Milko the Philosopher

We are powerless against their cunning cruelty. Our defences are toothless against their calculated, merciless brutality. So, we shall bark out our stories. We shall reveal every atrocity inflicted upon us. If justice escapes us today, truth will find them tomorrow. We will be heard. We will be read for generations to come. Our voices will echo through time. Their grandchildren and great-grandchildren will learn the dark truth about their forefathers, men who hanged, poisoned, and murdered innocent dogs. That memory will be our quiet victory. If nothing else.

Dog's Life on a Chain

Can you imagine living your life with a chain around your neck? I can. Even though I try hard to forget my past, flashes of my body slumped on the dusty ground remain painfully vivid. You are mistaken if you think dogs have short memories. We remember people and events for many years.

The chain was fastened to a wooden stake driven deep into the ground. It was so short that I could barely lie down comfortably. I would struggle to change position, endlessly pacing in tight circles. And why was this ingenious device necessary? Humans, with all their supposed intelligence, chained me there to guard a property. A villa. But how? How was I supposed to guard it when I could barely move?

Humans are absurd, arrogant creatures. They believe themselves superior to dogs and to all other animals. We know otherwise. We know that beneath all their cleverness their souls are barren, and their intelligence often amounts to very little.

There, on the bare earth, I lay through blazing sun, pouring rain and bitter winds. Occasionally I was given a meagre meal. A bowl placed nearby for water was more often empty than full. Why was I condemned to such a miserable existence? Because, as a dog, I deserved no better.

Among humans, we are destined to live what they themselves call a dog's life. It is they who coined that expression to describe misery and suffering. Yet they are the most miserable creatures walking the earth. Had they wished, they could have made the phrase mean exactly the opposite. But they never did. How could they? Poor wretches. Their suffocated souls are cluttered with rubbish, and their consciences buried in mud. They can scarcely improve life for themselves, let alone for us.

Yet they flatter themselves that they have achieved greatness. What achievements? Long ago they hunted with sharpened stones tied to wooden shafts with strips of plant fibre. Today they wield sophisticated firearms. The weapon has changed. The purpose has not. To kill. To eat. They have perfected the art of destroying animals for pleasure. Worse still, they have perfected the art of killing one another.

They pride themselves on being "civilised." Is civilisation merely exchanging animal skins for elaborate clothes? In spirit, they have travelled very little beyond the Stone Age. They abandoned nature to surround themselves with obscene luxury and suffocating excess. While their souls quietly rot.

And yet our fate depends entirely upon them. We depend on two-legged creatures who scream and throw stones at a lonely puppy begging for a crust of bread. Our protruding ribs are monuments to their cruelty.

Of all animals, we are perhaps the most defenceless because we rely entirely on human protection. How tragic is that? How can we expect protection from beings who cannot even overcome the darkness within themselves? We exist at the mercy of human whims, ambitions and neglect. What a cruel joke. A sad mistake made by the universe.

Humans left me there, chained, powerless, hungry, sinking into despair. I mourned not only my own misery, but the suffering of every animal unfortunate enough to share the earth with humans.

One day a large group of dogs appeared on the road. They were of every age and size, joyfully trotting, jumping and play-fighting. They were not alone. A woman was running happily among them. There were no other people in sight. They passed by carefree, disappearing some distance up the road without noticing me. I remained slumped against the ground, silent and hopeless, with no desire to make my presence known.

After a while I heard their cheerful voices again. They were coming back. This time I raised my head. I struggled to my feet and watched them with cautious anticipation. Some of the dogs noticed me and ran towards me, barking. The woman turned immediately. She called them back and slowly approached me. Carefully she stretched out her hand to stroke my head. I jerked away. She stepped closer and tried again. I retreated as far as the chain allowed and refused to let her touch me. She did not insist. She simply stood there looking at me with eyes filled with sadness.

Eventually her companions became restless, and she returned to them to calm them before they all walked away. I was alone once more. But inside me my heart had become a battlefield. Fear wrestled with regret. Why had I not allowed her to come closer?

Would they return? I fell asleep dreaming that I belonged among that beautiful family. I awoke to their voices drifting faintly from afar. I recognised them instantly. Excitement surged through me. I leapt to my feet and began circling wildly despite the chain. For the first time in countless days, I felt happy.

Yes. They came back. It had not been a dream. She approached slowly and carefully. This time she did not try to touch me. Instead, she placed a large bowl of food in front of me. Beside it she set a clean bowl and filled it with fresh water. For a moment I could not decide which I wanted more. Instinct chose for me. I buried my muzzle in the water and drank until the bowl was empty. She quietly filled it again.

Then, she gently rested her hand on my head. This time I allowed it. Only for a few seconds. Soon I pulled away again. She nudged the food bowl closer. I devoured it. Never before had I tasted anything so delicious. Or been given so much. When I had finished, she picked up the empty food bowl but left the water bowl filled to the brim.

Encouraged by my growing trust, she tried to examine the iron collar around my neck. I sprang backwards nervously. She looked at me sadly for a few moments. Then they left.

Would they come again? Please... Come again. I cried those words silently inside myself.

I do not know whether a day passed, or several. To me it felt like an eternity. But they returned. The same ritual followed. She carefully placed the bowl of delicious food before me, filled my water bowl, and once more reached gently towards my collar. Once more I pulled away.

A short while later they disappeared down the road carrying away the empty food bowl.

As their cheerful voices and the sound of paws faded into the distance, something extraordinary happened inside me. A fierce determination burst into life. I began frantically trying to tear the collar from my neck.

I do not know what mysterious force drove me as I struggled, groaning and crying in agony. The harder I pulled, the deeper the iron bit into my flesh. The pain became unbearable. Blood streamed down my neck.

Eventually I collapsed, almost unconscious. The only thing I had achieved was to drive the collar even deeper into my throat. Still, I refused to stop. Some invisible power urged me onward. No pain could deter me. One clear thought had taken root in my mind:I am going to join that beautiful family.

