In the early days of my blog, I wrote two very long chapters on my summer in Zlata Praha (Golden Prague) in 1991. There was so much that was simply magical about a city with a “modern” history going back more than a millennium; that in more recent times had survived the Nazi occupation of World War II and the 23-year Soviet occupation of 1968-1991; and that really knew how to celebrate the departure of the last of the Soviet troops . . . the very week that I arrived.

But during a recent mental meandering through some of the more amusing episodes of my travels during the ‘80s, ‘90s and ‘00s (“aughts”?), two things somehow stood out from the Prague days . . . both involving dogs. And since wa-a-ay more people didn’t read my first posts than actually did, here are those two tales again. They still make me laugh, but I don’t know — maybe you had to be there, because . . . well . . . that’s Prague.

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Meeting the Neighbors. I had been sent overseas for a few months by my American law firm to work in our newly-established Prague office. My apartment there was on the second floor of a generic Soviet-style building near the foot of a ridiculously steep hill. The hallway light operated on a timer and had to be switched on each time I entered the building or left my apartment, if I didn’t want to commit suicide on the uneven stairs. The apartment itself had a fairly large bedroom, and a small living room, where there was a wardrobe with a man’s clothes still hanging in it. (I never did find out who they belonged to, and no one ever came to claim them.) There was also a tiny bathroom where the hot water ran reddish-brown for several minutes before clearing enough for a quick shower. A sit-down bath was out of the question. The kitchen contained a working refrigerator, stovetop and sink; but I never learned to use the oven, which showed temperatures in centigrade, or the Russian-made microwave, which I was sure would zap me with some sort of deadly rays if I dared try.

But none of that mattered, as I only slept, showered, and changed clothes there. The rest of my time was spent at the office, followed by dinner every evening with one or more of my co-workers at any of the many outstanding restaurants the city had to offer, and sightseeing all weekend, every weekend. So there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to become acquainted with the neighbors.

But there was the night I met the Dobermans. No, not the nice Jewish couple next door; these two were from upstairs. When I got out of the taxi in front of my building after dinner one evening, there was a small group of men standing nearby, just talking and enjoying the mild summer air. One of them called out to me, but he was speaking Czech and I couldn’t understand him. Thinking they were just being neighborly, I gave them a friendly wave as I opened the door to my building . . . and was confronted in the pitch-dark hallway by two humongous, solid black, barking, snarling, drooling, straining-at-the-leash Doberman Pinschers, ears up and tails down, obviously looking for someone to kill. Someone like me.

Startled out of my wits, I did what anyone would have done when facing imminent death: I let loose with a primal scream . . . the dogs’ owner screamed in response . . . the dogs barked louder . . . and all the while the men on the street were roaring with laughter. That was what they had been trying to tell me: look out for the dogs, who had just come back from their evening walkies. And when my neighbor and I finally stopped screaming, we joined the others in laughing at ourselves. The dogs — who lived directly above me — finally turned off the bark machines, and my heart rate slowed to a survivable 120 or so. The Doberman couple turned out to be sweethearts, once they got to know me, and their owner was a very pleasant guy . . . though I would have preferred to meet them some other way. Any other way.

*. *. *

And then there was . . .

The Minister’s Dog, who proved to me that in Prague, even a tragedy can end with a good laugh.

Dogs are treasured as pets in Europe, just as they are here in the U.S. And that included the dog belonging to the Czech Foreign Minister.

We had an American attorney working with us — a bright but spoiled young woman from a well-to-do family, who never quite adapted to the easy-breezy way of life in Prague. Our law firm had been retained by the new Czech government to advise and assist in formulating a new constitution and legal framework, and she — we’ll call her Valerie — had been assigned a desk at the Foreign Ministry where she worked pretty much full-time. As a convenience, she brought her lunch to work every day and kept it in the Minister’s refrigerator, as did many others.

Now, I have to insert here that Valerie was, shall we say, less than popular with the Ministry staff. She had way too much Attitude, with a capital “A.” On the day in question, the Foreign Minister was leaving town on government business, and had brought along his beloved dog — a terrier, I believe — to hand over to a friend who was going to care for the pooch during his master’s absence. The Minister parked in his usual spot in front of the building, opened the driver’s-side car door, and before he could turn around, his dog ran out into the street — and directly into the path of an oncoming vehicle. The poor baby was killed instantly as his owner watched, helpless.

Needless to say, the Minister was devastated, but was unable to cancel or postpone his official trip at the last moment. So he had to make some hasty arrangement for his dog until a burial could be planned for the following week. And this being Prague, the solution turned out to be . . . well . . . unique.

When Valerie arrived at the Ministry for work a little later that morning, no one took the trouble to warn her that anything was amiss. She went directly to the kitchen to put her lunch into the refrigerator, and had one item that needed to be kept frozen. So she opened the freezer door . . . and let out a SHRIEK that must have been heard in Belgium. Because in the freezer — staring sightlessly out at her, arms and legs akimbo, a silvery frost already forming on his fur and his little black nose and protruding pink tongue — was the Minister’s dog. The Minister’s dead dog. Sad . . . stiff . . . broken . . . bloody . . . undeniably, irretrievably dead doggie . . . without so much as a blanket or a newspaper to cover his sorrowful condition. And the shrieking continued, while all around her, Valerie’s co-workers were laughing their asses off. Not at the dog, of course, but at her. They really didn’t like her.

You will be relieved to know, incidentally, that that sweet, unfortunate, cryogenically-preserved canine received what was reportedly a lovely burial the following week in the Minister’s home town, alongside all of his previous pets. I assume he was thawed first. The dog, not the Minister. Requiescat in pace — R.I.P., little pup.

Unlike myself after my meeting with the Dobermans, Valerie never did quite get over her canine encounter. It wasn’t so much the initial fright; but that woman really knew how to carry a grudge.

And Prague seemed intent on getting back at Valerie for not being happy there. Sometime during the summer, we suffered a city-wide power failure for nearly an entire day. As the locals were fond of saying, “Oh, well . . . that’s Prague.” While the rest of us enjoyed a lunch at a nearby restaurant, consisting of cold cuts and fresh vegetables, with potatoes cooked slowly over a huge collection of candles (Czech ingenuity at its finest), Valerie was stuck in the elevator at the Ministry. Stranded alone in the car, she again displayed her usual aplomb in times of crisis: she screamed, pounded the elevator door, screamed some more, repeatedly pushed the buttons to all the floors . . . and continued to holler for someone to get her the %#*#& out of there. When stressed, it seemed her upper-class upbringing went directly down the drain. She was, of course, ultimately rescued. But no one was in the least surprised — or in the least saddened — when she finally was granted a transfer back to the States.

*. *. *

But that was just Prague. Valerie may have considered it to be a living theatre of the absurd; but to me it was an endless tapestry of humanity at its best, and life as it is meant to be lived: freely, joyously, and always hopefully.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/23/23 (re-posted in part 6/17/24)