Georgia, Chapter V — Free Dogs, Domesticated Cities, and the Small Problem of Belonging Without Being Owned
The market was closing.
Batumi was not.
The dogs even less so.
They were already in their places.
On the sidewalks.
Outside the shops.
On the stairways.
Under the benches.
On the stone beach, the sea before them and no particular gratitude for the view.
We would have called them strays.
They appeared to consider the definition an administrative problem belonging to human beings.
They had no address.
Owned no keys.
Paid no rent, taxes, parking fees, or supplements for an ocean view.
And yet they occupied the city with a confidence many apartment owners would achieve only after thirty years of mortgage payments and a condominium lawsuit over a parking space.
One dog slept against a wall warmed by the sun.
Another sat on the sidewalk while people passed.
He asked for nothing.
He did not move.
He looked like someone who had arrived first and regarded the rest of the population as a temporary flow.
Perhaps he was right.
The tourists would leave.
The investors would sell.
I would return home with several thousand photographs and the arrogance required to turn one month into a story.
He would remain there.
The same wall.
The same sun.
The same complete lack of interest in my interpretation.
A black dog crossed at the pedestrian crossing.
He was probably the most disciplined citizen I photographed during the entire trip, myself included.
He was not watching the light.
I do not believe he had received any particular training in road safety.
He had simply understood that cars tended to stop there.
The city was his manual.
The law was not written on signs.
It was contained in habit.
Where to cross.
Where to sleep.
Which shop left something to eat.
Which person extended a hand.
Which car had no intention of slowing down.
We read maps, reviews, and regulations.
They read smells, sounds, footsteps, and the moral quality of kitchens through whatever ended up in the garbage bags.
Every species develops its own form of urban planning.
Ours produces skyscrapers.
Theirs identifies the exact spot where the sun arrives at eleven and the wind does not become too much of a pain in the ass.
Some dogs were alone.
Others walked beside someone.
A young woman bent down to pet one.
A man walked with a small dog following him.
Elsewhere, someone led an entire four-legged delegation along the sea.
I could not always tell who belonged to whom.
It was a very human question.
We need to establish ownership even over affection.
My dog.
My cat.
My person.
My city.
We place a possessive before the things we love and then convince ourselves it is merely grammar.
The dogs seemed to have less notarized agreements.
They walked with someone.
Then stopped.
Received a caress.
Then returned to watching the road.
Closeness did not necessarily require a certificate of ownership.
That did not mean their lives were easy.
Freedom, when photographed well, always looks seductive.
A dog on the beach.
The sea.
No leash.
It looks like a philosophical statement.
Then come hunger, cold, disease, cars, and all those things that do not willingly enter a beautiful frame.
Being free does not mean being safe.
And surviving is not a poetic version of being cared for.
One image showed a dog supported by a cart attached to the rear of his body.
The wheels allowed him to walk.
I did not know to whom he belonged.
I knew someone had stopped.
Observed the problem.
Taken measurements.
Fitted straps and wheels.
Given him movement back.
That photograph corrected all the easy rhetoric about freedom.
Sometimes being free means someone helps you move without demanding to choose the direction for you.
That is not possession.
It is care.
The difference should be simple.
Human beings nevertheless manage to confuse the two with remarkable professional consistency.
Among the dogs were a few cats.
One near the dumpsters.
One behind a fence.
One curled on a windowsill with the air of someone who had closed the complaints department for lack of interest.
The dogs inhabited Batumi.
The cats appeared to have annexed it.
That is the fundamental difference between the two species.
A dog hopes you are a good person.
A cat assumes you are staff and waits to see whether you are at least competent.
I owned a cat.
I knew the hierarchy.
Photographing dogs was different from photographing people.
When people see a camera, they correct their faces.
They straighten up.
Smile.
Cover themselves.
Turn away.
They suddenly become their official version.
Dogs do not.
One would raise his head.
Look at me.
Check whether I had food or merely artistic intentions.
Discover I had the latter and immediately lose interest.
It was an honest critique of my work.
I could not dispute it.
I kept photographing them.
A dog stretched across the steps of an elegant building.
One beneath a bench.
Two sitting at the curb like a married couple together long enough to have no further need to fill the silence.
One before the sea.
One asleep on a threshold.
They used the city without respecting the assigned purpose of its objects.
The stairway became a bed.
The bench a roof.
The sidewalk a living room.
The beach a home.
Perhaps inhabiting begins exactly there.
Not when you own a place.
When you know how to use it to stay alive.
Batumi was building apartments to persuade the world to buy it.
The dogs had bought nothing.
And yet they seemed to belong to the city more than I did, more than the tourists, perhaps even more than many owners who knew the price per square foot but not the smell of the streets after rain.
One of them remained sitting before the sea.
He was not contemplating infinity.
He was not reflecting on freedom.
He was probably waiting for something to eat or making sure no other dog had the nerve to come too close.
I was the one adding the meaning.
He added only his presence.
Perhaps that was enough.
I had the keys to an apartment.
He did not even have a door.
I would leave.
He was already home.