Having spent, admittedly, only a very little time observing the customs in this part of the world, I still find myself able to imagine those Greek dog catchers taking a small siesta from their canine catching activities, sprawling on rickety metal chairs, or standing in dark clumps in doorways, smoking, talking loudly, gesticulating wildly, the caught dogs cowering somewhere nearby. I imagine Public escaping somehow, again and again, the noisy men so distracted by their cigarettes and their conversations that they fail to see what is happening right in front of them.
I don't really know what happened. I know that Panagiotis, the chess playing self-taught carpenter, lawyer and political activist, a man once considered to be one of the most dangerous civilians in the country, founding member of Greenpeace Greece, and dreamer upper of Delenia, somehow saved this handsome dog with the Egyptian eyes, and brought him here. I know Panagiotis died suddenly several years ago. I know that Public has been under the care of house-sitters, and caretakers, and assorted ragged and random people passing in and out of his kingdom ever since.
I know that Public is damaged. He does not like Greek men. He does not like sudden movements towards him, or small confined spaces. He keeps his tail tucked in tight between his hind legs. When we arrive his belly is covered in red sores from the sharp edges of the Pampas grass that he loves to make nests in, but he won't allow anyone to examine his sores, or put ointment on them. He will not let you help him, and if you try he will run away, and remember for a little while to stay away from you. And maybe this is why I fall so quickly and easily in love with him. Because he doesn't ask for anything. Because he is proud and quiet and polite, and lives and survives on his own terms. And also of course because I want to save him.
After we are left in charge of Public we start to go for walks. I have no idea if walking with people is a thing that he has done before. There is no one here to tell me. The first few times I have to coax him with cheese. But once he realizes where we are going and what we are doing his tail comes out from between his legs. He prances. His steps become jaunty and his mouth opens in a smile and he runs ahead fast, and then stops to wait for the humans. Pretty soon he starts to recognize the English words let's go for a walk, and pretty soon we are climbing the steep driveway nearly every day, exploring the rutted roads and rocky hillsides of his wild and isolated realm.
We find little stone huts everywhere. Some are visible from the road
and some are tucked away, hidden in among tangled thorny masses of overgrown vegetation.
and some are tucked away, hidden in among tangled thorny masses of overgrown vegetation.
Sometimes we follow the main road up to a tiny village,
where we go to the well to fill up our big plastic jugs with drinking water.
Sometimes we walk down to the edge of the sea.
Sometimes Public takes off in another direction, running around fences, bounding over great green expanses of grass, disappearing for a little while, off on his own adventure. But most often he stays close, a little ahead, or a little behind. When it's time to go home Public often has a better idea, he'll start out in another direction, stop, look at us, and wait. Let's go down this road he seems to be saying, or up this hill, or over here. But if we just keep heading back he is soon trotting along beside us.
We work on fattening Public up. We feed him kibble mixed with cans of chunky wet gravy-filled dog food, and rice and lentils, and fresh eggs from the chickens in the coop by the driveway. By the time we leave Delenia his sores have healed, the bones on his hips are not protruding quite as much, his coat is softer and his stomach rounder. The better to survive the winter here.
Because it is cold at night in Greece in December. And Public's bed is outside. He trembles a lot out there. Sometimes it's hard to tell if he is trembling from the temperature, or his memories. I came upon him once shivering so badly that his teeth were chattering. But still he will not come inside. Every night we try and entice him in to the warmth, to the light, to our company. We coo to him and hold out food. We say ella, the Greek word for come. And every night there is the dance at the door. He wants to come in, but the parts of him that are damaged won't let him. When he finally wins the battle and walks inside it is always slowly, with his head down. He steps gingerly across the floor as if it might explode, glancing back at the door to make sure it's still open. When he takes whatever it is we are offering he does so gently, and then quickly turns and escapes. The first week it takes hours for him to tiptoe in and take the food we are holding out. But as the weeks go by the ritual speeds up, and on a few rare nights towards the end of our six week stay he comes in and sits down a while, and then lies down, and then closes his eyes.
There are two thunderstorms while we are at Delenia, and when the lightning and thunder start up Public comes in without a bribe, comes inside and stays, quivering at my feet until it is quiet outside. There is also one memorable night when he comes in by himself without the help of a storm, and lies at our feet the entire evening, and when we get up to go to bed he follows us into the bedroom, and stays there all night on his cushion at the foot of our bed. And when we wake up in the morning he is still there, breathing his deep sleep breathing, and it feels like we have saved him, at least a little bit, at least for one night.
Sometimes, if it isn't too cold, we just sit together on the steps and stare out at the sea.
Everywhere the sea. And I cannot help where my mind goes when all that water is there in front of me. The water they call the Aegean Sea. The one where the trembling frightened tired refugees climb in the boats that may or may not make it to the other side. The ones that wrap up their babies in warm clothes and hold them tight and just step in. And some of them reach dry land and some of them do not. My arm is around Public as we look out, and when I feel the tears I do not know if they are for the noble King of Delenia, patiently waiting for someone to come and stay with him forever and always, and feed him eggs and cheese, and walk with him in the hills of his kingdom, and rub his belly until he snores, or if they are for the cold hungry wet scared children that the world doesn't want, and tries not to see. Or how to tell the difference.
And when Public comes inside that night and eats what we have held out to him, and stays for a while in the warmth and the light, resting on the cushion at our feet, I think that I do not know what could be more holy in all this wide and confusing and sometimes despairing world, than to invite a damaged soul inside with the offer of some food and a warm safe place to lie their body down.
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Panagiotis,
dreamer upper and builder of Delenia,
rescuer of Public,
playing chess at the place he dreamed up and built,
on a large and lonely island,
in the ancient country of Greece.