For years I had surrendered obediently to my miserable fate. Guarding a property with a chain around my neck seemed simply to be my destiny. It had never occurred to me that my life could be different. Until that joyful pack of dogs, laughing and tumbling around their human companion, appeared as if sent by providence.

When a purpose takes hold of your whole being, impossible things begin to seem possible.

By dusk the chain finally gave way. A broken piece of the iron collar still clung tightly around my neck, but my body was free. I took a few hesitant steps beneath a heavy cloud of disbelief. Confusion. Exhilaration. Every part of me ached. My neck felt as though it were trapped inside a garrotte. Yet I barely noticed the pain. I knew exactly what I had to do. Find them.

Without hesitation I set off in the direction they had taken. I trusted my instincts. And perhaps Providence.

Eventually the road opened beside a vast lake. It had been there all along, hidden from me by trees and walls.

I longed to splash my paws in the water. To swim. To dig in the sand. To run with the joy of freedom. But not yet. First... I had to find them.

I continued along the road lined with tall trees, keeping close to the verge as roaring machines sped past. I walked with unwavering determination, never once surrendering hope.

Eventually the road entered a settlement lined with houses. Most stood empty. There was hardly a soul in sight.

Then I heard barking. Several dogs. My future siblings had sensed an intruder approaching. They were determined to drive me away. I did not flinch. I knew I had arrived. No amount of barking could frighten me now.

I quickened my pace. As I drew nearer the barking grew louder.

Some curious dogs poked their heads through the balcony railings. Others stood defiantly in the courtyard, blocking my way. I stopped. I wanted them to see that I had come in peace. I stood calmly, paws planted firmly on the ground, waiting for my destiny to unfold.

Then she came running out. She tried to calm them. As she opened the gate, several more dogs rushed outside. They surrounded me. Some barked. Others simply stared with cautious curiosity.

The moment she saw me she understood the reason for the commotion. Recognition flashed across her face. Then she cried out in horror as she noticed my blood-soaked neck. She bent down instinctively.

Don't touch me! I recoiled sharply the moment her hand reached towards my head. She sighed with sorrow but did not insist. I obediently followed her leading me towards the balcony.

Seeing her calm acceptance, the other dogs gradually settled.

I had spent the last of my strength reaching them. Suddenly my exhausted body gave way beneath me. I collapsed on their doorstep. All I wanted was to sleep. She let me.

Within moments I felt something warm settle gently across my body. A soft blanket. I trembled beneath the unexpected weight of kindness.

By then night had fallen. The dogs came to terms with my presence and quietly went inside. A few remained on the balcony, curled up in comfortable beds before drifting off to sleep.

Silence settled over us. I forgot the pain in my neck. I was free. I was safe.

New Life

A new dawn broke.

Happy squawks from several dogs woke me up. Breakfast was being served. A plate of tasty food was placed in front of me. I was hungry, but I found it difficult to swallow. I made an attempt to tuck into the mouth-watering meal, but had to give up. I could only gaze hungrily at the plate. Resigned to my helplessness, I lowered my head. Never mind the hunger. At that moment, it was enough to be safe and free. She noticed, took away the plate and returned with another one. Gently, she pushed a soft pâté towards me. I could swallow it much more easily. I was grateful.

Shortly afterwards, a car pulled into the courtyard. A man carrying a large box climbed onto the balcony where I was still lying. They looked at me and exchanged worried whispers. I sensed they were planning something concerning me. I tried to escape, but she hurriedly closed the little iron gate leading off the balcony. I started to panic. What was awaiting me? I was overjoyed to have found them, but had I made a mistake? Despite my desperate attempts to wriggle free, they placed a muzzle over my mouth. The man opened the box and took out some strange instruments. He put his hands on my back, at first stroking me gently. Then I felt a brief, sharp pain.

Another dawn broke.

I awoke with a surprising lightness in my neck. Almost no pain. The collar that had been buried in my fur and skin was gone. Instead, my neck was wrapped in soft bandages. A bowl of food was waiting for me, and this time I could eat with ease.

I had been right to follow my intuition. I quickly settled in among my new siblings. After a brief period of initial animosity, they soon made me feel welcome. I began sleeping among them on the balcony.

My new life had begun.

For more than ten years, I have enjoyed a harmonious life with my new family. Never hungry. Never thirsty.

Our number varies, but at any one time there are at least ten of us living together with Mum inside the house. Sometimes many more. Many others linger around the house and throughout the settlement, where Mum feeds them as well. The residents find that unusual. They cannot understand why anyone would care for us, undeserving strays, as they see us, and they consider her an oddball. She doesn't care. She loves us, and we love her. She makes sure that every one of us receives cuddles and kisses in equal measure.

My siblings vie for her attention, pressing their heads and bellies against her, begging for a head massage or a belly rub. But I don't do that. I stay aside, letting her caress me only when she chooses to. I accept it briefly and somewhat reluctantly, as a courtesy, really. I don't like to be mollycoddled. I don't want to be treated like a doll for people to goo and gaga over. In this respect, I have imposed my own rules, and I am happy to say they have been respected.

I am not very demanding. I never ask or fight for food. I simply wait patiently. I know Mum would never forget me. I am a big boy, but gentle and subdued. I don't mix much with my siblings. I prefer to keep to myself. They understand this and leave me alone. Yet I know every one of them, all their little peculiarities, and I love them all.

The little ones sometimes approach me with cautious curiosity. The braver ones climb all over me. I let them, but I don't engage in playfights.

My siblings compete for a spot on Mum's bed. Poor Mum can hardly find a place to rest on her own bed! But she lets them. I never climb onto Mum's bed. Never!

I don't really like living indoors. Only when there is thunder or heavy rain do I run inside. I hate thunderstorms. They frighten me to death.

