Russian
Our first dog was a Great Dane. He was mostly black with a white patch on his chest. When we brought him home his ears were heavily taped to train them to stand up. We gave him a formal name of Black Russian and called him Russian. He was a good dog, albeit with some bad habits, the worst of which was his head-shaking. He did this quite often and when he did, his slobber would fly everywhere. Originally Mary wanted a Saint Bernard, a breed which has the slobbering problem even worse, so, in a strange way, I felt lucky.
We were unsuccessful teaching Russian the meaning of the term “come here”. Not only did he not come when called, he thought it was a game we were trying to play with him. When he got loose, we’d run after him. None of us could catch up to his long legs, so he would put some distance between us, then stop and sit and wait for us to almost catch up. Then he would run away again. After a while I would send one or all the kids to chase him. Of course, when he got loose at night it was impossible to even see him. As most dogs, he didn’t like being left alone. To retaliate he used to chew on the furniture, at HIS EYE-LEVEL, which, in most cases, was the top of a piece of furniture.
His “place” was on a rug in front of the front door which we never used. He was in clear distress whenever Mary was cleaning that area and took up the rug to shake it outside. He kept circling the now empty space and was obviously unhappy. He didn’t settle down until that rug was back in its place and then he flopped down on it, happily looking around. Years later we were in Budapest visiting my parents when they decided to renovate one of the rooms by painting the walls and ceiling and replacing the parquet flooring. All the furniture, including my father’s favorite chair, had to be moved to another room. My father was not happy until his chair was back in its place. I told him the Russian story and got a good laugh out of him.
One day we moved from one section of Levittown into another, about three miles away. Russian got away and, no matter where we looked, we couldn’t find him. Then the realtor we used for the move called, asking us if we had a dog. Turns out Russian went back to the old house and when the woman opened the back door to let their cat out, Russian nudged his way in (I am sure he didn’t have to try very hard) and laid down in front of the front door. The poor woman and her cat were petrified until we came to get Russian.
We used to chain Russian to a huge weeping willow tree in the backyard to let him do his business. That’s where he was this one day when we were all preparing to drive to the JFK airport to pick up my parents. We were all ready and I was watching out the window when I saw him notice something. His ears perked up and he started running in that direction. He never slowed down as the chain snapped and he disappeared out of sight. Needless to say, we were late picking up my parents. Luckily the Martonfalvays were also there and kept them entertained.
My mother took him for a walk one day and naturally he saw something and wanted to chase it. In the process he managed to drag my mother into some bushes. I think he realized what he did because he waited very patiently until my mother gathered herself and stood up before continuing to try to tear her arm from the socket.
I think he was twelve when we had to take him to the vet because he was in obvious pain. He never came home. He was a good dog.
Buksi
My mother told me some stories about Buksi (pronounced Book-she), a dog she had when she was young, many times while I was growing up, so when we found a woman who was a breeder of vizslas, a particular Hungarian hunting dog, we bought a puppy from her. We thought it appropriate to call it Buksi after the “original”.
Chris came with us to pick him up and he was delighted when the little bundle slept in his lap for most of the way home. When Buksi was a puppy Chris taught him to whine, a trait he took to his grave. It was sure annoying and of course Chris was not living with us by then.
We had our Buksi for many years. He was Mary’s dog because wherever she went, he was right next to her. The first time Mary was taking a bath and left the door open a crack, Buksi nudged it open with his nose and promptly jumped into the tub with her. He loved water, although he wasn’t a good swimmer. He was tied up in the backyard for hours on end but didn’t derive any enjoyment from it. He liked to run around and had the knack of being able to run at full speed with his nose inches from the ground.
He quite often ran away and would grace the Danberry’s driveway with a pile of excrement. It wasn’t until we moved to New York State that he finally found himself at home. We could leave him untied and he would stay around the house, for all but a few occasions. Once he was caught by the dogcatcher and once, he disappeared for a week or so, during which we had no idea where he was. When he came back, he didn’t look or act hungry, so we think somebody took him in. He was a good looking, affectionate, gentle dog and I still miss him from time to time. His hair was very short, so he would get cold very quickly in the wintertime. His hair was also the softest of any dog I’ve felt. When he died Mary and I both cried as we buried him in the backyard.