Arslan's Memorial

The prominent saying that dogs are man's best friend is not an overstatement. Experience is the best determining factor in proving such an idea. I have had the privilege of parenting two dogs in my adult life and can vouch for them.

"He won't make it till tomorrow," the veterinarian in my hometown told me. "You must take him to the Animal Hospital; they will know what to do." His words were still ringing in my head as I sat there at the hospital waiting for the examination results. People sat with their furry friends, some moved around, whispering, and the receptionist's voice occasionally emerged in the background. They had taken Arslan in immediately. The picture of him shivering in the car as I drove to the hospital was still fresh in my mind. There was still no word from the veterinarians, and the relief of getting to the hospital in time gave way to other thoughts as I waited. Time had gone by ever so quickly, and everything seemed like a dream. Then there were faint memories of how it had started.

It had been several weeks, and the pit bull puppy was still there, tied up at a post in the back of the landlord's house, where my best friend at the time, my colleague, had rented a little house. I hadn't gone near the little one because of privacy concerns. And his breed, "pit bull," had raised an uncertain feeling in me.

"They are adorable dogs." My friend told me and explained further that they have a terrible reputation because of the way people raise them. Since my circumstances had drastically changed, the arrival of a new furry friend in my house was welcome. My childhood was always dominated by felines, even though we also had dogs in the family. Still, my experience with canines was not as extensive. Therefore, there was a great deal of apprehension towards that unknown territory where a breed's reputation was in question.

As the weeks went by, my friend kept suggesting that the puppy be adopted immediately and that I was the right person for the task. There had been little change in the puppy's status, as he was still living behind the owner's house. My friends' encouragement to adopt him overcame my apprehension, and on a Friday afternoon after work, she and I finally approached the owner about the puppy.

The puppy's calm demeanor suited my lifestyle very well. I named him Arslan after a character in an Armenian novel I had read when I was young, and had fallen in love with that hero's noble and valiant disposition.

I soon discovered Arslan's sweet nature, and he became my baby, best friend, companion, and guard. His friendliness always turned towards people, children, and other animals. During our walks, he always ignored the barking of unfriendly dogs.

Arlsan loved running at the doggie beach and playing in the snow, and he had a great sense of humor. He knew when I was kidding with him and played along. He was also a great jumper and loved to jump down the stairs, leading to the garden, in style. When he did that, he looked like a deer, so I called him Bamby at times. His running skills were athletic. When in the garden, he would run around the house like he was in a rally, and with such great joy. One of the funniest things Arslan did was howl when I sang at home. He placed quite a bit of emotion into it, depending on the song's mood.

When we moved to Vienna, Austria, I could not help but notice the difference in how I interacted with Arslan as opposed to other dog owners who walked along the canal near our apartment. Arslan and I would be running and jumping around, as I would burst into laughter and he would wag his tail. But the owners here would walk in a somber tempo, keeping their hands behind their backs, and the dogs would follow without leashes.

One particular night, I had taken Arslan out, across the street from our apartment building. It was pretty dark, but many owners were still walking their dogs in the park. Out of nowhere, a giant dog appeared, twice as big as Arslan in size. He wasn't interested in getting to know my dog, but he came on to me directly for some reason. I had never been in a situation where my physical self was threatened in any way before, so I had no idea how Arslan was going to react. Without waiting even a second, Arslan blocked the other dog's path, standing between him and me while keeping his body posture high. His message was loud and clear.
"What do you want from her? You deal with me!"

Oh, the sense of duty embodied in this little being. And the fact that he felt that he, out of anyone else in the world, was responsible for me. It was as if someone somewhere had assigned him that job.

When I got called in, the veterinarian told me that he would need an operation as he had acquired a bad tumor on his spleen. Six months after that, the cancer spread, and Arslan fell ill. One of the things that I will never forget about him is the fact that he never whimpered from the pain or discomfort of his illness. I just knew he was not feeling well. Toward the end, it became blurry as to who was taking care of whom as he was struggling with this disease. Seeing him in that state was heartbreaking, as he would follow me everywhere in the house as I climbed the stairs or moved down in the basement. And he still tried to run, bark, and do all those things that healthy, normal doggies do. I realized then that he was keeping up because he was concerned about leaving me behind.

Upon Arslan's passing, I planted a magnolia tree in his memory, right where he used to sit and rest in the garden. Initially, the tree bloomed pink flowers only in spring, but in later years, in addition, right around the date of his passing in August, just like some presence, there appeared a single flower.