Otherwise, I cherish my independence. I prefer the fresh air on the balcony or in the courtyard, even in winter. In a way, I have never relinquished my role as a guardian, but in this new life I have resumed it with gratitude and pride.

However, to this day I remain haunted by an inner fear and distrust. I am always cautious. It took me years before I allowed Mum to hug me. And even then, only briefly. Within seconds I wriggle free from any attempt at prolonged affection. Stop fussing over me and tidying me up! I am fine as I am.

I may appear austere and aloof on the outside, but Mum saw through to my gentle nature. She named me Milko, which means "kind, darling".

The small settlement where we live is a tourist resort. The lake attracts many visitors, but only during the warm summer months and at weekends.

Even though we have no garden or enclosed area, Mum has devised a strategy to keep us happy while causing as little disturbance as possible to the residents. She gets up in the very early hours of the morning to take us for our walks while they are still asleep. Actually, we wake her up by licking her face and scratching at the door, ready to burst through it. She happily obliges.

Our destination is usually the lake, but sometimes we head for the mountains.

She takes us for our exercise just as dawn breaks. We can run freely and no one is disturbed. And run we do! In no time we reach the lake and go wild, playing in the sand, digging holes, rubbing our backs on the soft sandy carpet, racing around and playfighting to our hearts' content. It is our paradise on earth. We would happily stay there all day long, but we must make ourselves scarce before people begin polluting the beach and the streets.

She designed this routine for our sake, I believe. But it suits her, too. She loves early mornings and is full of energy. She also loves swimming and plunges into the cool water for her early-morning swim. We all follow her into the lake, but she ventures far, far out. Most of us swim only part of the way before turning back and lining up on the shore to await her return.

There are some excellent swimmers among us, too. Mary is the best. She swims almost the entire distance alongside Mum. Her twin sister, Sevda, comes next. She follows them for quite a while before turning back.

When Mum returns to the shore, her swimming costume and hair still dripping wet, she immediately sets off for home. By the time we reach the house, she is almost dry. We obediently trot along behind her.

Occasionally, when we have lingered too long, enchanted by our bliss, we encounter people on our way home. Then angry exchanges erupt between Mum and them.

"Get them home!" they scold her, annoyed by our mere presence.

She is desperate to avoid these deeply upsetting encounters. They spoil our fun and make Mum miserable. That is why she is always careful to lead us home before the settlement comes to life.

The lake is our dearest sanctuary, but we love the mountains too. We go there less often, which makes every visit a special adventure. A narrow footpath winds upwards through pine trees and all sorts of other trees and bushes. Oh, it is so beautiful! Up there we are completely on our own. We run, play hide-and-seek among the trees, or simply stretch out in the grass for a nap. Some of us are bolder and disappear deep into the woods, but the moment Mum whistles to call us home, we all come running back. From the top we can see the lake spread out below us, quietly waiting for our next visit. I honestly don't know which we love more, the mountain or the lake. It is impossible to choose. We are happy in either place.

One thing I enjoy most unexpectedly is snow! There is something magical about playing in it. It is one of the rare occasions when I delight in my siblings' joyful chorus of excited barking and eagerly join in myself. I experience snow now in a completely different way from those long-forgotten days when I stood chained. Oh, I don't want to think about them! Every day of my life I thank Providence for guiding me to take that fateful step and giving me the strength to break free from the chain around my neck. Ever since then, I have been one lucky dog.

The Settlement’s Dark Secrets

We lead a harmonious existence with my many siblings. However, not everything is biscuit-scented in our happy family.

I am acutely aware that many people do not like us. They give Mum a hard time because of us.

She has chosen to live here throughout the whole year, a godsend for the many stray dogs of the area. Only a handful of people remain in the nearby houses all year round. Sadly, some of them have turned out to be monsters. The scent of their cruelty hangs over this beautiful settlement like an invisible veil, enveloping and suffocating us. We all sense its bitter presence, Mum included. I sniff dark, hidden forces.

I observe life calmly around me, and over the years I have witnessed some deeply disturbing events.

From time to time, one of my siblings would disappear. Sometimes they would be gone for only a day or two before returning. But sometimes they never came back.

Didi, for example, our sweet, tiny, cheerful little girl, always smiling and happy, was one day missing from our afternoon meal. She would never wander off for long on her own, so Mum became worried. She immediately went out looking for her. Earlier that day, Mum had seen Didi outside one of our neighbours' houses, the fisherman’s, happily being patted by his wife and some visitors. At the time, she had thought nothing of it. Now, however, suspicion crept into her mind, and she went to ask the fisherman’s wife whether she knew anything about Didi’s whereabouts.

She gave Mum a terse, almost dismissive reply: ‘Well, if you let her out...’

Then she brusquely disappeared into her house, making it perfectly clear that she had neither any explanation to offer nor any sympathy for Mum's loss.

She had obviously helped those people take Didi away.

That's how they do it. They simply whisk away a small, sweet, defenceless dog without the courtesy of asking Mum, who might even have agreed to let the dog be rehomed. But no, such decency is not their style.

If a dog is taken away, as happened on a couple of occasions, it is painful enough. Yet we can at least comfort ourselves with the hope that it may live a happy life somewhere else, even if far away from us. But when a dog simply disappears, it leaves behind an aching emptiness and a nagging doubt. Too often, such disappearances are the result of some gruesome act committed by human hands.

We live constantly with this disturbing truth: many people are cruel. Some more, some less, but, in general, they neither value us nor appreciate our presence among them. They are sly, remorseless and soulless, and they use all manner of methods to get rid of us.

Only recently, I myself became the victim of an unprovoked attack.

I was simply strolling slowly down the street. Old age had long since robbed me of my youthful sprint. Suddenly, a man and a woman grabbed some rods and began beating me, across my back, my legs and my joints. I couldn't escape. My cries alerted other people, who came running. I don't know who shouted at whom, and I don't know how I managed to break free from my tormentors. All I know is that I escaped with a broken leg, a torn tendon and a dull, persistent pain in my back.

