A Rainbow for a Friend

By Mikhail Samarsky

A teenage author has conquered the literary frontiers of Russia, and now he's coming to America. Mikhail Samarsky's hot-selling book, “A Rainbow for a Friend,” explores the wilds of a great city--and beyond--from a unique perspective. In this story the hero isn't a soldier, but he's brave and steady. He isn't a detective, but he's endlessly inquisitive. He isn't a saint, but he has the ability to accept and transcend human failings. The hero, you see, isn't human. He's Trisong, a guide dog for the blind. To Trisong . . . or "Trisha," as his young fosterling Sasha calls him . . . the mission is to lead a newly blind boy through the ins and outs of daily life in Moscow. That sounds easy enough for a highly trained Labrador retriever. Ah, but things change with a kidnapping, a "vacation" with well-meaning but uninformed strangers, a jailing by the police, run-ins with troublemakers and street dogs, and even a rescue of his own. Through it all, two things keep Trisong steadily on the path forward: the curiously hilarious wisdom of old Ivan, his previous fosterling; and young Sasha's wish for a sign of hope in this world. Can Trisong make it through the craziness of his human environment and bring Sasha what he wants most? “A Rainbow for a Friend” will have you laughing, crying, thinking and shouting victory. It's a story for everyone who believes life is inherently good, despite its twists and turns. Read Mikhail Samarsky's “A Rainbow for a Friend,” and see the world through new eyes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L&L Publishing
• Release date: Jul 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301545247

Mikhail Samarsky

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Mikhail Samarsky wrote his first book when he was 13 years old, and by age 17 he had published four books, amassing sales in excess of 300,000 copies. He was born in Russia and raised in an artistic family. In fact, his father is a successful playwright, and his mother is the author of popular detective novels. Mikhail graduated from high school in 2013 and received admission to the Moscow University School of Global Processes. Mikhail founded the "Living Hearts" charitable fund at age 15 for the benefit of blind children. Thanks to his perseverance--and a dogged dedication to his mission--he was able to meet the President of Russia and persuade him to make some legislative changes for the sake of the vision-impaired. This effort, like everything else Mikhail does, helped establish him as a young crusader for humanistic causes. Today his observations of daily life constitute one of the country's most widely read blogs. A Rainbow for a Friend, Mikhail's first book, has been translated into various languages, most recently English. The book follows the adventures of a Labrador retriever called Trisong as he cares for his fosterling . . . while occasionally fending for himself. More importantly, it is written from the dog's perspective. Through Trisong's eyes we see the folly, bravery, humor and pathos of human existence, always with the refreshing lack of bias that only a canine can possess. For his part, Trisong is by turns tender, wisecracking, resourceful, diplomatic and courageous. He's as heroic as any dog of history or fiction, but he's too busy in his capacity as a guide dog to gloat about all that. Trisong simply believes any dog should strive to be useful. As for cats, he isn't quite sure such a thing is possible! A Rainbow for a Friend is an engaging read for anyone who has ever wondered what any animal could possibly find so lovable about people. After all, even a specialized guide dog such as Trisong, while devoting himself to the needs of a blind child, must negotiate a world in which his methods and motives are rarely understood. Thus he reminds us that people aren't the only citizens of the world. He proposes a new sensibility--a twenty-first century ethos--in which animals might be accorded some acknowledgment of their own citizenship. Ultimately, A Rainbow for a Friend teaches an essential lesson about the need for kindness and acceptance. Aren't those the qualities our world needs most? Twitter: @MishaSamarsky Website: www.mishasamarsky.ru Book in print: https://www.createspace.com/4335984

Book preview

A RAINBOW FOR A FRIEND

A Rainbow for a Friend

Mikhail Samarsky

A Rainbow for a Friend

Original title:

РАДУГА ДЛЯ ДРУГА

Copyright © 2013 by Mikhail Samarsky

Translated from Russian by: Lenny Rossolovski

Edited by: Lawrence Payne

Cover design by: Gennady Samoilov

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by any process without written permission of the copyright holder.

