Like J.D. Salinger, dogs are sort of my litmus test. If you don't like 'em, I probably don't like you (and vice versa).
If you know me at all, then you're aware that I'm generally known far and wide for my calm, measured, reasonable, and nonjudgmental approach to disagreements with others. What? You happen to think Ingmar Bergman films are pretentious and boring? Tut, tut, tut. What an amusing thing to think, you adorable opinion-haver you! Of course, I won't fly into a violent rage; I certainly won't call you a fucking fuckheaded motherfucking fucktarded fucko; and then I likely won't attempt to smash an empty Jim Beam bottle over your head and threaten to slit your throat with one of the jagged shards. True, you may actually deserve to die (painfully) for holding such opinions, but who am I to act as the instrument of justice and to bring about the bloody fate you (may) deserve? I may privately realize how ridiculous your opinions are about so many various topics, but I'm not about to Stalinize this awareness by bringing about your sudden disappearance from your sad, misguided life, as well as from state and federal records, old yearbooks, porn website membership rolls, and even the Crate & Barrel mailing list. In other words, I'm a liberal thinker, and as such I'm content to allow you to endure in your continued error while only imagining your hoarse, verily breathless shrieks of terror rising out of a cauldron of fire and flesh-eating acids. (Did I mention that I am the one controlling the burner's flame level in that cauldron scenario? Because I am. In my imagination only, ha ha ha. Because you're perfectly entitled to your opinion. And all that egalitarian bullshit.)
Anyway. What was my point? Oh. Yeah. Where dogs are concerned, my bilious hatred for human antagonists, neglectors, and abusers rises from the level of theoretical and democratic to ninja pretty quick. I will fuck you up in a serious way, resorting to that renowned warehouse of superhuman strength which allows hundred-pound mothers to lift Ford Explorers off their trapped children. And I don't just mean dogs either. I mean any animal, but since the protagonist of Niki by Tibor Déry is a lovable yet resourcefully Machiavellian mongrel bitch, I thought I'd take our canine friends as my jumping-off point for plots and schemes of vigilante justice. If you are such a scaly, cloven-hooved demon-from-hell that you can't love a pooch --any pooch whose butt wiggles and waggles past you, then you deserve any manner of comeuppance that the Fates, at their whim, proscribe. And we all know those Fates are some nasty motherfuckahs, so if you're an animal hater, you'd better just hide it as best you can like you're a Jew at Mel Gibson's Christmas bash or a black man at a NASCAR race. (The same goes for Salinger detractors. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, I'm completely joking with you! Incidentally, why is it that most of the people who complain about Holden Caulfield being whiny and immature are inevitably the whiniest, most immature, depthless people in the world? Split into small groups and discuss. Is it a Chris Cooper/American Beauty thing where they hate most what they are? Oh wait. I'm getting sidetracked here...)
Niki: The Story of a Dog is the story of a Hungarian dog, to be precise. She's a bit of a coquettish mutt who decides she'd rather like to live with this couple named the Ancsas who lost their only child in the war. I know what you're thinking. This sounds ripe for a Sandra Bullock vehicle, where Ms. Bullock has to train with a vocal coach for six months to perfect her Hungarian accent. Tears will be shed, Oscars® will be won. But this is really a great little book regardless of what Hollywood could conceivably do to it to make it the most horrible thing ever. Anyway, this is 1950s Communist Hungary where the Ancsas live (under the influence of residual Stalinist brutality and historical revisionism), so the couple is subject to the arbitrary 'justice' associated with Communist regimes. In this way, of course, Niki's life mirrors theirs. Niki cannot fathom the meaning behind many of the Ancsas' actions, nor can she envision what a future might entail -- except perhaps as an indefinite continuation of 'presentness.' The same applies to everyday Hungarians, the Ancsas learn, when Mr. Ancsa suddenly disappears one day... without word, without a trace. Eventually, in a culture in which self-preservation dictates that people shun those who have been politically disgraced, a Good Samaritan friend of Mr. Ancsa finally does some extensive research and finds out Mr. Ancsa has been imprisoned for unspecified reasons.
Years pass. Mrs. Ancsa only has her beloved Niki for a friend and companion, and although they are not able to communicate their hopes and fears in a direct manner, there is a supposition (by the unnamed narrator) that they share a somewhat common plight. So in other words, if you have a heart, prepare for it to break, friends. But not in a schmaltzy, mawkish way. As far as poignancy goes, this book is the real deal... and since it clocks in at a mere 120 pages, you really have no reasonable excuse not to read it, unless you happen to be one of those despicable, irredeemable subhuman types who don't like dogs. In which case, watch your motherfucking back.