Dunmoran Strand, County Sligo, Ireland - January 2008
The ocean wind howls among the shrubs and through the hedges, and its companion the rain knocks persistently on my windows while I sit and read the last pages of EB’s winter issue. Suddenly, my eye catches a more than familiar name, Biele Noči, and I read with interest of how plans are being made to write the story of this influential Croatian kennel with the mating of Ch Nikolai Wolkowo to Gasja von St. Petersburg. I cannot but look down towards the big cushion where old Votka Od Vjetra lays asleep, and think of how influential this particular descendant of that particular litter has been in my life. Old Votka will be eleven years old in a few days, and I feel I should not ignore this invitation to go back in time and recall the moments we spent together.
It was a glorious day of late May 1997 when my friend Alessandro and I went to Rijeka to show what later would have become Multi Champion Arin, and – last but not least – to secretly take a look at this litter we heard of. Secretly, because I could not afford a dog, since I was living abroad in a small flat, about to be unemployed, and certainly not in the position to get a new dog. I promised myself I would consider getting a dog only after getting a job. Trouble was, the job interview at the Dutch company near home was on Monday, and I was going to “take a look” at the litter on the previous day…
So there I was, by myself since the Rijeka show was just slowly coming on, driving my mother’s little car through the beautiful Croatian woodland, on the old road to Zagreb, along turquoise lakes and green pastures and, unfortunately, along groups of former soldiers, now employed as police force and heavily equipped with what must have been the same fire arms they had been using during the recent war. The only sight of them gave me the shivers, but I managed to carry on unnoticed, or labelled by their icy looks as a totally uninteresting appearance.
I managed to find Nera Golojuh’s neat house with a view on a green valley, where four puppies were still spending their blissful, carefree early months. Their mother, Babočka Bielie Noči, struck me for her perfect proportions, if not for her size which was rather limited for Italian standards. Their father, Aris Hipolit, a skinny fellow with the most beautiful head and classic deep orange coat, did not particularly impress me, except for something I found out later: he bore the blood of one of the most influential dogs in Eastern Europe, that Rohan Socius which still makes a difference for some kennels, thanks to the intuition and expertise of the Nijinski breeders, who chose him for their Colombina Nijinski. And this is how I left Zagreb, later on that evening, with this little quiet white and brindle male who took the place of my savings and put his head on my knee while I was driving and thinking that yes, I needed that job near home, in Italy.
The Croatian custom officer inspected the boot of my car, which was too small to contain the rifles he was looking for, and let me go with yet another icy look. The Slovenian custom officer was more explicit: “Guns? No, no guns. Ah, ruski hrt”, Russian sighthound, and smiled approvingly. No one ever thought of asking for any papers, vaccinations, certificates. Passing borders is something old Votka became very good at, as he became a real cosmopolitan precursor of a united Europe. And in fact, the day after I went to the interview and got the job, and two days later we were on our way to Holland, the land of his grandmother MCh Vorenoff Tziganka Wolkowa. He moved in with me in my Amsterdam flat (and was house-trained within 3 days), as I needed to spend a couple of months to end my commitment with the school and finish the year of teaching. Those were beautiful days in Amsterdam, with little Votka running around on the Northern Sea beaches, eating raw herring and Parmesan cheese, since he readily decided he was going to be the most reluctant eater I ever came across. Skinny to the bone, with pockets full of vitamins for myself and tablets from the vet for my silly hunger-striker, the two of us enjoyed a beautiful Dutch summer, partying in the parks and on the sandy dunes, falling in our beds at dawn exhausted and happy.
Little we knew that we were going to be set apart very soon. At the end of the school year we moved to Italy, where the job turned out to be a nightmare, but my big thirsty car still needed to be paid for, and as soon as Votka was one year old and had his Vrlo Dobar and Very Good in the youth class at various shows, I signed a contract that was going to keep me far from home for no less than two years. I came back and found the most stunning borzoi male instead of the skinny, unsteady puppy I left behind. Love makes you blind, obviously, for in spite of a CAC and a few reserves, the judges hasted to say he was still very, very skinny. And contrary, oh yes, he could be contrary, but was it his fault if every other male dog was jealous of him?
Destiny, however, was around the corner, when three years old Votka was chosen by the two most prominent breeders in Italy to sire a litter, which was to make him a Stud Champion, thanks to the 3 Italian and International Champions among his offspring (Alarico and Berengario di Roccabarbara, and Volkonshkj della Matildele), plus a Slovenian and Croatian title for the one of them that was at leisure to travel.
If his offspring did not travel so much, Votka was making it all happen, since a couple of years later he followed me back to Amsterdam, where my girlfriend and I had moved to a nice little ground-floor house with a delightful garden near the Amsterdam parks. Already a bit of a grumpy old fellow, at over 8 years of age he joined his granddaughter Gitana di Roccabarbara and the adopted greyhound Kesty in our little household, to make the most striking appearance that ever was seen along the canals of the Dutch capital, or to prepare himself to attack a huge, black Galloway bull in the nearby woodland. Or to find the main door open by burglars, and decide to follow them for a tour of Dam Square, where the police convinced him to follow them to the station and go to sleep in one of their security cells. A decision he obviously regretted, since when he saw me enter the cell door he made ready to go and waited for me at the door, ignoring the officers who had – how naïve – offered him a cheese toast.
