aware that he was useful. The household refuse end of the mountain was easy to get at but soon picked over. He had a sack, several buckets and plastic bags, and he would hover around the back of the rubbish trucks, darting in for anything edible. This was a hunt that took three—one to sniff for him, one to snarl at people and dogs who were there for the same reason, and he with his hands to find, grab and hold on. But it was dirty hunting, and nothing about it made him feel that he too had grown up with the others.
To raid the cemetery, moving from grave to grave to pick up the small offering of sweets and cookies that were left there, was more difficult. Just after dark the cemetery was overrun with dogs and people all doing the same. Romochka dreamed of leaping up to snap a graceful neck and bringing home something fresh all by himself.
Conscious of Golden Bitch’s occasional glance, Romochka thought he knew what she saw. His brothers and sisters hunted now for all. He alone still needed help. As summer advanced, however, his ability to gather things began to fill him with quiet pride. His hands could do what their paws and teeth could not. His haul these days from the fresh dumps was plenty indeed, and, with his brothers and sisters guarding him, he could ensure that he kept what he found.
With so many of them hunting and with Romochka’s rubbish and sweets collections, they were a good-looking clan, if grease-discoloured. Romochka’s ribs disappeared under a layer of muscle.
Some nights they went up to the ruin or the allotment to sing. They sang to all the clans of the mountain that their summer was joyous, filled with plenty, their bodies strong and sleek and their hopes high. They sang their own strength to the overarching sky and the spangled city. The other clans sang in the distance too. But when Romochka threw back his huge head and joined his shining voice to his family’s chorus, the clans of the forest and mountain fell silent.
Something was happening with Mamochka that Romochka couldn’t smell, but everyone else could. They all lingered over her and followed her around the lair, savouring it. Everyone seemed happy and excited. Mamochka enjoyed their attention—up to a point: she drove them off if they got too engrossed in what they could smell on her. Then there came a time when they seemed to smell her as a ritual dance, but there were no snarls or reprimands. Each in turn circled her then left her before she got angry. All except Black Dog would dance for this moment around Mamochka at every meeting, each with the same deference, then fall back and watch as Mamochka and Black Dog played and fought and played again. Then for two days Mamochka and Black Dog mated and did nothing else: joining, locking, panting, parting. They stayed stuck together for long stretches, exhausted, focused only on each other, with day passing into dusk. Even Romochka could smell them now and he tingled with a heady excitement. He felt the pressure of an obscure happiness. He watched in tune with the other dogs, who were lying with him around the edges of the dance. There was no envy. A serious satisfaction hung in the air, and in this he half guessed that they all, himself included, had worked and hunted, for this; and that with Mamochka and Black Dog’s dance their summer was fulfilled.
A silence filled the cooling air. The birds were still and the strange, gold light of autumn slowly took hold across the forests and through the trees of the parks and highrise yards.
Then the golden autumn was over early and suddenly. Three deep frosts burned everything that was delicate, blackening some leaves, freeze-drying others and tinting all with brown. For two days the waste lands smelled of haymaking, or tea: grass and leaves dried by ice, not sun. Aspen leaves had fluttered like flocks of golden birds in tight formation. Now the trees were half bare, raggedly festooned. Romochka, the dogs, the grey crows and smaller
To raid the cemetery, moving from grave to grave to pick up the small offering of sweets and cookies that were left there, was more difficult. Just after dark the cemetery was overrun with dogs and people all doing the same. Romochka dreamed of leaping up to snap a graceful neck and bringing home something fresh all by himself.
Conscious of Golden Bitch’s occasional glance, Romochka thought he knew what she saw. His brothers and sisters hunted now for all. He alone still needed help. As summer advanced, however, his ability to gather things began to fill him with quiet pride. His hands could do what their paws and teeth could not. His haul these days from the fresh dumps was plenty indeed, and, with his brothers and sisters guarding him, he could ensure that he kept what he found.
With so many of them hunting and with Romochka’s rubbish and sweets collections, they were a good-looking clan, if grease-discoloured. Romochka’s ribs disappeared under a layer of muscle.
Some nights they went up to the ruin or the allotment to sing. They sang to all the clans of the mountain that their summer was joyous, filled with plenty, their bodies strong and sleek and their hopes high. They sang their own strength to the overarching sky and the spangled city. The other clans sang in the distance too. But when Romochka threw back his huge head and joined his shining voice to his family’s chorus, the clans of the forest and mountain fell silent.
Something was happening with Mamochka that Romochka couldn’t smell, but everyone else could. They all lingered over her and followed her around the lair, savouring it. Everyone seemed happy and excited. Mamochka enjoyed their attention—up to a point: she drove them off if they got too engrossed in what they could smell on her. Then there came a time when they seemed to smell her as a ritual dance, but there were no snarls or reprimands. Each in turn circled her then left her before she got angry. All except Black Dog would dance for this moment around Mamochka at every meeting, each with the same deference, then fall back and watch as Mamochka and Black Dog played and fought and played again. Then for two days Mamochka and Black Dog mated and did nothing else: joining, locking, panting, parting. They stayed stuck together for long stretches, exhausted, focused only on each other, with day passing into dusk. Even Romochka could smell them now and he tingled with a heady excitement. He felt the pressure of an obscure happiness. He watched in tune with the other dogs, who were lying with him around the edges of the dance. There was no envy. A serious satisfaction hung in the air, and in this he half guessed that they all, himself included, had worked and hunted, for this; and that with Mamochka and Black Dog’s dance their summer was fulfilled.
A silence filled the cooling air. The birds were still and the strange, gold light of autumn slowly took hold across the forests and through the trees of the parks and highrise yards.
Then the golden autumn was over early and suddenly. Three deep frosts burned everything that was delicate, blackening some leaves, freeze-drying others and tinting all with brown. For two days the waste lands smelled of haymaking, or tea: grass and leaves dried by ice, not sun. Aspen leaves had fluttered like flocks of golden birds in tight formation. Now the trees were half bare, raggedly festooned. Romochka, the dogs, the grey crows and smaller
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