By nature, I am not aggressive. In my old age, when I can barely see or hear, I am completely harmless. How could I possibly have provoked their fury? I hadn't. I had simply found myself in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the company of the wrong people. There are far too many of them around.

I dragged myself home, limping and leaving a trail of blood behind me. Mum, her eyes filled with tears, hugged me and gently spread a blanket beneath me where I collapsed. She sprayed my wounds with medicine. At first, I hated it, but gradually it seemed to ease the pain. She brought me delicious treats, probably hoping to comfort me, but I had no desire to eat. She stroked me, hugged me and whispered softly to me. It took several days before I regained my strength.

After that attack, I withdrew even further into myself. I rarely leave our courtyard now. Only when Mum takes us for a walk do I happily trundle along beside her.

People can be unimaginably cruel. Not only here. Everywhere.

Beating dogs is common practice among these backward, soulless nincompoops. Their brutality seems to go hand in hand with their ignorance, as though it had stripped them of every trace of compassion.

But their favourite method is poison.

They think nothing of tempting a trusting, unsuspecting dog with a poisoned morsel. Their stale hearts are unmoved by the animal's prolonged agony as its body convulses before death finally claims it. Afterwards they dispose of the body as though it were nothing more than rubbish, throwing it into a refuse bin or leaving it beside one. Just like that. As trash.

During one of our early morning walks, we found our darling Husky lying dead beside the rubbish bins on the corner where our path turned towards the lake. We gathered around his lifeless body, barking in confusion. When Mum came running to see what had caused our commotion, she let out a cry of anguish.

Our morning walk turned instead into Mum's desperate struggle to drag the heavy body of our beloved friend away so that he could at least be given a dignified burial. Husky was a large, fully grown dog, and she panted with exhaustion as she dug a sufficiently large hole. It was a heartbreaking sight. The first rays of the rising sun were spreading across the seemingly peaceful settlement, whose beauty was forever tainted by human savagery.

One late afternoon, a poisoned dog somehow managed to drag his half-dead body onto our balcony steps, where he collapsed. He was not one of us. Who knows where he had come from? Had his instincts guided him to us in search of help?

Mum was deeply distressed by the terrible scene before her. The poor dog's legs jerked uncontrollably, his body trembled violently, and foam poured from his mouth. She acted immediately and telephoned the local vet, pleading with him to come without delay.

He was an old stray, gentle and harmless. He had lived in the area for many years. The locals knew him, and the children had named him Bach.

Fortunately, Bach survived. He joined our family and spent the last years of his life with us.

I believe it was this episode that inspired Mum to dedicate herself to saving stray dogs. She had only recently come to live here and was horrified to discover that she would have to share this beautiful corner of nature with human savages.

Poison was their most common weapon, but it was by no means their only one.

One day, Liska, our smiling beauty, scampered happily home after one of her little outings. She was completely unaware of the long, thin strand trailing behind her. She bounded onto the sofa, as she always did.

Mum was sitting at her desk, absorbed in her writing. After a few moments she looked up at Liska, who was wagging her tail expectantly, waiting for a cuddle.

Something unusual caught Mum's eye.

A thin nylon cord lay coiled across the sofa, glinting in the light. Alarmed, Mum walked over to investigate. While Liska waited innocently for her usual belly rub, Mum suddenly froze. One end of the fishing line formed a noose around Liska's neck.

With trembling hands, Mum loosened the loop and carefully gathered the line into a ball, her face pale with horror.

The fisherman. She knew immediately who was responsible.

She wrapped her arms around Liska and held her tightly. Tears welled up in her eyes as she realised how narrowly disaster had been avoided. Liska had been meant to die.

How she escaped, no one will ever know. Perhaps the noose had not been pulled tight enough, allowing her to wriggle free in her desperate struggle. Or perhaps she had managed to break away before her tormentor could finish his gruesome task.

Who knows?

All that mattered was that Liska was safe, nestled in Mum's embrace, her tail wagging happily. She had been incredibly lucky.

But Sivka, Mile and Tea were not so fortunate. They had disappeared only two days earlier. Mum had searched desperately for them, but now she realized that waiting for them to return was in vain. At last, the dreadful truth dawned on her.

I would not like to be in Mum's place. Her pain and helplessness must have been unbearable. Worst of all was knowing that there was nothing she could do against such a callous creature. She had no hope of help from the authorities.

As for him, he moved through life like a zombie, devoid of conscience, compassion or fear.

Sometime later they happened to meet among the apple orchards. He even had the audacity to admit what he had done.

"They were attacking my chickens."

Why, then, did he not keep his chickens inside a properly fenced enclosure? Or better still, why keep chickens at all in a residential area where keeping livestock was not even permitted? There is no logic capable of explaining a mind so thoroughly warped.

Ricky

Ricky's story is the most harrowing of them all.

He was the first victim. His suffering at the hands of the local primitives broke Mum's heart more than anything else. It was her first encounter with the settlement's deceitful, heartless inhabitants, and her first experience of being utterly powerless against them.

Knowing her as I do, I am certain she still carries that pain within her. That is why I want to honour Ricky with a special story about his short, sad dog’s life.

Ricky was a scruffy stray, the kind of dog people avoided in disgust or chased away with stones. Yet he was exceptionally intelligent.

I remember vividly the day he became one of us.

As we were returning from our walk, this shabby, unkempt dog began following us. Gradually he drew nearer until he was walking alongside our procession, though always on the opposite side of the road. With his head held high and his eyes fixed straight ahead, he marched at our pace as though he knew exactly where he was going and had no interest whatsoever in us.

He continued like that all the way until we turned into the lane leading to our home. There he stopped. He was too polite to intrude any further.

Naturally, he did not escape Mum's notice. Yet throughout the journey she neither encouraged nor discouraged him.

