Kukla: The Life of a Greek Stray

 

When I lived in Greece in the 80s, strays were part of the landscape. They were ever present, sleeping in the shade where they could find it or sitting while watching you patiently with big sad eyes as you ate at a sidewalk taverna. Occasionally someone would toss them a tidbit, they would wag their tails in thanks and slink off somewhere to enjoy it far from prying eyes.  Back then Greeks looked upon dogs as serving a purpose. They were guards dogs and hunting dogs, living on the food their masters discarded. During the famine in World War II dogs were a coveted source of food, disappearing for a time from the Athenian landscape. Even in the best of times Greeks didn't keep dogs indoors and they certainly didn't sleep on their sofas or beds.  Keeping dogs as pets was just coming into vogue yet even those kept as pets weren't dressed up in cute costumes nor did they receive healthcare services on a par with humans. If they were lucky they had a courtyard as their kingdom, sometimes they lived on high Athenian balconies, spending their time pacing back and forth or barking at some percieved intuder. A few were chained up on invariably short chains, often in the blazing Mediterranean sun with an empty water bowl to keep them company.

Needless to say, many escaped. Who could blame them? Some were turned loose to fend for themselves when their owners tired of them.  They were forced to wander aimlessly the streets and neighborhoods of Athens.  Survival hinged to a great extent on intelligence, those that didn't make the cut ended up dead on the side of a road, the victim of some speeding motorist in a hurry to get to his next destination.  More than once I watched marveling as a stray waited patiently at a busy corner, until the humans there decided it was safe to cross the throughfare and the stray crossing safely with them. These strays, despite being the victims of man's cruelty or at best indifference, had a gentleness about them.  They were wary of humans but never held a grudge against them it seemed to me. They realized that survival was dependednt on these strange two legged creatures with whom their wild ancestors had forged an unbreakable contract thousands of years ago around some campfire surrounded by the forbidding darkness beyond. If man broke that contract now and then, there was always hope that another one would come around the next corner and make things right once again.  

They wandered all over the city of Athens, from the fashionable districts, a stones throw from the center of the city, to the ever expanding suburbs dotted with apartments in various stages of constructions and dirt roads still waiting to be paved.  I lived in one of those suburbs called Anovoula in a little first floor apartment which I found when I arrived in Greece.  The apartment building was owned by a Greek gentleman who had spent his youth making his fortune in South Africa and had only recently returned to Greece. He had a teenage son and daughter, so like all good Greeks he had built an apartment building with three floors, one for himself and his spouse and one each for his children when they married. And like any good Greek he thumbed his nose at the law that prohibited first floor aparatments. He proceeded to build one under the very noses of the municipal authorities which he promptly rented to the first American serviceman, pockets bulging with American dollars, he could find.

It was there in Anovoula that I began my first experience of life in Greece, being the first person in my "Greek" family to actually live within the borders of the modern Greek state. I worked in an office building near Syntagma Square across from the stately Grande Bretagne. Heady times.  Every afternoon I would arrive home, change and go out for a run. It was my way to blow off steam, more importantly it was essential to staying in shape since I would eventually return to the real Marine Corps with its emphasis on physical fitness.  Running up and down the surrounding hills of my neighborhood, I received more than my share of surprised looks.  Greeks didn't go jogging and certainly not in the afternoon heat, that was only something some crazy amerikanaki did. 

It was on one of those runs that I first met a yellow female mutt which I named Kukla, in memory of a beloved family dog that I grew up with. Kukla means "doll, " and so she was, on the inside and out. I had seen her more than a few times meandering through the neighborhood during my daily jaunt through Anovoula. I started carrying a treat or two with me and when I would see her I would motion to her and call her new name. At first she would approach warily and sit about 20 feet or so from me, watching me intently.  I'd throw her a morsel and she would smell it and lick it a few times then gobble it up. For weeks, each time I'd throw something to her the distance between us became shorter until eventually she trusted me enough to let me feed her from my hand.  She would follow me home at a distance and I would get her a bowl of water and feed her. Then we would sit for a while and enjoy the sun dipping slowly into the sea below.  I would pat her on the head, that was her signal to leave and off she would go into the night.

