Glory Ho

On Tuesday, I met Katie Hill, the British Ambassador’s wife for lunch, then trudged up Graffa to go see the post office ladies that I loathe so dearly. It’s part of Bulgaria that I cannot get past. Two times ago, I actually burst—as in a shoulders shaking, smeared envelope sort of drama—into tears at one of the little pen-that-doesn’t-work-on-an-old-string stations. And last time, after they told me in the rudest manner possible that I was at the wrong post office, in a flash of newfound American power, I seethed: Why???? Why do you have to be so mean?? even though I’m sure they couldn’t understand a word I said.

But sometimes it IS easy. And this was one of those times. Apart from the usual geriatric body breathing on the back of my hair during the five minute wait, today I flatlined in a good way.

On my way back to Traditzia, I took a little shortcut between Han Kroomb and Neofit Rilsky. It was a side street, but familiar territory. Just blocks from the gallery. Here in Sofia, cars are free to park on the sidewalk, which pushes walkers to the street. That’s where I was then, black hippie skirt swishing and brown paper package swinging in the 50 degree January weather.

I came upon haggard man #785 talking to haggard women #234 and #987. He in the street. Them on their block stoop. Two stray dogs circled and wagged.

Stray dogs are everywhere in Sofia. Sewn into the urban streetscape. However, unless I’m running, which can occasionally inspire them to chase me, they don’t even bother looking my way.

But this one did.

As I made my approach, his brown pools, as deep as a human’s, definitely eyed me. Like all third-world mutts, he had that television look: big enough to keep up, small enough to play with children. Face of a Jack Russell Terrier. Short hair. Ears that pop up in that funny way. Like a piece of chocolate: a little brown, a little black, a little white.

Our eyes lock briefly, just as you might with a boy across the bar.

But I’m not the attention-giving type. I don’t fawn much over creatures that I can’t have a glass of wine and a good conversation with. Nothing wrong with ‘em. Just not my style.

Then the moment was gone. Or at least it was for me. I had moved on.

But not the dog.

Mid-stride past his turf, he lunged at my outside thigh from behind, tearing my skirt and breaking the skin with his dirty teeth. I screamed. It hurt. But I was more scared and stunned than injured. The next minute was nothing but slow-mo. No one said a thing. No one made a move. Even the air had been silenced. The dog was gone.

I backed away, struggling to hold my bags. . .reaching and twisting to examine the wound. .I kept looking at the bystanders with an expression that said:

Did you see what just happened! The dog! He bit me! Did you see that?

And they kept staring back at me with a look that said:

Yes, we saw it. But we don’t know you and we’re not going to help you. You best be going now.

I quite literally stumbled away in a daze, wondering whether my thigh or my soul was bleeding more.

I wasn’t angry. I just felt betrayed. By Sofia. By the Bulgarians. By the street dog himself. The city had become so familiar, so easy, so safe to me over the past 15 months. And now, I knew, a little bit of that was gone.

But there was no reason to be surprised. Perhaps these people regularly witnessed a dog attack. Perhaps they’ve been punished for interfering before. Perhaps—No.

Perhaps nothing.

I’m not going to make excuses on this one. In every country in this world, there exist certain flaws. This is Bulgaria’s. The fact that elderly women and men, a demographic of society that regularly needs help themselves, cannot move to help an innocent dog-bite victim on a residential street is a flaw. I really have nothing else to say.