After we arrived home, as usual, I remained outside while the others bounded onto the balcony, eagerly awaiting their meal.

I kept watching the scruffy stranger. He stood motionless, gazing longingly towards our house, but he made no attempt to come closer.

Mum emerged carrying a large slice of bread generously spread with pâté. At first, I thought it was meant for me.

Instead, she walked past me and down towards the waiting dog. He accepted the food gently and ate it slowly, lifting his eyes towards Mum from time to time with an expression of quiet gratitude. When he had finished, he did not try to follow her back.

The following morning, when we set off for our usual walk, he was still there. This time he was braver. He joined us. He ran and played with us in the sand, bouncing about in his own clownish, awkward way.

When we returned home, he came back with us. And this time … he stayed.

Perhaps he had never before felt a gentle hand resting on his head. Perhaps he had never known the comfort of a soft bed beneath his thin, weary body. He accepted our hospitality with remarkable humility and gratitude.

He was gentle. Obedient. Wonderfully patient. He even became a tolerant grandfather to Suzy, the rabbit, who lived with us at the time. He would lie quietly while she hopped across his back as though he were nothing more than another patch of soft earth.

One particular episode has remained crystal clear in my memory.

During one of our adventures in the mountains, Mum took off her socks so she could relax in the warm sunshine with her books and papers.

As always, she left us to entertain ourselves. Naturally, one of the socks soon became our newest toy. When it was time to leave, she put on one sock and began searching for the other. She turned over the towel she had been lying on, searched through her books and bag, and looked carefully around the grass.

Meanwhile we all waited patiently to begin the walk home. Except Ricky. He had quietly disappeared. A few minutes later he returned carrying the missing sock in his mouth. Or rather, what remained of it. The poor thing had been thoroughly massacred.

Mum laughed, stroked his head, and praised him for his intelligence. As for the sock, she has never minded our occasional mischief very much.

Yes, intelligence was Ricky's defining quality. It shone from his bright, alert eyes that seemed always to be observing, understanding, thinking.

Like me, Ricky preferred the fresh air and usually chose to remain outside. Perhaps old habits linger longest.

Perhaps it was his way of repaying the warmth and safety he had finally found. Whatever the reason, he became fiercely protective of our home and of all of us.

Unfortunately, his devotion did not please everyone. The local firewood poachers soon came to regard him as a nuisance.

Almost every household here burns stolen timber for heating, even though firewood can be purchased legally from the municipal supplier. The surrounding hills provide an endless source of trees, and they are plundered without mercy. Before dawn, poachers from neighbouring villages would arrive with tractors loaded with freshly cut logs, hoping to avoid the police.

Ricky greeted every delivery with furious barking. He became their greatest inconvenience.

One day Mum needed to travel to town to buy some supplies. There is no public transport here, and she does not drive. Before calling a taxi, she went to the fisherman's house to ask whether, by chance, they were going into town and might be able to give her a lift. She had only recently arrived in the settlement and still trusted her neighbours. No, they were not going anywhere. They were busy preparing for the evening celebration of their patron saint, Saint Nicholas.

So, Mum went by taxi and returned a couple of hours later. As always, we rushed to greet her. She never came home without bringing us treats. But Ricky was missing. When he still had not returned by evening, Mum became worried and went looking for him.

It was already dark. Almost in tears, she knocked on the fisherman's door to ask whether she could borrow a lamp for the search. Inside, cheerful voices drifted from a house full of guests enjoying the feast. The fisherman came to the door looking slightly uneasy. Nevertheless, he handed her a lamp.

Hours later Mum returned home devastated. There was no sign of Ricky. She searched again the next day. And the day after that. Eventually she had to accept the unbearable truth. Ricky had vanished.

Everyone in the settlement knew she was desperately searching for him. Yet no one would tell her anything. One neighbour, who lived farther away, later admitted that he had heard terrible screams from a dog mixed with shouting voices. By the time he came outside, everything had fallen silent. He had seen nothing.

Several months later another neighbour called Mum. From the fence of his garden, he had noticed the body of a dead dog lying in the neighbouring courtyard below. A terrible smell was coming from it.

Mum hurried there. It was Ricky. His body lay curled where it had fallen, stiff and lifeless. While Mum had been searching for him everywhere, had Ricky been drawing his last breaths almost beneath her very nose?

The neighbour, anxious to be rid of the smell, helped her bury him.

Slowly, painfully, Mum pieced together what had happened. The fisherman was a close friend, and customer, of one of the firewood poachers. They had chosen the very afternoon Mum was away in town. Ricky had been beaten to death. The fisherman was the only person who knew Mum would be absent. When he handed her the lamp that evening, he already knew what had been done. Yet he celebrated his saint's day without the slightest trace of guilt.

Righteous Cruelty

The next example I want to describe is particularly characteristic of this place. Here you will find people who are astonishingly unenlightened. They fail to understand even the most natural aspects of life, including the age-old relationship between dogs and cats.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that dogs and cats do not always get along. Humans themselves say, "They fight like cats and dogs," and they describe constant quarrelling as "Leading a cat-and-dog life." Is it so surprising, then, that we, driven by instinct, chase cats when they cross our path?

Apparently, in Pretor it is.

Like us, there are many stray cats in the area. Mum loves them and would gladly care for some of them in our home, but we simply won't allow it. Sorry, there is no room for cats in our family.

She tried once. Inside the house, while Mum was with us, everything was peaceful. We ate together and even played together. But once outside, we reverted to what nature had made us. We chased the cats away so they would never dare return.

Eventually, Mum accepted that she could not help them by bringing them into our home. Instead, she feeds them outdoors, making sure we are safely shut inside first.

There are countless unfortunate cats wandering through this settlement, where no organised effort exists to care for stray animals. Dogs and cats alike are left to survive as best they can.

A few neighbours look after cats, in their own way. They let them wander through their courtyards and provide food. That is certainly better than nothing. But only that. Veterinary care? Never. Neutering or spaying? Unthinkable. Their compassion begins and ends with a bowl of food.