So it went. We became dependent on one another. We both satisfied an important need in the other, the need to be wanted and loved by another creature. I was far away from home, living alone and Kukla was without an owner, someone to feed and pet her. She became a regualr visitor to the street I lived on, I could always depend on her being nearby when I pulled up in my car. I'd whistle and she would come running at full speed to jump on me repeatedly as if she had found a long lost friend.  We had become inseparable, a common sight together. She had begun to put some meat on her bones and was no longer covered by engorged ticks. She would sit quietly and allow me to pick each tick off with tweezers depositing them in a can.  Kukla had become a neighborhood fixture, so much so that the locals were calling her Kukla as well.

Kukla began following me on my daily runs, sticking dutifully at my side, even when it appeared she was having difficulty keeping up, falling further and further behind.  I'd slow down a bit and she would catch up, not to be out done. Once a ferocious looking German Sheperd came out of a walled garden barking furiously at me, baring its teeth, the terrified owner running after him trying to get to him before he got to me. I looked around for a rock to throw when Kukla came out of nowhere lunging at that hulk of a dog. She latched on to his ear biting down hard. It was obviously not the first time she had been involved in a dogfight, quickly gaining the upper hand. The German Sheperd yelped in pain and it was over. She let him go and he scurried away tail between his legs but not before his owner put a well placed kick in his hind quarters to add insult to injury. That night we shared souvlakia together until we could eat no more, their aroma like the sweet smell of victory. 

Despite our friendship Kukla was always a free spirit. She would spend time with me but I think she instinctively sensed that our time together would come to an end. Eventually I realized Kukla was carrying puppies and her time was nigh at hand. For the first time she came to my door scratching at it, something she had never done before. When I opened the door, she walked right in, found a corner and plopped herself down. She was going to give birth in my apartment, as if she knew this would be the safest place to do so. All I could think of was a brood of yelping little puppies running all over my apartment and my landlord screaming bloody murder.  I set to work building a makeshift whelping box, setting it up in a corner of an empty lot. I put a blanket in it, laid a water bowl next to it then went back to my apartment where I put a makeshift leash on Kukla to take her away. I will never forget the way she looked at me with her accusing eyes while I put the rope around her neck.

I stayed by her side that night until she gave birth to three puppies who sucked eagerly at her tit. Two eventually died and I buried them side by side together, wrapped in a cloth.  The remaining white and yellow puppy thrived.  One of the neighbors, a Greek-Australian came over to pay Kukla a visit and see the new puppy with his seven  year old son, who immediately fell in love with the little ball of fur. Eventually they took the puppy away from Kukla and it was saved from a life on the street. A few weeks later I came home one night and whistled for Kukla. It went unanswered, again the next day and every day thereafter. I searched for her everywhere however, I never found out what happened to her. She had left my life as suddenly and without warning as she had enetered it.

Kukla is just a memory now, like many of the other animals that have graced my life. Sometimes I wonder if they go to heaven. Could there be a better place for God's own creatures that love us unconditionally even when we are less than kind to them? Shall we meet all our loved ones in the afterlife? If so, I hope it includes all the four legged companions that I have loved and who have loved me. May they all come running when I whistle, once again.

01 La Luna 

Comments

[Dimitrios]

The Power of the Dog

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passsion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart to a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find--it's your own affair--
But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long--
So why in--Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Rudyard Kipling

I've had to take a dog to be administered "the lethal chamber" two times in my life so far...it doesn't get easier. Especially as I know I'll have to do it at least one more time in about eleven or so years time. My little mutt, Stella, is sleeping on the sofa across the room from me, blissfully oblivious to cares about inevitable mortality. My wife is determined that there will be no more dogs after this one; her soft heart protests at acquiring yet another hostage to fortune. This is a real difference marking off Diaspora Greeks- we've assimilated a different view of the value of animals like dogs and cats as companions, rather than as hunting aids, alarm systems and mousetraps.
Admittedly, in the Anglo nations the thing has gone to the other extreme: dressing up animals, taking them for pedicures, treating them not only like humans, but better than other human beings. I see this as an expression of misanthropy, a reaction of human beings to an often ugly culture...but that is another story ("Hellenism Is The Solution")
Perhaps the keeping of pets is a kind of practice, a little training for the heart for the time when the losses to Charos of those whom we love begin to mount.

