In our apartment in Moscow, Halloween was a new and funny tradition. My Labrador, Jess, thought all the decorations were for her. She'd tried to taste the plastic spider webs and now considered the pumpkin a personal enemy.
That night, I was prepared. The bowl of Russian "Alenka" chocolates for any visiting neighbors was placed high up. "You will not get these," I told Jess in Russian. She just tilted her head, her tail thumping against the floor.
When the doorbell finally rang for our first trick-or-treaters—a group of brave kids from our building—Jess went into a frenzy. She wasn't barking, but her whole body wiggled with joy. In the chaos of handing out sweets, one single Alenka chocolate fell from the bowl and rolled under the radiator.
I saw it. Jess saw it. It was a race.
I lunged, but she was faster. A quick slurp, and the little gold-wrapped chocolate was gone. My heart stopped. "Jess! Net!" I yelled, already imagining the worst.
I frantically called the only 24-hour vet clinic I could find online. A very tired-sounding man answered. I explained, my voice shaking, "My labrador just ate a chocolate! An Alenka!"
There was a long, slow sigh. "How much does your dog weigh?"
"About thirty kilograms," I said.
"Sir," he said, his voice flat. "The dose is too small. For a dog that size, it's nothing. Just make sure she drinks some water. She will be fine. Don't worry."
I hung up, feeling a wave of relief and a bit silly. I looked at Jess. She was sitting perfectly, her tail sweeping the floor. She let out a small, satisfied burp that smelled distinctly of chocolate.
She had no regrets. For her, it wasn't a scare. It was a successful Russian Halloween operation. And her mission was accomplished.
Have a fun holiday!
id SilverGirl