One of these neighbours, whose house is closest to ours, lives here only during the summer. While she is here, she feeds the cats and allows them into her courtyard. When she leaves, so does her care for them. The cats are left to fend for themselves throughout the winter. Those lucky enough to survive return to her courtyard the following summer, and the cycle begins again.

She proudly considers herself a lover of cats. Heaven forbid that one should fall ill or need medical treatment. That lies beyond the limits of her affection. Still, I suppose some care is better than none.

Darko, my happy-go-lucky brother, was small, agile and forever squeezing through the railings in search of freedom and adventure, much to Mum's despair.

His favourite pastime was chasing cats. Darko paid for following his instincts with his young life.

One day, a tiny kitten from our neighbour’s courtyard slipped into ours. Darko shot after it like lightning.

As the two little animals raced around, so did the two men who had been drinking coffee with her. She shrieked, urging them to intervene, and they obediently did so, vaulting over the fence into the neighbouring yard where Darko and the kitten had disappeared.

Dog and cat darted through gaps in fences before vanishing from sight. We never learned what became of the kitten.

But we do know what happened to Darko. He never came home.

The following morning, while searching for him, we found his tiny body crumpled among the bushes near the little church, beside the village fountain. Had he tried to drink from the fresh spring in a desperate attempt to ease the poison burning through his body?Perhaps. Perhaps he simply lacked the strength to return home. Had he managed to reach us, Mum might have saved him. She saved so many poisoned dogs who arrived at our doorstep on the brink of death. With tears in her eyes she would give first aid, rush them to the vet, and later embrace them with overwhelming relief when they survived. But so many others simply disappeared. Who knows where they died.

The self-proclaimed "cat lovers" never considered creating a safe place where the cats could live without danger. Yet when the inevitable happened, they united against a tiny dog who had merely obeyed his instincts.

Using their superior power, they punished him. They poisoned Darko.

Apparently, they love cats, but kill dogs. They offered affection to one creature and poison to another. Such was the extent of their compassion. "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do."

Darko was not their only victim. Another of our siblings perished as well, Julie, our beautiful Julie.

She was completely innocent. Faithful to every dog's healthy appetite, she had probably eaten the poisoned food intended for Darko. Unlike him, she was never found. She simply disappeared that same afternoon. She must have crawled deep into the bushes when she realized she was dying. We dogs have our own way of facing death. Instinct tells us to hide our weakness. When we know our strength is gone and the end is near, we quietly seek a secluded place where we can lie down alone. Perhaps we do not wish to burden those who love us with watching us die. A slow, agonising death inflicted by human hands. Poison. Here, it is used all too readily. The law offers us no protection. To many, we are simply unwanted creatures who have no right to exist.

Mum and Them

This sad incident was the final straw that made Mum cut all ties with the neighbours and, indeed, with the entire settlement. All of them harbour a quiet impatience towards us, even if they do not express it openly or brutally. The pure, fresh air of this beautiful nature resort is tainted by absurdity and malice.

Soon, the animosity between Mum and the settlement's inhabitants escalated to the point where she stopped speaking to anyone. We are supposed to be the problem, but then how does one explain the fact that most of them are not on speaking terms with one another? They don't even have dogs. They quarrel over the most petty, small-minded things.

The two men chiefly responsible for Darko's death had been bitter enemies for years. Then their supposed "love" for the attacked kitten rekindled their twisted friendship long enough to commit murder. One supplied the poison, the other carried out the deed. Mum had seen them whispering together through the branches of the trees.

The man who supplied the poison conveniently went away the following day, believing that this would keep suspicion away from him. But Mum knew with certainty that he had been the mastermind behind the gruesome act.

Sometime before, he had boasted to her that he could easily obtain the powerful poison Lannate, even though its sale and possession were prohibited. Or supposedly prohibited. In this hell-hole, "illegal" means very little.

When Mum asked how he could possibly obtain Lannate, he replied smugly: ‘I have a friend in high places. Whenever I ask him, he gives it to me because he trusts me.’

Trusted with what? A complete nincompoop. He never even realised the absurdity of his own statement.

Mum calls him Mr Lannate.

He tried to get me as well. But I would never let him come anywhere near me. In fact, I don't allow anyone to approach me too closely. I have learned not to trust humans. I know how despicable they can be. For every kind one, there seem to be hundreds who are cruel.

I don't like anyone fussing over me. I couldn't care less about their caresses. The moment someone reaches out to stroke my head, I move away. They all smell of poison, perfidy and the pitiful weakness of corrupted souls.

They stroke innocent dogs one moment, then slip a poisoned sausage wrapped in bread into their trusting mouths the next. Just like that. Without the slightest trace of remorse.

They do not manipulate only naïve dogs. They manipulate one another with the very same primitive cunning in their everyday lives.

Mum chose to live almost entirely on her own, keeping in touch with only a couple of faithful friends who had stood by her. But they come only during the summer. For the rest of the year, she lives as though trapped inside a psychological thriller.

How can anyone live in the midst of heartless criminals?

It is a strange thing. When we hear about atrocities committed somewhere far away, we are horrified. But when they happen around us day after day, we somehow absorb them into our lives. We continue, burdened by sorrow and absurdity, baring our teeth and carrying on.

That is what Mum has done ever since she devoted herself to our wellbeing. Some people, like dogs, can endure almost anything. Life has to be lived, even among cruel and small-minded people.

Mum is remarkably tenacious. Her mental strength is extraordinary, and she refuses to give up. Neither the hostility of intolerant neighbours nor the repeated visits from authorities, summoned by malicious complaints, have broken her resolve.

These simpletons imagine that their brutality remains hidden. It does not. We know. Mum knows every one of them and every one of their despicable deeds.

But what can she do? She is powerless.

The fisherman is particularly cruel. Then there is his neighbour across the road, Mr Lannate.