[Stavros]

Love always opens us up to the possibility of hurt and loss. If we avoid love for that reason we also avoid all that it offers. We have an 11 year old Schnauzer named Charlie, a cockatiel named Sunshine and a parakeet named Cloudy. Although they are not a substitute for people, they have enriched our lives.

[Shunda]

Thank you for sharing this beautiful lovely story!!! :-)

[Stavros]

So glad you enjoyed it Shunda.

[Kevin McEvily]

Wonderful writing and sentiments, Stavros. So many different and quite unexpected pleasures await visitors here. Thanks.
"I care not much for a man's religion whose dog and cat are not the better for it."
-- A. Lincoln

[Stavros]

Ela Kevin,

Yes a veritable wonderland of an old man's musings and fading memories. :) Hope you are well, my friend. Visited the old neighborhood recently. East 91st Street is unrecognizable, populated by twenty somethings who have made the place much more livable though above my price range. PS 151 has been replaced by high rise, high end condos. Our Lady of Good Counsel School building is still there but alas no longer houses children. All the little street urchins like myself who grew up there are long gone, The block was strangely quiet for a Manhattan location..How right the poet was when he wrote "you can't go home again."

[Kevin McEvily]

Stavros,

The poet wasn't always so pessimistic.

As it did with your friend, Dimitrios, your story (and your comments) brought an old poem to my mind. We had to memorize this du Bellay sonnet in High School:

Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage,
Ou comme cestuy-là qui conquit la toison,
Et puis est retourné, plein d'usage et raison,
Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son âge!

Quand reverrai-je, hélas, de mon petit village
Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison
Reverrai-je le clos de ma pauvre maison,
Qui m'est une province, et beaucoup davantage?

Plus me plaît le séjour qu'ont bâti mes aïeux,
Que des palais Romains le front audacieux,
Plus que le marbre dur me plaît l'ardoise fine:

Plus mon Loir gaulois, que le Tibre latin,
Plus mon petit Liré, que le mont Palatin,
Et plus que l'air marin la doulceur angevine.

When I was a small child, often -- out of the blue -- my mother would turn to me and ask, "Kev, do you think you'll ever go back?"

I never knew whether she was talking about Ireland or New York or some other place. When I asked she'd merely say, "Oh, just back." She never seemed to expect or want any kind of verbal response. It was probably more her own past than mine -- which was in fact too short to consider when I first heard the question -- that caused her repeatedly to make this strange, wistful inquiry.

Quite often your thoughts and those of your readers make me think of these lines of poetry and of my mother's question. I admire you and so many others who post here for the journeys and the returns you all have made -- and for sharing your experiences and observations -- and wisdom.

Regards to Father Panteleimon whose "beau voyage" also regularly finds its way into my thoughts and prayers.

[Stavros]

"If Socrates leaves his house today he will find the sage seated on his doorstep. If Judas goes forth tonight it is to Judas his steps will tend.’ Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-law. But always meeting ourselves."
— James Joyce (Ulysses)

[Simon Baddeley]

Llewelyn, prince of North Wales, had a palace at Beddgelert. One day he went hunting without Gelertm his faithful hound, who couldn't be found unaccountably. On Llewelyn's return the truant, stained and smeared with blood, joyfully sprang to meet his master. The prince alarmed hastened to find his son, and saw the infant's cot empty, the bedclothes and floor covered with blood. The frantic father plunged his sword into the hound's side, thinking it had killed his child. The dog's dying yell was answered by a child's cry. Llewelyn searched and discovered his boy unharmed. Near by lay the body of a mighty wolf which Gelert had slain. The prince filled with remorse is said never to have smiled again.
A story that I learned as a child. Thanks for yours and those who commented.

