The Jewish Dog (4 page)

After the meal
,
everyone joyously sang the holiday songs
.
Back then
,
being but a small and ignorant pup
,
I didn't understand a word of Aramaic
.
I couldn't appreciate the existential truth that was folded into the lines
,
“
Ve'ata calba venashach leshunra . . 
.
ve'ata hutra vehika lechalba
– and then came the dog that bit the cat
 . .
 
.
and then came the stick that hit the dog.” Always know who fears you
,
and whom you must fear.

As I was declared a part of the family
,
there was a unanimous decision to give me the leftover pot roast
.
Moishe was given the task of placing the pot roast in my bowl
,
and he did it gladly
.
After he set the leftovers down
,
he looked
,
satisfied
,
upon the delight he caused me
,
and a feeling of righteousness warmed his little heart
.
It's hard for me to precisely describe the wave of emotions that overtook me at that moment
.
A bowlful of pot roast
!
All mine and only mine
!
I scared myself by growling at Mother when she dared to come close and examine my windfall
.
That pot roast would come to me in my dreams and would appear before my eyes in the years of famine that were waiting right around the corner.

CHAPTER 5

T
he morning after Seder Night
,
Kalman and Reizel took me out for an early walk
.
Two blocks from our home
,
I saw a lone dog crossing the street in faltering strides
.
The dog was thin and his hip bones protruded
.
His eyes were big and bulging
,
his fur was patchy
,
and he was covered in filth
.
A burst of anger left my chest in a series of loud barks.

“Why is he barking so?” Reizel asked her father
,
who hurried to shush me and tightened his grip on my collar
.
I stood on my hind legs
,
barking incessantly
.
Something in the pitiable sight of the dog on the other side of the road sparked uncontrollable anger within me
.
If only Kalman would let go of my leash
,
I would pounce on the wretched creature
,
teeth bared.

“It's a stray,” Kalman explained to her
.
“I don't know why
,
but since the dawn of time there has been an unwritten rule that house dogs don't like strays.”

The stray fearfully tucked his tail between his legs and ran to the street corner
.
Only after he left my field of vision did I relax
.
It was the first time in my life that I had smelled such a sharp scent of fear on one of my canine brethren.

When we returned from our walk
,
the Gottlieb family was already convened in the living room.

“Come
,
sit down,” Shoshana said
.
“It's time to choose a name for him.”

Reizel spoke up immediately
.
“Let's call him Caleb.”

“Why should we call him Caleb?” the brothers protested
.
Kalman and the boys wanted to give me an appropriate
,
creative name
.
Shoshana sat silently and watched her family as they searched high and low for the perfect match
.
Like a stubborn shoe
,
the names simply didn't fit
.
For each name
,
there were countless reasons why not
:
too heroic
,
too self-flattering
,
too long
;
he isn't brown
,
he isn't a poodle
;
too Jewish
,
too corny.

When the deluge of ideas ceased
,
there was a contemplative silence in the room
,
and Shoshana spoke up
.
“Come to think of it
,
what's wrong with Reizel's idea? Why don't we call him Caleb?”

Reizel came up to me and sat by my side
.
I looked at her with a cocked gaze
,
waiting for the verdict
.
She pressed a finger to my forehead
.
“Caleb,” she said
.
“You are Caleb.”

I looked at her
,
puzzled
.
What exactly was she trying to say?

“I am Reizel,” she pointed at herself
.
“And you,” she once again pressed her finger to my forehead
,
“are Caleb
.
Do you understand? You are Caleb.”

I still wasn't sure.

“I'm Reizel,” she pointed again
.
“And you are Caleb
.
Caleb is you
.
You are Caleb.”

I barked twice
,
as a sign of confirmation
:
“All right
,
I got it
.
I am Caleb!”

Reizel hugged me tightly and smiled
,
showing off a gleaming set of white teeth.

Several days later
,
I was given a new collar with an identifying tag
.
I was a real dog now
.
My new name was ceremoniously displayed in curly letters:
CALEB
.

The collar had but brushed my neck when the sky darkened
.
Thick clouds covered the heavens and lightning bolts struck
.
I approached the open window and looked out
.
A voice spoke from heaven
:
“Thy name shall not be called any more ‘the white one with the black circle around his eye and brown patch on his chest' but rather Caleb shall be your name.”

“Yes,” I barked
.
“I know
.
Reizel already explained the whole thing.”

I looked back and saw the children playing obliviously
.
I knew the voice was addressing only me
.
I looked again at the clouds
,
but they quickly dispersed and left behind them a clear blue sky
.
Below me
,
the road I was so accustomed to watching stretched out as usual
,
but everything suddenly seemed to make sense
.
I felt like I had bitten into the fruit of the tree of knowledge.

The following days were blessedly routine
.
Every day
,
my mother and I were taken out for morning and evening walks
.
Kalman would lead us on a leash
.
My mother would relieve herself on the large lawn across the road
.
I preferred emptying my bladder in a series of strategic locations
:
the lamppost adjacent to the front gate
,
the fire hydrant at the street corner
,
and the roots of the apple tree
,
which accepted the stream of urine with dignity
.
The public telephone booth next to the newspaper stand proved to be a urination spot that was not to be missed.

