Cracow is always full of surprises. Last Sunday, on waking up, I discovered that the fridge was empty - there was nothing profoundly unusual in this, so I strolled across the Planty to pick up some rolls. All seemed perfectly normal, but on returning five minutes later something strange was afoot.
It was a glorious day, and the goodly Cracovians were out walking their dogs or sitting back on the benches enjoying the pleasures of Mother Nature. Again there was nothing out of the ordinary here, it was just that one of the dogs was sporting a rather dashing bow-tie - surely not the usual attire for a dachsund about town.
By the time that I had reached the Barbican it was evident that this was no casual eccentricity. For outside of that venerable old bastion was a sheer army of the aforementioned four-legged fellows. And the bow-tie was a positively understated approach by the day's standards. For here there were dachsunds in pirate costume, cowboy outfits, ballerina dresses, kilts - there was even one got up as a hotdog, with salad and ketchup (artificial of course) to match. Needless to say, these woofers were not embarrassed by their owners whims, and were having a rather splendid time. It is true that at one point a long-haired terrier - a lone outsider amidst a sea of dachsunds - aroused the ire of the pirate (who had a rather menacing scimitar attached to his back), but the matter was quickly resolved without fuss, as one would expect from this noble breed.
A kindly citizen informed me that this was indeed the Annual Dachsund Day, which is held routinely on the second Sunday of September. I had never realized quite how popular this breed was with the Cracovians, (although an old Cracow hand informed me later that it was because the Cracovians are not of a generous disposition and that they don't want to dish out money on barrels of Pedigree Chum for bigger dogs). I don't know how true this is but its certainly an amusing theory.
Later that day I was heading back down the Planty when I spotted another dachsund. There was a breeze about, and conkers were falling by the dozen. The poor fellow was looking distinctly perplexed by this sudden cascade, and he clearly couldn't understand why the heavens had let loose with this very peculiar kind of raindrop. I gave him a pat on the back to reassure him that all was well. Indeed, Autumn is a fine season in Cracow. The cold is not too cold and the russets and golds of the Planty create an inspiring threshold to the Old Town. Perhaps I'll go out and buy a pack of St.Bernards.
|