[Stavros]

I have a feeling that when the two of them met again, Gelertm, wagged his tail and licked the Prince's hand and that the Prince smiled once again, albeit with tears in his eyes. At least that's how I would end the story.

[TenX50]

Hi Stavros! Please forgive the unrelated post, but I didn't see another way to contact you. I'm a book publicist in NH currently promoting a new novel about the Greek immigrant community in New England. The novel touches on a lot of topics that you're knowledgeable about & I think you'd enjoy reading it. If you're interested in more info, and in getting a promotional copy for potential review, please contact me at: Zakariah.Johnson AT Gmail DOT com.

Thanks much. Great blog!

best,
-Zak

[Dimitrios]

BTW Stavros, is everything OK? Sorry if I'm intruding, but I've tried your email and no response. I didn't see any other way of contacting you, either;)
Let me know

[Stavros]

All is well. I haven't gotten any emails. My email address is snashi@maine.rr.com if anyone wants to contact me.

[Argos]

This article brings to mind a sad episode in my early years in Greece. My parents had a lovely, house, in kokinia, with an open garden. One afternoon in 1947, a stray dog,hairy, sqattish, greyish dark, entered the garden and chose itself a space close to the lemon tree and "made it his night spot". The dog would pernoctate under the lemon tree, rain, snow or starry night, and would go out of the garden ,soon after sunrise, presumably on his errands during the day, punctually returning after sunset, and heading straight for his prefered spot. My father had no choice but to "adopt it". My father would leave bones and stew for the dog, and he even built a small shelter for it; who he baptized it with the unflattering name of "alitis". There was never any "fraternization" with Alitis; one can not fraternize with a dog which appears only at night to have his sleep and then vanish the following day. My parents kept wondering why this dog kept coming back to our garden every evening and spending the night and gone the following day. We never saw Alitis in the garden during the day .Alitis was also a silent dog, he hardly barked or yelped. However , one evening in May 1948, Alitis came into the garden and from the second it got into his shelter he begun an incessant, long mournful wail and sonorous howling. Well past midnight the howling had not stopped. My father wondered what could be wrong with Alitis, but he did not ventured out to investigate. From my remotest memory, I was four years old at the time. I recall the long and continual howling thorughout the night well into the early hours of the following morning.That night the family did not have a normal sleep. I recall my father saying at day break, thank God the the howling has stopped. At around 11 a.m I remember our neighbors across the road, the policeman's son and his sister came into the house greeted my mother, hugged her effusively and gave her a kiss on both cheeks. My mother had tears in his eyes, I could not figure out why the kisses and hugs; as the morning progressed more and more more friends and acquaintances, almost the entire neighborhood, kept streaming into the house and bidding my parents farewell. I found out later in the afternoon as a mini van arrived and took several trunks and luggage and drove us to Piraeus ,that we were emigrating to Uruguay . Was Alitis's all night howling a way of saying good by to my father, the bones, the stews, the shelter and the garden which had been his nightly hotel for the past several months ?. We will never know,we never saw Alitis that morning, or ever again.Aliti's memory stayed with us for a while. I recall my parents many time wondering and trying to figure out the riddle of the stray who arrived at our home, made our garden its nightly abode,hardly saw anyone of us durung daytime, and never stopped howling the night before our parting from mother Ellas.

[Stavros]

"Alitis," how appropriate. For those that don't speak Greek it means vagabond or bum. Still it seems he formed an attachment to your family and I would like to think that he had a sixth sense about you leaving and mourned your departure.

It never ceases to amaze me how we Greeks are condemned to exile, spread out over the far flung corners of the world yet still remember Mother Ellas even at the tender age of 4. Such is her hold on our collective imagination.

[My Greek Spirit]

I love the music in the background, beautiful mandolino music, I would love a link to download it for myself, I have added you to my blog and posted your recent article. Great site, keep spreading the greek word :) Efharisto

[Stavros]

Many thanks. The music is fro an Album called Afternoon in Venice. I put the MP3 file in the Dalaras folder on the right side of my homepage so you can download it.

Na se kala, file.