The newspaper vendors would call out
,
announcing this and that to the passersby
.
Their cries were mostly about a fellow named Hitler
.
My vocabulary thus far helped me glean from what they said that Hitler
,
much like myself
,
was very occupied with the matter of territory
.
Every time Kalman passed the newspaper stands
,
I could feel gloom spread through his heart
.
If Kalman had a tail
,
it would no doubt be tucked between his legs.

In the afternoons
,
Kalman would leave Mother at home and take me out for my own walk
.
I was granted this extra walk
,
since I had not yet acquired the ability to control my bladder for long periods of time
.
These afternoon walks were also an opportune time for meeting up with friends
.
I would regularly meet Karl Gustav
.
Karl Gustav was the dog who barked at me from his window in the grey building
.
He was a powerful Rottweiler
,
and his owner was an old
,
hunchbacked man
.
The first time I met Karl Gustav
,
I feared it would end in a fight
,
but to my relief
,
Karl Gustav was surprisingly friendly
.
He approached me and stood in a position that said “sniff me and I'll sniff you.” First he examined me closely
,
wondering if there was a spark of spunk in me that would endanger his status in the neighborhood
.
When he was convinced that I was simply looking to play
,
his face brightened and he barked at me using the informal “you.”

When Karl Gustav's stooped owner and Kalman met, they would turn toward the Rosenpark and let us off our leashes and let us become engrossed in playful running. Our favorite game was a basic version of what is usually called “tag.” The rules were simple. Each time, one of us (usually me) took initiative, straightened his front legs on the grass, and lifted his bum and tail skyward – a position that meant: I will run, catch me if you can. First I ran from him, and then he ran from me. You might think that such a game is boring, a game with no end. But we didn't think so. We played with great enthusiasm until our lungs gave out, and we lay on the grass struck by exhaustion, huffing and puffing with our tongues protruding. I barely recognized myself as I played with endless vigor. Was this the same puppy who, in his youth, preferred pondering on the sidelines over playing with his brothers? I hypothesized that home created a relaxing atmosphere, unbefitting any frolicking, whereas the cool breeze and green meadows encouraged more playfulness.

On a handful of occasions
,
more dogs joined the game
.
They were all members of the “tag club.” The rules of multiple player tag were more complex than the basic tag I played with Karl Gustav – at times the rules would change mid-game
.
When there was a great number of dogs and the innocent game evolved into a scene of pure chaos
,
I could feel myself change as well
.
The pack awakened ancient echoes inside me
.
The blood of my lupine ancestors began pulsing in my veins
.
But my wolfishness was lacking
.
I couldn't connect with my inner wolf the way my fellow “tag club” members could as they ran amok on the grass
,
biting at one another
.
My perspective of the world and of myself was already affected by broader understanding and insight
.
This feeling had intensified since I heard the heavenly voice speak to me
.
I simultaneously embodied a wild beast and an intelligent dog watching his wolfish brothers with their primitive traditions.

Every now and then
,
we were joined by Heidi and Brigitte
,
two pedigree poodles with twenty-thousand mark haircuts
.
Mostly
,
they came for a short backside sniff
,
and waived the invitation to join the game
.
They watched from a snobbish distance
,
as though they couldn't care less
,
and went on their way with their moist snouts raised proudly in the air.

On some walks I met Spitz
.
A miniature pinscher with a temper
,
he liked to bark at every passing dog
.
Spitz was the size of a rodent
,
and his narrow leash tied him to a young girl who would pull him back and constantly scold him
.
When the collar around his pinscher neck tightened
,
he would fall silent for a short moment
,
and look sourly at the girl
,
at me
,
and back at the girl
.
He would give me a glowering stare and bark at me for no good reason
.
Spitz's courage lasted mere seconds
.
When I'd bark back
,
he would drop his tail and let out a whimper of surrender.

“He's a fraud,” Kalman whispered to me with a wink
.
“A sheep in wolf's clothing.” I pointed my ears in agreement and
,
being unable to wink back
,
I added a canine nod of the head.

When I would return from my afternoon walks
,
Mother would hurry to my side and press her nose to mine
.
I would stand at attention
,
letting her sniff and examine me closely
.
I waited patiently until she finished sniffing out every piece of information she could find about the places I had visited and the friends I had met
.
After Mother was satisfied
,
I made my way to my feeding dish and water bowl
.
The long walk and dynamic game had left me with quite an appetite
,
and I wolfed down my food quickly
,
leaving the dish spotless
.
The family made sure I ate nothing but the food placed in my dish
.
I was absolutely forbidden to eat out
.
When I'd try to enrich my diet with food that came my way
,
I was slapped and scolded
.
A piece of strudel run over by a truck was still a viable snack in my eyes
,
but even that was forbidden
.
Needless to say
,
cat and horse feces were completely out of the question.

In their defense
,
the Gottliebs practiced what they preached
.
They set quite the example for not eating out of the house
.
Although the reason they avoided restaurants was a matter of
kashru
s
while I was forbidden to eat on the street because of hygiene
,
the fine example they set was a moral stamp of approval to their demands.