Spaghetti

SZPAGIETKA

It was probably about 10 years ago when I got a puppy, peeing profusely everywhere. I was hesitant to bring him home. I knew that when Anna saw him... and right then, when I put him on the carpet, he'd squat down and it was over. A stain on the carpet. I already knew it was over between us anyway. The cup of marital bitterness was poured over by a dog's pee. And is it normal human behavior to bring a dog into a sterile home? A senseless, dirty little thing. Whatever, I named him Kabi, but I also called him szpagietka. A long-haired dachshund. Shortly after, Anna left me. Left me. It was just the two of us now: szpagietka and I, oh, I almost forgot, sometimes his little brother Sztafik would join him too. One day, szpagietka was fast asleep with his paws tucked between the radiator ribs. That radiator was so low, it barely protruded above the parquet floor, almost touching the floor, so it was the perfect place to warm your paws. I was looking at him, and he was panting strangely. I walked closer and looked down, and there it was, the little guy's dick standing up. He was fast asleep, panting in his sleep! He had an erotic dream about some dog. Hee hee.

In general, anyone who's had a wire-haired dachshund knows he's a real badass. I lost him once. I felt sad. The house felt empty and boring. I started searching. After about a week, I received word that he was here, a crazy guy had been found. I went to Ciapkowo to pick him up. I parked in front of the rows of dog kennels. I got out of the stroller. All the dogs in their kennels at that moment started acting up, jumping onto the roofs of the kennels set in the boxes separated by bars, and breaking into a barking concert. They bared their fangs as I walked through the row of kennels toward Grandma, the caretaker of this hutch. The woman didn't ask me any questions; she wanted me to go inside. She knew in advance if this dog would be mine. He would simply have to recognize me. I saw a cage in front of me, with bars as thick as a birch trunk. It was dark and smelled terrible. So, I stepped uncertainly, approaching the bars. I leaned down and began to check if he was there, as Grandma had said. At one point, I saw him wagging his tail uncertainly, happy that it was me. I also struck my luck immediately, and Grandma saw that the orphans had been found. She pulled him out of my cage as if from a lion's cage. Then I paid the bill, and that was it. I took him and tucked him into my bosom. We emerged from the line of barking dogs. And there, the silence was like a tomb, broken only by the cars passing by on the busy highway. I held him in my arms and felt his heart pounding. He stared at his companions in misery in silence. The other dogs watched us back to the car without a bark. Jealousy, sadness, or support?

One summer, when it was really warm, Gucio and I went on a trip thinking we'd crash somewhere by the lake. We'd sunbathe and swim. Just a typical lakeside Sunday boredom. Before we even left, I had to listen to Gucio tell us we wouldn't be going far, that it had to be no more than twenty kilometers from Gdynia, and that the place had to be quiet, and preferably without people. He gave the impression, with his talk, that he'd never been anywhere, especially by a lake. To avoid stressing him out, I chose Kamień. When we got to the lake and saw a million people over two hundred meters of disgusting grassy beach, we lost interest. We got out of the car anyway. We reached the water, it was black, and we went back to the car. "Where the fuck have you brought me? I've never seen such filth in my life. Fuck, we're going home," Gucio shouted at me. I took a chance and talked him into another nearby lake, very little known, tiny, hidden, and difficult to access. We arrived in five minutes. We drove down the slope and found ourselves almost at the shore, densely overgrown with reeds and bushes. It was great. The sun was merciless. Grasshoppers were whizzing on their French horns. Dragonflies were buzzing, flies, wasps, and other flying insects were buzzing. Other than that, it was completely silent. With a smile on his face, Gucio began to pull a blanket out of the car. I let the spadefish off its leash. Sure enough, it ran off into the bush without a second glance. Gucio rubbed himself with sunscreen, tucked some grass between his jagged fangs, and threw himself onto the blanket with a blissful expression. He simply muttered, "Great, peace and quiet, no people here." And I went for a walk along the lakeshore. I made it maybe 20 meters and came upon an angler lurking in the reeds, holding a bamboo rod the length of a diving pole. The guy had a hardened expression. He had a silly mustache like most anglers. He saw me out of the corner of his eye. "That's your dog in the water," he said. "Yes, mine, why are you asking?" I replied. "Look, you brat, where's he going?" the guy clearly attacked me. And I saw a spadefish swimming centrally toward his float. After a moment, he took it between his teeth and, about forty meters away, began his triumphant return toward me. The angler looked at me and let me know he was about to set the hook. "Don't do that, buddy," I said. "You bastard, you boor, take that fucking dog and get the fuck out of here or I'll kill you," the guy barked. Spagietka comes swimming towards me with a float in his mouth, wagging his tail in a friendly way. I put him on the leash. I head back towards the car. The guy flies towards me with his paws. I ignore him. Gucio, already on his feet, is packing his stuff into the cart – "I don't give a damn, we're going back." So we go back, and that's it.

Another time, there was another drunkenness, just one in a row. Broken films. In the early morning, I saw Rycha sitting intently in an armchair. He was smoking a pipe with a blurry face. I looked at his suit trousers, and there were torn belts from his balls to his legs, and through everything, his undamaged long johns were visible. The spagietka did the trick. Out of nerves, jealousy, or the fact that drunk Rycha had taken over her armchair for the night. I'll leave that decision to him. We had to go and buy new trousers for our asses. I, of a mean height, lent him my Dunkers, which again, on him, a skinny hulk, reached a little below his knees. And on his feet were dirty pointed-toe leather boots, out of fashion for ten years, with a metal buckle, and on his feet, elastic socks that must have smelled unbearably. Thus equipped, we went to a shop on Świętojańska Street to buy new clothes. Twenty women surrounded us. A month later, a similar story with Kaz. Pantaloons tailored from the balls to the ankles, and wailing about how I'd get home to my wife.

Six months later, he ran away again. For good. I won't have a dog anymore