Where I now live in Prague gets very foggy in the winter months. This is because it sits on a plateau above Liben. Liben, as everyone knows, is very shady. Whatever the reasons, we spent the end of November, December and January is a cloud. Last Christmas, I wasn’t 100% convinced we’d been attacked by the Russians. I ate extra carbs in case I needed to store fat. I still store that fat – in the means of efficiency.
Nevertheless, this dense, high-climbing fog makes it like we’re in a Sherlock Holmes story in Victorian London. Sure, the kids on scooters and vaping residents kills that feel a bit. But we do have a group of homeless guys who hang out in the square that give a Holmesy vibe, especially the one who pushes himself around in his wheelchair with his remaining foot.
This foggy effect can be in turn disconcerting and cozy. Yesterday in the late afternoon, I was standing on my balcony looking out over the fog, I felt safe, warm, cozy. I was happy that I was up here and not down there; I was not in the spooky fog, where anything could get me – Jack the Ripper, vaping mugger, be-idioted scooter. From nowhere came a long, sad howl. A howl. Not a bark or a whine. A howl. And, as I said, long, drawn-out, sad, and not far enough to make me feel comfortable.
“Dog,” I said, comforting myself and my slippers. “Must be a dog.”
The long howl came again.
“A big dog, but a dog.”
One more big long howl.
“That’s a werewolf.”
I checked my watch: 3:51 pm. I then had to hedge my bets.
See, there are a few chores in my house. The basic cleaning, trash, refilling coffee: all done by me. (I long ago started finding it easier than the heated ‘negotiations’ these chores elicited; I have decided to find them meditative.) Then there’s the cat’s litter box – that’s me, as I have owned the cat since before Burke, I am in charge of everything that goes into or comes out of it. Fair. That leaves cooking, dishes, and the dog. These things are our prime negotiation points.
Today is my day to bring out the dog, but I have been cooking and doing the dishes more recently. I have also been much busier at work. I could wait it out and see if Burke undertook the pup’s walk on her own. But that gamble going wrong meant bringing the dog out in the dark and fog as opposed to just the fog. And now that there’s this werewolf out there…
The dog and I are outside. My window is about fifty feet. I see the poodle next door and the yappy rat catcher dog from the other side. Coming in on our left is the chihuahua. The howl comes again. Maisy looks up and in the direction of the howl. I can see her nose working. The poodle does the same. Maisy runs to her favorite pee spot and sniffs around.
Occasionally, I think about how strange it is that we have dogs. People’s best friends to be sure, but to consider that each of these dogs are more distinctly different than any humans. The poodle was bred as water retrievers for hunters in Germany. Its curly hair was meant to stay dry in the water and protect its joints. The chihuahua was raised as guard dogs and to be sacrificed – no wonder they’re so damn nervous all the time. Tied to leash I am holding is a dog raised to be palace companions in ancient China.
The howl comes again. The dogs look up and sniff. I wonder what’s happening. The poodle hunkers a little and gently coaxes its mother towards home. The chihuahua doesn’t make a sound but its little feet tapping on the pavement tell a tale of nervousness and anxiety. As long as the werewolf doesn’t sacrifice him, I guess he’ll be OK. They disappear inside.
We are looking down the wide walkway that disappears into the dense fog. A howl. Not far. Maisy lets a little growl ignite in her throat. I don’t like this. This is usually the time in the movie when the distant howl turns into a nearby growl. Maisy’s nose is working. I begin dragging her towards the door, saying the key words: “hungry? Want a piskoty?” It’s hard at first, but then I remember that I outweigh her by 189 pounds and I pick her up and walk to my backdoor. As I push though, evidently to safety, a shadow comes into view in the distance. The howl comes again. By the time we get inside, I think I might have to call the authorities.
Upstairs, away from real life, I put my slippers back on. I ease into my cardigan and give the dog a treat as promised. I look back out over my foggy neighborhood and, as the next howl comes, wonder how I’m going to get Burke to do the 8 o’clock walk. I guess I’ll cook and do the dishes. If only people in the movies could avoid werewolves so easily.
