Silva

      We met in August 1988. A week later, she moved in with us. Her maiden name was Petrova. Compared to Shapiro, given the time and place (in the Soviet Union in 1988, the Shapiro name was something of a "black spot" dating back to the days of Captain Flint), it sounds noble. Especially when your family line has a dozen aristocrats in previous generations. I've seen documents confirming this. However, the proud carriage of her head and the haughty yet benevolent gaze indicated innate nobility more than a stamped note. With such data, moving into the noisy, awkward Shapiro family was a brave act, you must admit. At least, her career could be put to rest. And a peaceful future, too. But not once in many years did Silva allow herself even a hint of what she had sacrificed by linking her fate with us. Moreover, when Nina pestered me with assumptions about how happy she would have been if she had married a famous actor like Jean Marais or, say, Vasily Lanovoy instead of me, Silva would cast a brief, meaningful glance at her, and my wife fell silent, embarrassed. 
     In general, with Silva's arrival, family squabbles became a rare and peaceful occurrence. She radiated kindness and cheerful energy. The only thing she was unyielding about was leadership. The memoirs she had planned were supposed to be called "Fourteen Years in Power." It's a pity she didn't have time. It could have been a bestseller.

In the first years of emigration, which were desperate and sad, she literally saved us. Her whole appearance said: "Guys, everything is fine! - because I'm with you." And when Saddam started throwing "SCUDs", she turned air raid sirens into a funny performance, walking around the room in a homemade gas mask. Animals were not entitled to protective equipment, and Ira, our twelve-year-old daughter, cut a muzzle for Silva from a plastic bottle, attaching it to his collar with rubber bands. Instead of a cork, a cap made of damp gauze was put on. In such a Martian spacesuit, the dog walked importantly among us. And the stupid Shapiras laughed in gas masks, not reacting to the glass rattling from nearby explosions.

One day, I was making a sign for the door. I managed to write SHAPIRO NINA carefully, but, catching the dog's puzzled look, I quickly added AND SILVA. For many years, this sign informed guests who the real boss is in the house.
And once an awkward case occurred. That evening, the doorbell rang, and I opened it. Two pleasant women stood at the threshold with thin books in their hands and the inspired gaze of sectarians. Those who introduce people to the true faith. I still couldn't figure out whether they were Adventists or Jehovah's Witnesses, but they were cold and wet: it was drizzling in the January evening rain. One of them asked about Nina - experience probably told her that it is more difficult to put a man on the path of true faith. Nina was in the store that evening. Then the lady expressed a desire to talk to Silva. I shrugged and invited them in. The dog was delighted and ready to listen to the arguments from the brochures, but one of the sectarians suddenly burst into tears: it turned out that her name was also Silva. I had to give them tea and sympathetically listen to their complaints about rude people and the difficult but noble mission of bringing light to lost souls. Suddenly, Nina appeared and decisively threw the visitors out. Silva's lost soul never joined the light, but the dog was quickly consoled.

       She forgave us a lot, and only once was she seriously offended. That summer, when Ira received her draft notice. Our daughter graduated from school with honors, and it was decided that before the army, all the ladies of the Shapiro family would visit Europe. If I had been a little more attentive, I would have realized that the dog was getting ready too. The ineradicable Belarusian accent in her "gau" was transformed into the Parisian "le gav" and the London "haw". But she was not taken. And for two weeks, while both ladies grazed on the Champs ;lys;es and were imprisoned in the Tower, Silva was sad and refused to eat. But they came back so cheerful and excited, so eagerly trying on their new clothes, that she forgave and forgot. Unlike the perfume and cosmetics industry of France, which never recovered from this visit.
 
Unfortunately, dogs do not live long. I remember Sylva’s guilty look at my daughter: “Doggy, hold on, you promised!” when we were going to the vet to operate on the dog’s heart. Those we love do not leave forever. I notice this when Nina takes an attacking stance and is about to express her opinion about me, but suddenly falls silent and unclenches her sharp claws. At these moments, it seems to me that a shadow crosses the room diagonally, cheerfully wagging its short tail: “Guys, everything is fine! – because I am with you.”