are afraid of our dog – a thing you want when you are going to a place you refer to as the other side of the tracks. It’s hard to scare people with a dog that loves French fries and coercing us into giving her belly rubs.

Making matters slightly more X-factorish is the fact that though my dog is not one to send would-be assailants running scared, it is clear that nobody has explained this to the dog. My dog is unimposing, but this doesn’t stop her from voicing her dislike of larger dogs she deems threatening and people who put off a particular aura. These people are almost always the ones with heavily dilated pupils and scouring through a trashcan or searching the ground for a cigarette butt with some oomph left in it. To all others she couldn’t be happier to see and leap on and get picked up by.

The two men don’t notice – or completely ignore my dog’s quiet ‘intruder alert’. I rein her in enough that she’s unlikely to let out a few sharp barks. I scurry us away and we look for the tailor. On the way, the dog finds several broken bottles, a syringe, a shoe that might have a toe in it, and five people that look like they have little to no time for a dog. My dog sets a low growl out for a man who is in a wheelchair but pushing himself around with one bare foot. He is in danger of getting a DUI if a police officer happens by. He smiles down at the dog and speaks to her in soothing tones. The dog instantly changes tune and becomes excited to see him, pulling at the leash to go say hi. I foresee her riding through the square with her new friend, tongue out and flapping in the breeze. I elect to quell this friendship, apologize to the man for my dog and run away.

I don’t run far. I find the tailor, which is roughly four feet from my dog’s new friend. It is now a completely empty room whose door is unlocked. I open the door and call inside. Nothing. The man begins a discussion with me, I believe, on the state of shopping in the Czech Republic. My dog pulls the whole time to meet her new buddy, who leans so forward in his chair to entice her that I envision myself picking him up and putting him back into it in a short while.

I eventually pick the dog up and we journey back. The mission is over. Now it’s time to leave Mordor and get back to the side of the tracks I know, love, and don’t fear. On our side once again, the dog struts. Having been to a danger zone and back, she feels the confidence of the journeyed. As we head across the park to my flat, we notice a man picking through the trash. My replacement, I figure. I ventured to their side; they sent someone to our side. My dog ignites a tiny throat growl, but we walk by with no further incident. The dog, it seems, is growing as a person. Maybe I should act more like her.