Andrea Bennett: Galina Petrovna's Three-Legged Dog Story

Mitya sniffed and scraped his feet across the metal floor of the lorry.

‘Galina Petrovna, I am very sorry, but you may be right. Unfortunately, it is highly unlikely that your dog is still alive. Once the canines, I mean dogs, are logged in the system, issued their papers and taken to the collective holding kennels, they are usually destroyed within a day or so. Sometimes en-masse.’

‘Destroyed en-masse, eh, Mitya?’ asked Zoya with a frown.

‘Yes, Zinaida Artyomovna. It is more… cost effective.’

‘So you, Katya, what do you think of your hero now? Destroying old ladies’ dogs en-masse , eh? A fine business to be expert in.’

Katya hesitated. ‘I think he deserves a second chance, Zinaida Artyomovna, as we all do.’ She put her arm through Mitya’s, and clasped his hand.

Zoya looked away. ‘I’ll tell you something: my arse is going to be black and blue after this, Galia,’ and she cackled briefly like a delinquent chicken with a flick knife.

The occupants of the KAMAZ fell into silence, preoccupied with their own thoughts. Around them, it seemed that an autumn dusk was falling, as myriad downy particles twisted in the atmosphere, catching the light of the distant sun and turning it hazy, rusted and flat. Krapivin spotted Plovsk in the distance, and let out a yelp. The town squatted on a dank hillside, and as they approached they made out assorted chimneys painted in giant red-and-white checks dotting the smog that appeared to be excreted from every pore of the town. Multiple fiery suns waited to set on a dozen different knolls around the hill top, each one burning red and gold, each at the end of a crackling tube reaching out into the solid air, still and heavy as concrete, or perhaps Zoya’s scrambled eggs. That air presided over the town with an unspoken threat to squeeze the life out of its inhabitants at any time it chose. There were no visible people: maybe this was why.

‘Boy, this town really gives me the creeps! It’s so – murky!’ Kommandant Krapivin rolled his eyes meaningfully before bringing them back to the road ahead and the horizon. ‘Hey, anyone know which way we go now?’

‘Straight on, Kommandant, straight on,’ Mitya instructed. He knew the way to the holding facility quite well. When he had started out in extermination he had been a frequent visitor, although in recent years it had been left to others to convey the dogs to their final destination. He thought about his van this week. On Thursday it had been full to the roof with dog-kind. There had even been a poodle among his catch, some mongrel puppies, and an unwanted arthritic dachshund. The latter had bitten him on the ankle at the start of the day. It had made him very angry, he recalled. He probably still had the dry remnants of the scab there, under his sock. He glanced at Katya, wanted to touch her cheek, call her kitten, have her wash him with her eyes, absolve him of his shame, but she was staring out of the window, her face blankly reflecting the desolation around her. Mitya wondered if she had ever been to Plovsk before.

‘OK, after the factory on the left.’

‘The glue factory?’

‘Yes, the glue factory…’

They were just in time to witness a ragged collection of broken-down horses being fed in through the factory gates by small, mal-formed herders. One of the horses reared up a couple of feet in a last, futile act of resistance and rolled its eyes towards the heavy sky. Galia pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and stifled a slight moan. Mitya cleared his throat.

‘After the glue factory, take the next left and follow the road round, until you come to a big set of black chain gates. You can’t miss it.’ Mitya rubbed his eyes, very cautiously, with a swollen fist, and winced. He was glad the sound of the engine had drowned out the whinnying of the horse. Why were animals boiled down into glue, but people weren’t? He didn’t get anything anymore. He would ask Katya about it later.

‘OK, hero, I got it: whoah, here it is!’ The Kommandant braked hard and swung the heavy KAMAZ around the corner, almost launching Zoya over the driver’s seat and out of the window in the process.

‘Citizen Kommandant!’ she cawed from the blackness of the floor. ‘I did not survive the Great Patriotic War, Khrushchev, Brezhnev and the others that now escape my memory in order to be sent on my way by you! Especially not in Plovsk! What would people say?’

‘Zoya, Zoya, just hold on to me, I’ll keep you safe.’ Galia fished her friend up from the darkness and hair balls and, dusting her off lightly, wedged her back into place on the bench seat between herself and Vasya, who was mumbling something in his sleep, his head rolling against the side of the lorry. ‘We don’t want to lose you, especially not in Plovsk,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s a hell of a place.’

The open gates, just as Mitya had described, came in to view and they passed under what was left of the sign before the KAMAZ slowed to a standstill in the empty yard of Municipal Incinerator No. 4. The Kommandant cut the engine and the group slowly spilled out on to the tarmac, their coughs and complaints echoing lonely in their ears against a background of almost nothing: there were no cries of birds, or children, or dogs. The only sound was a distant rumble, somewhere in the woods, or maybe under the streets themselves, a rumble and a vibration, as if something terribly huge and heavy was beating every so often against something else terribly huge and heavy, in a cave. The vibration had shaken the leaves from the trees: even in August, Galia observed, the branches were bare and grey. No wonder there were no birds.

‘OK, are we all here? Mitya, you look half dead – you better buck your ideas up, buddy. Zoya – put that dream catcher away, I don’t think that can help us now. Volubchik – maybe you can stay by the vehicle and guard it? I’m sorry we forgot your walking sticks and all, but you know – it’s turning into one of those days.’ Kommandant Krapivin paused and scanned the faces arranged around him. ‘OK, so, we’re clear about what the dog looks like, yeah? Three legs, long tail, brown eyes. Which way, gang? Galia? Mitya?’

‘Oh, Kommandant! How should I know? I’m just an old lady from Azov.’

‘Woah, where did that come from?’

‘I’m sorry, Kommandant, you’ve been very kind, but… I’m scared. Really scared.’

‘Come on, Galina Petrovna, there’s no need to be scared, I’ll look after you!’ Katya put her arm through Galia’s and looked into her eyes. ‘I won’t let you see anything bad, Galina Petrovna, trust me. But we have to look. Everyone, let’s just try! Let’s look! Let’s split up!’

‘Yes, Galia, there is no time to be scared. We’re all here for you. I will wait here by the lorry and as soon as you come out with Boroda, I will be ready to help you back into the lorry and away. Just like the last time in Azov, remember? We’ve done it before. Don’t be afraid.’ Vasya smiled at her warmly.

‘Yes, Galina Petrovna,’ Mitya also broke in, looking at the sky, ‘yes, we just need to get searching: to give it a go. We’re all tired, all scared,’ he looked at Katya, ‘but we have to give it a go.’

Galia nodded her head and squared her shoulders a little. ‘OK, you’re right. We have to do it, no matter what we might find. I’m ready, I suppose: lead on.’

They bounded away from the KAMAZ like a pack of elderly and slightly confused bloodhounds, fanning out over the site, noses into every cage, box, corridor, office and hangar they could find. They lifted the lids on all the stinking bins, opened up the black trap doors leading to echoing cellars below, climbed rickety ladders in to dusty lofts and called from the windows ‘Boroda! Boroda!’ They checked all the skips, the holding pens, the automated lift, the underside of the inspection chambers and even the conveyor belt buckets.