For a time, they were the closest of friends. Who knows how many dogs they poisoned, killed or made disappear between them? There are other unpleasant people in the settlement, but these two committed their crimes together until they eventually quarrelled over something trivial. They are no longer friends, but each continues his work alone.

Mile. Sivka. Blecky. Darko. Julie. Dimitry. Tommy. Ricky... They all perished because of them.

The fisherman's wife pretends to be kinder. She is not. She is simply a skilled liar. Every now and then Mum asks her whether she has seen one of our missing dogs, although she already knows the answer will be meaningless. All she receives are carefully crafted lies. The woman invents stories to conceal her husband's cruelty, convinced that Mum believes every word.

The house where we live is divided into three separate parts. The other two belong to Mum's first cousins and their families. They come only during the summer for a couple of weeks, and occasionally for a weekend. But whenever they are around, Mum's life turns into a nightmare. She becomes anxious and desperate to keep us safely inside.

Her relatives are a peculiar breed, insidious, intolerant, and astonishingly hypocritical. One day they give us bones and crisps, or take Choki for a walk with their young nephew; the next, they complain about our presence and treacherously report Mum to the authorities.

One of her cousins' husbands frightens Mum more than anyone else. Whenever one of the smaller dogs, like Bibi the chihuahua, squeezes through the balcony railings, as they sometimes do because they can fit between the bars, he grabs a thick stick and calls out mockingly: "Come, come," holding it high, ready to strike. He threatens Mum as well. Once, he slammed the stick so violently against our balcony’s metal railing that Mum screamed, and we all burst into frantic barking.

Truth be told, Mum knows she does not have ideal conditions for keeping so many dogs. Although the neighbouring houses stand empty for most of the year, the settlement is officially a residential area. Yet it is also swarming with stray dogs. And when a hungry, shivering dog, or abandoned, squealing puppies appear in her path, she simply cannot walk past them as "normal" people do.

From time to time, Mum has tried to reason with the neighbours. She explains that she does not "collect" dogs and that she would be happiest if there were no stray dogs at all. She begs them to show a little understanding and tolerance. But her words only invite ridicule.

No wonder she gradually shed her natural gentleness and became combative, defiant, and unwilling to forgive. It was not anger that changed her. It was the endless struggle.

Gossiped about, insulted, verbally abused and even physically attacked, what has Mum not endured because of us?

Yet she carries on, heartbroken but standing upright, determined to fight for greater understanding and protection for dogs like us.

Perhaps, one day, she will succeed.

Let us hope that humanity will finally awaken and see us for who we truly are. That we are them. They are us. We are all fellow creatures trying to find a little happiness in this world. Let us share the earth's kindness together.

A dream? Yes. I know. But let us hope.

Although... I remain very sceptical.

They would like to have their settlement scrubbed clean of us, the stray dogs. In their pretentiousness, these pompous, self-important people imagine their streets paved with red carpets for their muddy highnesses to parade upon.

But we are here too. And not by our own choosing. Trust me, if we had a choice, we would not share the air with them. Yet, caught in this conflict, we are guilty only of being alive.

Mum is naturally a warm, friendly and hospitable person. When she first came to the settlement, she embraced the neighbourly way of life. She welcomed visitors into her home and gladly returned their hospitality.

That is, until we entered her life. Her devotion to helping stray dogs was not met with approval.

‘Don't feed them,’ they advised her. ‘Then they won't come around.’

She chose us instead. In doing so, she sacrificed her friendships with them.

A hostile atmosphere gradually developed, stripping away her desire to fit into their world. Even neighbours who had initially seemed kind slowly revealed their manipulative, narrow-minded nature, and one friendship after another fell apart. Before she realised it, she was entirely alone.

Only a couple of loyal friends remained by her side, but they come only during the warm summer months. For the rest of the year, she lives in complete solitude.

We share the large sitting room, where, whenever she is not busy looking after us, she reads, writes, plays chess online or sits at her synthesizer.

Quite unintentionally, we have helped her build a quiet life away from everyone else. And she seems perfectly content with it.

In fact, she loves her solitude. Her solitude... and us. How beautiful that is!

I do not wish to flatter myself, but despite all the hardships we bring her, I believe we also make her deeply happy. As for us, we could not possibly be happier.

Not Only Dogs Bark

We can be a nuisance sometimes, of course. I understand that. But what can we do? Is a little tolerance for our innocent nature really too much to ask?

When our basic needs are met, we are harmless. We rarely bark unless someone provokes us. Safe at home, we spend most of our time chasing rabbits in our dreams. Did you know that we dogs need far more sleep than humans? We do not wish to be a burden. If only they would leave us alone. But they will not.

And what about the endless cacophony that fills the settlement day and night?

Cars screech. Horns blare. Motorcycles roar endlessly up and down the road.

The noise terrifies us. We bark in fear and dive beneath beds and tables.

The bikers seem less interested in travelling anywhere than in making as much noise as possible. They ride simply to pass the time, revelling in the thunder of their engines.

Then come the lawn mowers. Oh, dear... From the first days of spring until the end of summer, ancient rattling machines whine from dawn until dusk. There seems to be no agreed time for using them. Everyone starts whenever it suits them, with complete disregard for everyone else.

Sometimes we leap from our beds in alarm because some ingenious soul has decided to fire up his unmuffled lawn screamer at five o'clock in the morning, hoping to avoid the midday heat.

The neighbour below us appears to have a love affair with his clanging old machine. One could almost believe he sleeps with it. The moment the grass grows another millimetre, his ageing lion begins roaring again, not only across his own garden but along the pavements as well. Like a man possessed, he shaves away the wild greenery that flourishes along the roadside: dandelions, dill, lemongrass, camomile and delicate white flowers beloved by bees. It saddens Mum. She says nothing.

The greatest noise polluters, however, are the local youngsters.

