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Napoleon goes to the animal shelter with the intention of bringing home a manageable and affectionate animal. Something that’ll greet him enthusiastically when he comes home after a tiring day of work, and love him with all of its happy little heart, eager to please.
Instead, Napoleon brings home Illya.
Illya, a lean and massive 180-pound dog that looks more like a bear and behaves more like a cat. All those other dogs, wagging their tails and barking desperately at Napoleon through the cage doors, and he chose Illya, who had not even sniffed at Napoleon’s outreached hand, icy intelligent eyes narrowed in a challenge. Napoleon does not deny that he loves to work for the affections of cold emotionless beauties, slowly coaxing open their tiny frozen hearts petal by petal, the thrill of pursuit and all. But he looks at Illya, now lounging on Napoleon’s bed and smearing his stinky fur coat into the expensive Egyptian cotton, and he thinks he may have made a slight miscalculation.
Illya ignores all of Napoleon’s efforts to move him towards the bathroom, turning his nose up at dog treats and collapsing onto his side quite dramatically, eyes closed as if to sleep.
“Come on, Illya, come on, boy,” Napoleon calls, with the sweet voice he uses on his shy and blushing lovers. “Come here, Illya, you fat bear,” he says, and he can swear he sees the dog’s triangular ears twitching, as if irritated by the insult.
Napoleon sighs, giving up, but when he sets down bowls of water and kibble by the bed some ten minutes later, Illya easily lets himself down from the bed to feast, his back to Napoleon.
The next morning after spending a rough night on the couch, Napoleon calls up Gaby, the mechanic and dog-walking enthusiast, who had convinced him that what he really needed in his life was not meaninglessly short courtships to fill his bed, but a constant canine companion to fill his heart.
“I thought I could handle him, Gaby, but he really won’t listen. He’s incorrigible. Nothing I try works,” Napoleon complains, keeping an eye on Illya as he sniffs around the house, inspecting the living room rug and licking the walls as he goes.
Gaby hums. “Sometimes what you need to break a dog’s independent streak is an example and competition. Meet me at the park in an hour, if you can manage to get him on a leash,” she says in her carefully articulated accent, and hangs up on him.
Napoleon sighs and looks around for Illya, but instead finds a large and suspicious damp spot in the $10 000 rug he acquired in Turkey during a business trip some five years ago.
“Illya!” he shouts, mustering as much authority in his voice as he can, but there is no answer. He has to search his entire house to discover the damned dog sprawled out in the claw-footed bathtub in the upstairs bathroom, his head hanging over the edge to watch Napoleon. The massive size of the beast makes the tub look like a cramped dent rather than the spacious bath that can easily fit Napoleon’s 6-foot frame.
“At least now I can give you a bath,” Napoleon says, intended scolding forgotten, and when he turns the faucets and the tub begins to fill, Illya does not move, merely watching the water wet his tail, then his giant paws. Napoleon’s heart swells with satisfaction at this one victory, and he strokes Illya’s grey fur lovingly, showering the dog with praises.
“Good dog, good boy, Illya, you’re so lovely and so calm, letting me clean you like this. I don’t know how I could have possibly thought you were being difficult.” When Illya is entirely wet, Napoleon squirts out the soap into his hands, preparing to scrub, but Illya suddenly leaps, and Napoleon is momentarily stunned while the dog, thick fur sopping with dirty water, runs out into the hallway, paws slipping and nails clicking.
It takes Napoleon thirty minutes to catch Illya and rub him down with a towel following a mad chase around the house, unbelievable amounts of water sloshed everywhere.
It takes Napoleon another twenty minutes to put a collar on Illya and to attach a leash to it, and then the discovery of his favourite pair of running shoes, soles chewed open, does nothing to improve his mood.
Seemingly satisfied with Napoleon’s misery, Illya allows him one mercy and easily follows him to the park.
Napoleon is no less than thirty minutes later than the appointed time when he sees Gaby, practicing tricks with an elegant borzoi, impeccably groomed and fur shining with health.
“Gaby,” he calls sheepishly, acutely aware of how he looks, jogging outfit mismatched and the colour of his blue tennis shoes horribly clashing with the pink highlights of his running shorts. The state of Illya by his side is no better, a half washed filthy dog, not yet completely dry. “You look as stunning as ever.”