ISBN-13: 978-1301545247

Published in the USA by L&L Publishing at Smashwords

Tel. [phone]

This book is dedicated to those who have dead eyes but living hearts

The best thing that a man has is his dog.

Nicolas Toussaint Charlet

PART ONE

THE ROAD BACK HOME

CHAPTER 1

More dogs than you can shake a stick at . . . . That's very funny. Very clever, people! That's the way to go! Okay, here's an interesting idea: What would you say if we were to introduce similar phraseology into our dog talk, but something turned inside out? Just picture the situation: I come home from a dog show and the neighbor's dog asks me, Well, how did it go? Were there lots of people at the show? I reply, There were more people than you could shake a stick at.

How would you react to such an expression? I don't think anyone would get a positive feeling from it. Well, we wouldn't like it either, my two-legged friends. How could one possibly deny that a dog is testament to human ingratitude?

Oh, well, that's not actually what I thought I'd talk about. Look at what goes on: They play with my ears, grab my neck, rub my muzzle all over . . . or should I say face? For that matter, they shove all kinds of stuff into my face. Well, I'd rather not skirt the truth. It isn't always junky, of course. Sometimes they give me such tasty treats that a guy could drown in his own drool, and at least once I nearly went crazy with excitement.

I was standing with my first fosterling, old Ivan (may he rest in peace), at a crosswalk waiting for the green light. My job was to make sure the cars had stopped before we went on our way. The job wasn't just to stop, either, but to stop at the right place. Hey, do you people think those stripes at traffic lights are there for no reason at all!? So, on this occasion I must beg you: Dear drivers, please don't cross the line. It's easy for a seeing person, who can just walk around your car as he crosses the street. However, from the perspective of a guide dog, my guidance can't immediately convey what I want from my fosterling:

It appeared as if we had reached the crossing, so I pulled my person aside. You get it, right? Obviously I couldn't say anything, so I whimpered a bit and gave the leash a tug. Sometimes, though, I would have to bark. My guidance was lost, so he stopped to make things out . . . . What am I doing here, all of a sudden? he wondered. He went knock-knock-knock with his cane. Drivers lowered their windows–heck, they nearly jumped through them–and yelled at us. Hey, moron! What're you trying to do, scratch my car!? Now, why would anyone think he's a moron? He's only trying to figure out what's in front of him. You can't just stick out your hand, unless you want to risk losing it.

Ivan stood there, sorting things out, and the traffic light started to blink. The cars started to rev. I knew they were getting ready to take off. When an impatient driver steps on the gas, it's no biggie, but there are these idiots who start to honk. Hey! Come on, you blind turkey! Move it! Even if they don't get angry, they might whistle to me and smack their lips to encourage me or something. People, if you could only know how much I dislike it when that happens! Sometimes I look at you and think, "Why aren't you ashamed? A problem like this can happen to anyone. Would it really be such a thrill for you to gain a couple of seconds at the damned traffic light? I beg you, people: When you see a blind person with a guide dog–like me, for instance–please be as calm as you can. Don't distract me, since it only invites trouble. Is that a deal?

Well, there we are, standing before the zebra, and with my right nostril I picked up a certain aroma. Boy, what a fabulous smell! The aroma triggered a pang in my stomach. In fact, I felt it earlier as we passed the grilled-chicken stand. I tried to concentrate on the road instead, but by squinting I could see that totally appetizing piece of chicken, roasted, with a golden crust, so fragrant . . . . It's some kind of miracle that I could keep myself from jumping up and snatching it. This, people, is one of the many benefits of dog-school training.

