Rasputin is as black as night. He looks at the world with solemn indifference from the lofty rooftop of an old lipioshka van whose paint job is a witness and victim of time. Belonging to no one, Rasputin lives on people's charity. I'm sure he loves the wafting smells of fresh baking lipioshka and other pastries issuing from the confines of the bake shop because I see his small body swaying in delight when the bread is placed on the trays to be delivered to some neighborhood patrons. Once the van’s engine revs up and his favorite drives away, he swiftly finds a sunny area atop the bakery’s entrance steps from where he commands the best view of the street: children playing ball and all the housewives carrying their bags or small shopping wheeled carts, on their way to get their daily produce, meats, and groceries at the nearby souk.
When stray dogs bark Rasputin arches his back and hisses, his face distorting ungracefully.
I usually talk to him in English even though he is an Uzbek feline and may not understand me; lately though, when I come to get my daily lipioshkas I've brought him some dry cat food. If I'm not in a hurry I bring him some rice milk in a jar –which he loves- and pour it in the tin container someone has placed nearby at the top of the steps. As my Russian improves, I'm able to say a few things to him as I scratch his head. He moves it slowly from left to right and then closes his eyes, yawning in bliss. I think he’s beginning to like me. esw'97
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