“You’re late,” Gaby says promptly, and she and the dog turn their heads together, synchronized and looking perfectly complimentary. Her eyes widen at Illya, who nearly reaches Napoleon’s chest, but absolutely dwarfs tiny Gaby. “He’s massive. Almost as big as some wolfhounds go but he’s obviously some kind of husky mix,” she says in awe, and when she reaches out her hand for Illya to sniff, Napoleon is secretly pleased when Illya turns his head and does not even look at it. Unlike Gaby, Napoleon had been rewarded with a very forward stare for his efforts.
“Yes, I think I see what you mean by ‘incorrigible,’” she says, smile wry. “This is Victoria,” she gestures to the gold coloured borzoi, sitting primly with perfect posture. “One of my favourite client’s dogs, but admittedly very infuriating to those she doesn’t like. I thought we may try to counter attitude with attitude. Would you like to pet her?” she asks, and Napoleon glances briefly at his own dog, indifferently staring away, seemingly distracted.
“Yes, I indeed would like to meet lovely Victoria,” he says, and hands Gaby Illy’as leash before he crouches down to stroke Victoria’s unbelievably soft fur, rubbing the gentle ridges of her skull and the space between her eyes. She pushes her head into his hands coyly, and he laughs, delighted by this refreshing affection that he has not been able to receive from Illya.
Illya, who, suddenly directing his full attention at Victoria, growls and barks madly, snapping his jaws at her and pulling hard at his leash. Gaby struggles to hold him back and he inches closer, but Victoria is unfazed, tail swishing, and she licks the hand of a shocked Napoleon in askance of more caresses.
“That is the most… enthusiastic response I’ve been able to get from him,” Napoleon says, mouth parted wide in surprise and a little bit of fear.
“I did not expect such a reaction either,” Gaby says, eyebrows raised. “Solo, move towards me now, if you will, and take his leash.” He does so, and Gaby returns to Victoria.
“He can’t be jealous, can he? I just brought him home yesterday. And he hasn’t shown any sign of liking me at all,” Napoleon says incredulously, soothingly petting Illya, whose chest still rumbles warningly at Victoria.
“All dogs are different,” Gaby says. “Some may be more timid or cautious about outwardly showing affection.”
They spend an hour together, Gaby and Victoria displaying a series of complex and difficult tricks and commands, while Napoleon generously praises them, though he doesn’t attempt to pet Victoria again. Illya faces away throughout the entire session, but when Napoleon lavishes Victoria with particularly spirited compliments, he growls softly, a sound more like a grumble than a threat.
When Gaby declares it time to bring Victoria home and departs, it’s nearly noon and Napoleon and Illya head back for lunch. Illya pulls at his leash, pace much faster than the leisurely jog Napoleon was intending, and by the time they reach home, Napoleon is sweating, chest heaving for breath.
As soon as Napoleon gets the door open, Illya rushes inside and up the stairs, and when Napoleon finally catches up after a cold glass of water, he finds the dog sitting straight at attention in the same claw-footed bathtub of the morning incident, looking at Napoleon expectantly. Napoleon hesitates, the memory of the morning’s attempt all too clear in his mind, but he makes sure to close the door before he turns on the tap and fills the tub. Illya, amazingly, stays still and obediently allows Napoleon to scrub him clean, a model of good behaviour.
“Good dog, good dog, good dog,” he murmurs, over and over. Napoleon grins to himself, impossibly pleased to know that Illya had been jealous of Victoria for his attention, and is more satisfied than he ever was when he succeeded in bedding even the most frigid (but secretly charmed) lover.
Illya’s good behaviour continues as Napoleon blow-dries him, and he waits without causing too much trouble as Napoleon takes a shower of his own. After he feeds Illya his lunch meal and digs into a bowl of cereal himself, he feels the dog’s cold nose dig into his hip as he washes the dishes. Napoleon looks at him and smiles, dries his hands before he scratches the soft flesh of Illya’s head. His stare is less challenging now, less aggressive, and while it’s not quite affectionate, it’s… wistful. Illya hesitantly licks Napoleon’s hand twice, and accepts the mindless and loving string of near-unintelligble words. Gentle hands stroke him all over, and his eyes close in pleasure as he leans his massive body into Napoleon in some semblance of a hug. Illya is clever and mischievous and manipulative, but he also craves Napoleon’s love, and he finds himself charmed.
Napoleon lets out a content sigh, his chest too tight. His house is a disgusting mess, but right now, with Illya’s heart beating right against his, he couldn’t care any less.