Thank you very much for your kindness and petting, but please, folks, I'm working. Do you get that!? I'm not some pampered lap dog or poodle who can stroll carefree alongside his master. I can't just sprinkle every post I come to, out of sheer boredom. I work, and I'm serious about it. So, please understand: I don't just walk with a blind person, I toil. Believe me, this kind of work isn't as easy as it looks. My task is to take the blind person where he planned to go and to make sure he doesn't take a tumble and break his neck. To do that, I have to see that he doesn't so much as get his shoes wet in a rain puddle. I have to warn him about all the obstacles. I have to stop before each one and give my person a chance to use his cane and determine what's in front of him. If something blocks part of the road, I bear to the right or to the left and lead my person around, making sure he doesn't walk into a fallen tree branch or something else. It's also my job to make sure he doesn't bump into other people. If we take a bus or a tram, I'll show him the entrance and then the exit. There's a lot for me to do, and it's all business.

Do you have the slightest idea what it's like to work as a guide dog? If you say yes, please don't be offended, but I'll be tempted to bite you. Don't be so quick and self-assured. Don't say yes right away. In order to imagine and understand my work, you'd have to walk with one of these helpless masters for a couple of years. You'd have to be strapped into a harness. By the way, did you notice the quotation marks around the word masters?

Yes, some of them consider themselves our masters, even though they couldn't take two steps without us. Well, let's assume I wanted my so-called master to bang his head against a wall or, let's say, run into a post. That would be as easy as . . . looking at that bush over there. But hey, I'm a professional; a pedigreed Labrador retriever. (It has even been said that I descended from the dog of a famous politician.) I went to a special school for two years, which is at least ten dog years. In ten human years, you could manage to graduate from two colleges! Of course, I'd never be so hideous as to set up my person like that. My job is to save him from all the dangers out there. It really hurts when someone says your master. People, the one I accompany isn't a master to me. Instead, he's my friend. Believe me, you could never have a more faithful, devoted friend than me. Sure, you can screw your face up, giggle, roll your eyes or even kick me with your shoe, but that won't change anything. It's you–people–who invented the saying, It's good when a dog is man's friend, but it's bad when your friend is a dog. You invented it, but you fail to remember that God endowed you with a mind and the ability to reason. Why would it be bad if your friend was a dog? Oh, well. I understand what you mean by it, so I'm not particularly offended.

I assume you're interested in this story, so I'll continue. To begin with, I'm five years old. By human measure, I'm twice the age of my fosterling. (Sasha is thirteen human years old.) I used to work with a retiree, and of course he was blind. Ivan was a remarkable person, and he was a good friend to me. Sometimes he'd even let me take a nap on his bed! We would come home, and Ivan would remove all my gear. Then he'd feed me, comb me and say, Come on, Trisong. You can rest, now.

Do you think it's easy to walk with this harness? At night, once I'm free of it, I like to roll on my back, stretch out my legs, stretch my body all the way and then jump up and chase a ball. Ivan would sometimes scold me, like on that ill-fated evening when I broke a vase. The old man knew it was unintentional, but I felt ashamed. I snuggled up to his leg and whimpered a little. Ivan petted me and said, For Heaven's sake, Trisong, don't cry about the vase. When glassware breaks, it's good luck.

I never did figure out what kind of good luck could come from a broken vase. I've never heard anything about it on TV. Eventually, though, Ivan passed away and I was sent back to school. I missed him so much. I couldn't eat a bit of food. I just kept thinking, Who will they give me to?

I don't know how or by what chance it came to be, but one day Sasha, my new master . . . I mean my new fosterling . . . visited the school.

If you're a seeing person who has never encountered a blind person's difficulties, I'll explain it for you. Before a guide dog is given to a new master . . . . Wait, that's entirely the wrong word. I mean to say fosterling. Anyway, before a guide dog goes home with his fosterling, the two have to spend some time together. We get used to one another, sniff around and take a closer look. Well, who would take a closer look at me if he was blind!? I'm the one who should take a closer look! The blind person can only listen, smell and touch. That's all just to make sure there's no allergy or something else that would make the situation disagreeable. People have lots of hang-ups, but we dogs are unpretentious.

