Russian Mourning

Nobody mourns the way a Russian mourns.

My housekeeper had to put her poodle down a few weeks ago; he was 12, it’s always sad to lose a beloved pet, and she knows that it’s only a dog, in the end. But. Her household consists of a husband and 2 grown daughters, and between the 4 of them, it seems they could fill a bucket with their tears.

I’ve always found that Russians do things bigger than everyone else. They party harder, they love more passionately, they write better novels (they used to, anyway), they do amazing social inequality, leather pants and leopard skin notwithstanding. Big hair, big bling, full make-up, always the nails done. They are extremely proud and patriotic (even though they left Russia, so obviously things weren’t so great there). And boy can they drink. And dance.

But they do morose and moody big too.

I don’t know when this doggy mourning will be over. Every day I hear from my housekeeper about how empty the house is without little Tosha. How there’s nobody running to greet her when she comes home. How clever he was; how she had to employ a Russian-speaking cleaning lady (yes, my housekeeper has a cleaning lady) because he only spoke Russian and he was so territorial he wouldn’t allow non-Russian speakers in the house. How every morning her husband goes for a walk by himself and cries. How everybody calls to give condolences, which makes them all cry harder. And when she tells her family to get a grip, they all accuse her of being heartless and they all cry some more.

‘And I still have his leash in my car, from his last trip to the vet’, she sobbed today.

‘And I’m sure you will use it again, for another dog’, I said, perhaps a little callously.

She shook her head, choked up, unable to speak.

‘Oh, it’s got his name on it, right?’ I guessed.

In a quavering voice, she replied, ‘In diamantes!’

Russians.