These spoiled, overconfident youths torment everyone, but especially us. They roam in packs, shouting well into the early hours of the morning. Their piercing screams echo through the settlement as though they were inmates of an asylum. Apparently, this is what they call entertainment.

The following morning, the streets are littered with empty plastic bottles, crisp packets, sweet wrappers and fruit cores and stones.

Their parents, equally peculiar, seem to think no supervision is necessary.

These youngsters have made irritating us into one of their favourite pastimes. Despite their comfortable upbringing, they seem to have no meaningful interests with which to occupy themselves, so they have chosen us as the centre of their amusement.

They know that Mum does everything she can to keep us calm, so that we do not disturb the neighbours. Naturally, this makes provoking us their greatest pleasure.

They gather on the small rise above our house and throw stones, fruit and other objects that land with loud thuds in our courtyard. The crashing sounds send us into frantic barking.

And then comes the truly absurd part. They bark at us!

I must admit, a few of them are surprisingly convincing. Naturally, we feel intellectually obliged to bark back and correct their dreadful grammar. After all, we are considerably more intelligent than they are. We tolerate them in much the same way one tolerates any fool.

Mum pleads with both them and their parents to stop this senseless behaviour, for our sake and for the neighbours', but to no avail. Some people simply cannot grasp the meaning of living together in harmony.

The Great Shoe Affair

Then there was the rather comical affair of the missing shoes.

Some of my siblings had, I admit, the thoroughly exasperating habit of stealing our neighbours' footwear. Here, people leave their shoes, sandals and slippers outside their front doors or casually scattered around their courtyards. Not all of us were guilty of this peculiar pastime, only one or two, a special breed of canine mischief-makers, I suppose.

Under the cover of night or in the early hours of the morning, they would sneak off, find a shoe somewhere, and triumphantly carry it back to our courtyard. Sometimes it would be abandoned along a footpath; sometimes hidden so ingeniously that no one could find it for days.

The unfortunate owner would step outside, still half asleep, only to discover that one shoe had mysteriously vanished. Occasionally, both shoes disappeared.

Needless to say, they were rarely amused.

Eventually, the missing footwear would usually be recovered. If fortune smiled, it would still be intact. More often, however, it bore the delicate tooth marks of an enthusiastic canine collector.

Some neighbours accepted these incidents with good humour. Others resigned themselves to taking greater precautions, carefully remembering to bring their shoes indoors or place them somewhere beyond the reach of adventurous thieves.

I cannot help finding the whole affair both regrettable and amusing.

One neighbour, however, reacted rather differently.

He had been among Mum's very first acquaintances after she settled here, and the two had developed what seemed a genuinely warm friendship.

The friendship did not survive the shoes.

Instead of laughing the matter off, he directed all his anger towards Mum. The friendly, cooperative neighbour became a bitter, resentful man. He insulted her, called her offensive names and abruptly ended their friendship.

Mum apologised repeatedly. She pleaded with him to understand that she could not possibly supervise every wandering dog every minute of the day. She gently suggested that, for everyone's sake, he might simply keep his shoes indoors or place them somewhere out of reach.

He refused to hear of it.

Years have passed since then. None of my present siblings has inherited the old family fascination with footwear, yet he still clings to his grievance.

Some grudges seem to outlive the very problem that created them.

What a remarkable difference there is between dogs and humans.

We forgive and forget with astonishing ease. Humans often do neither.

We have little interest in yesterday's quarrels. Once the moment has passed, it passes for us as well.

People, however, have a curious tendency to preserve old grievances, polishing them year after year until they become part of who they are.

I have often wondered why.

Perhaps that is why dogs seem so much happier. Our simplicity is not a weakness. It is one of our greatest gifts.

On Being Human

While people bark, quarrel, and manipulate, I prefer to contemplate life. There is much to be understood in silence.

People rarely reach the standards that come naturally to us: gratitude, loyalty, true affection and unconditional love. Our joy is sincere and uncomplicated. Our grief is genuine and profound. That, to me, is what it means to possess a soul.

We have no need for clever words or elaborate manipulation. We understand one another through something far simpler: instinct, honesty and quiet insight.

Humans call themselves the masters of the world, yet they are the only creatures enslaved by their own weaknesses. Those weaknesses are so destructive that they blind them to the suffering around them. So many of them seem to sleep through life.

I do not trust humankind. There are wonderful exceptions. I have been fortunate enough to spend my life beside one of them. But they are rare.

Too many people allow cruelty to triumph over compassion. Cruelty is uniquely human. Like all insecure creatures, they too often measure their strength against those who are weaker and defenceless.

The irresponsible side of human nature is both tragic and strangely comical.

With great pride they declare: "Children are our future." Really? Then what sort of future do they create for them?

They bring new lives into the world only to cast them into whirlpools of conflict, manipulation, poverty and destruction. Too often, they rob them of their innocence before they have even discovered the beauty of simply being alive.

The scent of their own deceit overwhelms them, and they lose the ability to recognise the truth.

Their intelligence has produced astonishing inventions. Many of them make life easier. Many make it more dangerous.

They explore the universe and manipulate life itself. Yet all the while they pollute the very air they breathe. They fly above the clouds while destroying the earth beneath their feet. They have mastered thunder and lightning, yet remain deaf to the cries of hunger, loneliness and despair. If they struggle even to care for their own world, how can they be expected to care for us?

They are undeniably clever. Whether they are truly wise is another matter.

A small number of people devote themselves to helping animals like us. They rescue us from the streets, feed us, heal us and restore a little of the dignity others have taken away. Thanks to them, life has improved for many dogs. But changing laws is easier than changing hearts. Compassion cannot be forced.

I have known enough hardship for one lifetime. That belongs to the past now. Today I am an old dog. An old, happy dog. If I am fortunate enough to die a natural death, rather than from another poisoned morsel, I shall consider my life a great success.

And one thing I know beyond any doubt: I am infinitely glad I was not born a human.