Dog Breath? Not in the new Yerevan

Issue #24 (194), June 16, 2006
www.armenianow.com
By John Hughes
ArmeniaNow editor

On the increasingly infrequent times when I am away from Armenia, people always ask: “How are things there now?”
I used to answer with reports about how often the electricity was off or how many days a week the water worked.

Here, now, is my answer – and I swear on every painted page of Bibles in Matenadaran, I am not making this up:

You can now buy canine toothpaste in Yerevan.

Dog oral hygiene. This is how things are here. While at night desparate men are out shooting strays for about a dollar a tail (this remains the prevailing means of “animal control”), somewhere in the city someone is brushing FiFi’s molars with pet toothpaste that cost more than a month’s worth of potatoes.

The same supermarket that a year ago was offering smoked crocodile, now has a standup display loaded with doggie delights and kitty comforts that include the toothpaste – that would be “shun atamy matsuk” in Armenian – which goes for 5,200 drams ($12.53). Beside it is an electric toothbrush for dogs, $9.39.

Don’t waste your time on charts or data from Wall Street or the “Financial Times”. These are real economic indicators. How are things in Armenia – a country where, in recent memory, bananas were a rarity, and a pineapple drew a crowd of onlookers? Here’s how: A pedicure kit for dogs sells for $15.66.

And here’s how the Outside Eye Unofficial but Real Measure of Disposable Income calculates the swing of the graph . . .

Eight years ago I brought my cat, Brian (RIP), here. We arrived in the middle of the dark night. Before I’d even properly checked out our temporary flat, it was incumbent upon me to arrange for Brian’s toilet facilities.

Should I face that necessity today, I would simply walk the well-lit streets to the 24-hour supermarket and buy a bag of litter. But in 1998? Well:

Inside the kitchen, I found a dust pan, suitable I thought, for scooping up dirt.

Way past midnight and way past any understanding of my unlikely reasons for being in this impoverished but soon to be dog-breath conscious country, I went into the yard to scoop dirt. There was a problem. Specifically, it had rained. Dust was mud. I scooped anyway.

Back inside the flat, I placed the soil in a baking dish, cranked the oven to what I perceived to be the highest setting, and attempted to dry Armenian mud into American cat commodery. I burned it.

Here, in this paradise of culinary splendor, the first thing I cooked was dirt. And I burned it – smoked up the place like Saturday on Proshian Street.

Have you ever smelled burnt Armenian mud? This is my first olfactory memory of my new life.

The next day’s survey of markets turned up no evidence of kitty litter. So I went to a veterinary clinic and explained the need. The vet said he could fix the problem with some imported goods. The cost would be $60. I decided burned mud would work just fine. Nor did Brian, a faithful patron of the aromatically pebbled Fresh Step, seem particulary distressed by the down-scaling of litter luxury.

Such is my perspective when contemplating the absurdity of dog tooth paste in any society, to say little of what it indicates here.

I guess I didn’t mention about the breath mints.

The same kiosk offered an ensemble of canine anti-halitosis goods that included toothpaste, brush and – again I am not making this up – breath mints. For dogs.

After seeing the deluxe kit, I went back a few days later to check the price. Someone had already bought it.

So, how are things in Armenia? Like that. At least in a tiny, tiny, slice of Armenia where people have more money than dogs have fleas. But wait, the dogs don’t have fleas, because the same place offers flea collars, $15.55.

If only Brian could see this place now.

Note: Above are excerpts from the article. The full article appears here. Clarifications and comments by me are contained in {}. Deletions are marked by [...]. The bold emphasis is mine.