In a sort of preparation for my journey to Turkey, I started reading as many Orhan Pamuk novels as I could get my hands on (thank you for the Christmas presents, Mama and Papa!). I started out with Snow. The novel is set in the city of Kars, not Istanbul- the word kar means snow, which incidentally came in handy during a recent conversation about Canadian weather- but I thought it would be useful to get me excited about what I would be experiencing, and maybe serve as a bit of an introduction to Turkish culture. In the story, there is a stray black dog which shadows the narrator for some time- it’s not a central plot point, really, but it is a strong image- the black dog in empty, white-out streets, always just around the corner. The second Pamuk novel I read was My Name is Red, and again- though it’s not a major part of the story, one of the characters is a dog, who actually narrates a chapter or two.
Pamuk’s novels are incredible in many ways, but they certainly did serve as an introduction to Turkey for me - it's interesting how fiction comes to inform our ideas of fact. Often I’ve seen or heard something that felt vaguely familiar, only to realize it had been subtly written into those novels I’ve read. Sometimes that feeling also comes with a form of illumination – the realization that something that felt awkward or out-of-place in the book suddenly just makes sense in a different context. But perhaps you see where I’m going with this: Pamuk’s novels introduced me to many different parts of Turkey, both past and present, but most concretely with the dogs.
Turkey is full of stray dogs. Thanks to Pamuk, that didn’t come as a surprise, but still I could not have foreseen the magnitude of the dog population in Istanbul. For some reason, it’s also known as the city of cats, for thousands of whom the city is also home. The only reason I could think of why Istanbul got the title of cat city would be because the dogs are as numerous over the rest of the country, so Istanbul is nothing special in comparison. For this outsider, though, it was the dogs that caught my attention. They are certainly the most visible – sleeping in the streets, in the bus shelters, on the sidewalks, behind the bushes, by the water, in the parking lots, in the gardens, on your doorstep. One doesn’t leave the house without seeing at least five or ten dogs sunning themselves, drinking from the gutter, eating the leftovers people leave out for them, or, very occasionally, having a little fight. For I’ve been surprised by how well-behaved the dogs are – not a single one has ever behaved aggressively towards me, and usually all they want is a little bit of love. The photo above is of a dog that lives near the West Campus bus stop- when I used to live there, he came every morning to say hello, and I still see him out the bus window on my way to school. I’ve also been surprised at how well the people seem to get along with the dogs – someone is always putting out old bread or leftover food for the dogs (and cats) to eat, with the result that most are very well fed (even if not always in the best of health). The relationship is clearly not without its problems, however: the city has tried on many occasions to get rid of the dogs entirely, as they’re not exactly hygienic; their presence makes the already-troublesome traffic even more complicated; and I was recently stopped on the street to give my opinion on animal rape, which is apparently a problem in Istanbul. Yet the dogs still remain, always looking for a bite to eat or a friendly scratch behind the ear, and they really have become a welcome part of my day. They occupy this wonderful space between wild and domesticated – you get the sense they don’t need to be there, and they possess an elusive independence, yet the fact that they choose to be, and choose to let you be part of their lives, is a real warm-fuzzy feeling.