Last year, in June, aged over ten, he travelled again in our little happy van through the heart of Europe, England and Wales, when the whole lot moved again with us to green but rainy Ireland. Here he takes his walks on Dunmoran Strand, the beach that was famous for the saying “Next stop, America”. But America is certainly not old Votka’s destination, as the time has come for him to rest his old bones near the fire, and shake his mane in the howling wind when dawn comes over the mountain of Knockarea.
It was a glorious day of late May 1997 when my friend Alessandro and I went to Rijeka to show what later would have become Multi Champion Arin, and – last but not least – to secretly take a look at this litter we heard of. Secretly, because I could not afford a dog, since I was living abroad in a small flat, about to be unemployed, and certainly not in the position to get a new dog. I promised myself I would consider getting a dog only after getting a job. Trouble was, the job interview at the Dutch company near home was on Monday, and I was going to “take a look” at the litter on the previous day…
So there I was, by myself since the Rijeka show was just slowly coming on, driving my mother’s little car through the beautiful Croatian woodland, on the old road to Zagreb, along turquoise lakes and green pastures and, unfortunately, along groups of former soldiers, now employed as police force and heavily equipped with what must have been the same fire arms they had been using during the recent war. The only sight of them gave me the shivers, but I managed to carry on unnoticed, or labelled by their icy looks as a totally uninteresting appearance.
I managed to find Nera Golojuh’s neat house with a view on a green valley, where four puppies were still spending their blissful, carefree early months. Their mother, Babočka Bielie Noči, struck me for her perfect proportions, if not for her size which was rather limited for Italian standards. Their father, Aris Hipolit, a skinny fellow with the most beautiful head and classic deep orange coat, did not particularly impress me, except for something I found out later: he bore the blood of one of the most influential dogs in Eastern Europe, that Rohan Socius which still makes a difference for some kennels, thanks to the intuition and expertise of the Nijinski breeders, who chose him for their Colombina Nijinski. And this is how I left Zagreb, later on that evening, with this little quiet white and brindle male who took the place of my savings and put his head on my knee while I was driving and thinking that yes, I needed that job near home, in Italy.
The Croatian custom officer inspected the boot of my car, which was too small to contain the rifles he was looking for, and let me go with yet another icy look. The Slovenian custom officer was more explicit: “Guns? No, no guns. Ah, ruski hrt”, Russian sighthound, and smiled approvingly. No one ever thought of asking for any papers, vaccinations, certificates. Passing borders is something old Votka became very good at, as he became a real cosmopolitan precursor of a united Europe. And in fact, the day after I went to the interview and got the job, and two days later we were on our way to Holland, the land of his grandmother MCh Vorenoff Tziganka Wolkowa. He moved in with me in my Amsterdam flat (and was house-trained within 3 days), as I needed to spend a couple of months to end my commitment with the school and finish the year of teaching. Those were beautiful days in Amsterdam, with little Votka running around on the Northern Sea beaches, eating raw herring and Parmesan cheese, since he readily decided he was going to be the most reluctant eater I ever came across. Skinny to the bone, with pockets full of vitamins for myself and tablets from the vet for my silly hunger-striker, the two of us enjoyed a beautiful Dutch summer, partying in the parks and on the sandy dunes, falling in our beds at dawn exhausted and happy.
Little we knew that we were going to be set apart very soon. At the end of the school year we moved to Italy, where the job turned out to be a nightmare, but my big thirsty car still needed to be paid for, and as soon as Votka was one year old and had his Vrlo Dobar and Very Good in the youth class at various shows, I signed a contract that was going to keep me far from home for no less than two years. I came back and found the most stunning borzoi male instead of the skinny, unsteady puppy I left behind. Love makes you blind, obviously, for in spite of a CAC and a few reserves, the judges hasted to say he was still very, very skinny. And contrary, oh yes, he could be contrary, but was it his fault if every other male dog was jealous of him?
Destiny, however, was around the corner, when three years old Votka was chosen by the two most prominent breeders in Italy to sire a litter, which was to make him a Stud Champion, thanks to the 3 Italian and International Champions among his offspring (Alarico and Berengario di Roccabarbara, and Volkonshkj della Matildele), plus a Slovenian and Croatian title for the one of them that was at leisure to travel.
If his offspring did not travel so much, Votka was making it all happen, since a couple of years later he followed me back to Amsterdam, where my girlfriend and I had moved to a nice little ground-floor house with a delightful garden near the Amsterdam parks. Already a bit of a grumpy old fellow, at over 8 years of age he joined his granddaughter Gitana di Roccabarbara and the adopted greyhound Kesty in our little household, to make the most striking appearance that ever was seen along the canals of the Dutch capital, or to prepare himself to attack a huge, black Galloway bull in the nearby woodland. Or to find the main door open by burglars, and decide to follow them for a tour of Dam Square, where the police convinced him to follow them to the station and go to sleep in one of their security cells. A decision he obviously regretted, since when he saw me enter the cell door he made ready to go and waited for me at the door, ignoring the officers who had – how naïve – offered him a cheese toast.
Last year, in June, aged over ten, he travelled again in our little happy van through the heart of Europe, England and Wales, when the whole lot moved again with us to green but rainy Ireland. Here he takes his walks on Dunmoran Strand, the beach that was famous for the saying “Next stop, America”. But America is certainly not old Votka’s destination, as the time has come for him to rest his old bones near the fire, and shake his mane in the howling wind when dawn comes over the mountain of Knockarea.