One can always throw a tantrum, though. Yes, that's right. For example, the German shepherd Lada, from the seventh kennel, couldn't find common ground with her new fosterling. Soon, the woman brought Lada back to the school. By the way, ours is a great school for guide dogs. So, if you have such a need, please check it out. I'm no longer there, of course, but my friends that are won't let you down. Do you know how thoroughly they test us? Oh, my God! It's like a university, and there's a quiz or exam for just about everything! In other words, they don't take just any Tom, Dick or Harry. We–the students of this university–have balanced mentalities. We try never to heed outside noises, nor do we take notice of cats . . . which are disgusting, anyway. Well, of course we do notice them–who wouldn't–but we can't waste our time on them. Wait, I think I have that wrong. We do pay attention to them, but we're not supposed to react to them. Those cats, with their bizarre green eyes, always take advantage of that. I'm serious, people! Cats are attention freaks, and they're nothing but trouble!

I'll describe a particular situation for you. I was about to bring my Sasha into the entrance hall of his house (there are several steps, so one had to be very careful) when, all of a sudden, this creature of Persian blood (or Persian fur, if you'd like) sauntered through the door. Boy, what a snob. She had this idiotic pink ribbon around her neck, the claws were evenly cut, and the tail was perfumed. The ears were upright like small locators, moving around in all directions. Well, I swear on a stack of dog treats, I had no thought of even growling at her, much less barking at her. Still, that flaxen-haired thing snorted, puffed out her tail, arched her back and . . . . Wham! She swatted my muzzle . . . I mean, my face . . . just for the heck of it! If you only knew how bitter that was! If it weren't for Sasha and my professionalism, I would've cut that drama queen's tail off at the butt. One bite, and she'd be a Manx today. I swear to you, the insult was enough to make me cry. I only whimpered a little, but Her Highness, despite her freshly cut claws, tried to etch her name into my nose. I licked away a salty drop of blood and completed my task of bringing Sasha into the house. What else could I do, though? I can't get distracted by these stupid animals. It amazes me that anyone would try to keep a cat as a friend.

Sasha lived with his mother and grandmother when I came to stay with him. His dad was gone . . . the victim of a car accident. Sasha was in the car with his dad that day. He was eleven. The doctors made a verdict: The iris and crystalline lens were lost. I don't understand much of the details, but after the tragedy the boy couldn't see anymore. In the family they say there's a famous doctor who can bring back Sasha's eyesight, but no one knows when will that happen. So, for the meantime I'm his doctor, his eyes and his friend.

CHAPTER 2

Sasha and I found common ground pretty soon. I was perturbed by him initially, but only just a bit. Anyway, judge for yourself. As you might already know, my name is Trisong. When Sasha and I were training together at school, that's what he called me. Everything was great, and he passed the exam with flying colors. That was no surprise, of course. With me, any first-timer will pass the exam. I don't simply execute the commands given by my fosterling, though. Sometimes, I have to take the initiative in my paws. I do that only when there are reasonable grounds for it.

Well, everything went pretty smoothly. We came home (Sasha's mother was with us that day) and met his grandmother, Yelizaveta. She gave us a very warm welcome. By the way, I caught her name completely by chance: A neighbor came by, and that's what he called her. Even so, at home everyone called her Granny. I've noticed this odd trait in people. I could understand it when Sasha calls her Granny, but Svetlana does it, too. So, why would she be a granny if she's your mother? People can be hard to understand. I guess it isn't so important, but it is peculiar.

Well, then. I'm Trisong. Do you know what kind of name that is? What!? You've never heard the name before!? I'll tell you, then. You see, it isn't some name for a hyper little pooch, like Sparky; it isn't something you'd call a bandy-legged mutt, like Bingo. Old Ivan described the name to me once, so I know all about it. Besides the fact that I have a pedigree, it should be noted that my name is extraordinary. It's the name of a Tibetan king. Many, many years ago, it was Trisong Detsen who concluded that enlightenment could only be reached through the attainment of moral and spiritual perfection under the guidance of a master. That's what Ivan told me. Now, without bragging or arrogance, I can state that the master at my school was beyond reproach, and he expected nothing but the very best from me. So, either my master reached enlightenment or we both did.

It wasn't long until Sasha, for reasons only he could guess,