Category: Venetian-ness

dogging Venice

July 26, 2026 20 Comments

I saw him yesterday morning: the Caucasian shepherd. I don’t mean the human, I mean his monster dog covered with what looks like ten layers of hair, and standing as high as the man’s waist. This dog exists to work in the wilds of the Caucasus, which Venice resembles in not even one way, though I guess if the city were really serious about limiting tourists they could station one at each vaporetto stop.

Dogs abound in Venice, but you might never have thought of adding this behemoth to the canine collection. I wasn’t quick or close enough to get a photo of the local pup, so this image is here temporarily to show what I’m talking about. The term “shepherd” is misleading, though, in that this breed is a guardian dog, not a herding one. His purpose in life is to defend his flock from famished wolves and other predators, not to wander aimlessly along via Garibaldi. I suppose things might get lively if a famished tourist were to make a wrong step. (Photo by Owczarek_kaukaski_65556 Wikipedia)

But no matter. Venetians are crazy about dogs, and they have been this way for centuries. One of my favorite minor entertainments is looking at Venetian paintings and finding the dogs. They’re really easy to spot and they’re almost always more interesting than whoever or whatever is the official subject of the scene.

Here is some exegesis, thanks to a helpful blog from an English website. https://artuk.org/discover/stories/painting-dogs-in-renaissance-venice

Here also are a few of my musings from days gone by https://iamnotmakingthisup.net/17742/dogs-ruling-the-roost/

In 2019 the Comune of Venice listed 7,023 registered dogs in the “historic center and the islands,” and 16,387 in the mainland municipality. So dog-lovers have come to the right place. When you get tired of museums and canals, you’ve got plenty of dogs to watch. Here are a few from our little precinct:

Like the Caucasian shepherd, the husky is another breed I wouldn’t have thought would be particularly adapted to the Venetian climate, but evidently people don’t choose their dogs according to the weather.

He’s saving his strength but is ready to work when called upon. His job description is “Bark at doorbell,” and he takes it very seriously.

This is the “Do not even think of asking me to do something” look. The correct response is “Nope, thanks, I’m good.”

Whoever he may be waiting for seems to be late, and his eyes hint that it’s not the first time.

His human probably told him “I’m just going for a pack of cigarettes, I’ll be right back.” That never ends well.

His owner was nowhere to be seen. Somebody please explain this thing to me.

He seemed perfectly happy in his own freezing world. No humans need apply.

Dogs look good with people too:

Soak up that cool wherever you can find it.

I was so overwhelmed by this dog’s hindquarters that I never bothered to examine its face, or ask his owner anything about it. So this simply the “haunch dog,” champion of either the long or the high jump events. And wait a minute: Two leashes? Are these guys friends who decided each could have literally one half of this dog?

Is it possible that both of them have just broken up with their girlfriend?

We’ll never know how much the pooch was wishing he’d get dropped in the water.

Quality Control supervisor hard at work before the clients show up on the chartered yacht.

This is one of several dogs being bored by an elaborate ceremony depicted by Gabriele Caliari, the son of the more famous artist better known by the nickname “Veronese.” I deduce that this is some version of an English springer spaniel, but the legs seem unnaturally long. (“Doge Marino Grimani receives the gifts of the Persian Ambassadors,” Gabriele Caliari 1603 – 1605, in the Doge’s Palace.)

Clearly this breed fits right into the Venetian world. Like other spaniels, retrievers, and basically almost every dog.

The dinner party went on for hours, but one friend’s spaniel never gave up hope of snacks.

Unhappily, while dogs are almost always great, some of their owners absolutely are not. Because dogs produce residue and not every owner feels obligated to deal with it. In fact, too many freaking owners pretend it somehow doesn’t exist.

“Do not attach here the ‘little needs'” (a polite expression for excrement) “of your dogs. Thank you.” I interpret this to mean that people were somehow hanging the little poop-bags to this door; assuming this is the case, it’s a very weird technique for disposing of the disposal bags. Just throw them in the trash! You’re hanging them on people’s doors? Things are getting worse than I thought!

Sometimes a mysterious person snaps and puts this notice up on various railings. They make no difference whatever.

In Venetian, a very clear message: “A sestiere-wide contest: Poop and escape. Regulations: 1) Make your dog poop whever he wants to 2) Look around really well to make sure nobody’s watching you 3) Escape. First prize: A turd of gold.” I myself haven’t seen an owner just stand by his/her/their pooping dog, then walk away. What does happen is that the person will open their door and let the dog out to deal with the call of nature alone. This way nobody can accuse the owner of approving the dog’s deposit. Not made up.

The baggies come in various colors and are usually just dropped wherever the force of gravity compels the human to let it fall. This was unusual — somebody deciding to make a little collection point, which seems civilized compared to some alternatives, but still. Not invisible.

One day a few years ago the Gazzettino published a small personal anecdote relating to this general subject. I deeply wish I had kept it, but the story, told in the first person by a woman, was unforgettable. It went like this:

She came out of her house in Dorsoduro early-ish on a Sunday morning to discover an enormous dog pooping nearby. The owner was patiently waiting, then dog and owner nonchalantly began to stroll away, leaving the material behind.

She called out to the owner to return and remove it. He pretended not to hear and kept walking.

So she shut her door and began to follow them. He quickly realized this and began to make sharp turns into and out of small streets in an attempt to shake her. She stayed right behind him. He sped up. She sped up. Clearly this could have gone on for hours, the two of them weaving their way through the byways of Venice, maybe over the bridge to the mainland, maybe to Milan, or Switzerland, but no matter — both she and the man knew that sooner or later he was going to have to return home. She was implacable.

So eventually he gave in and returned to the scene of the crime and picked up the poop. He was furious, of course, and I imagine that if she’s still alive she’s still telling this story at every family gathering, to the grandchildren, the nieces, the cousins… Vigilante justice with no shots fired.

And there are the random doggish situations or characters:

At the entrance to a certain Venetian supermarket you can find these helpful vehicles: “Cart for dogs.” Some owners leave their dogs tied up outside to wait, as in much of the civilized world, but others cannot be separated from them for any amount of time. I thought this was a weird aberration unique to that neighborhood, but then I saw the same thing at different supermarket. That time there wasn’t any sign on the cart — I only found it out when the cashier at checkout told me, just a little sharply, that the smaller cart I had happily filled up was intended for dogs. Not. Made. Up.

I am completely without words. Where is her shopping? Is this some kind of special treat promised to the dog, a ride around the supermarket, if it doesn’t snarl at the dog next door?

This would be Sherlock Holmes’s dog that didn’t bark in the night.

A fake dog solves so many problems. Certainly no need to give it a ride around the supermarket.

Here is my very favorite dog-adjacent story, told to me by a friend who witnessed the event.

Not so many years ago there was a butcher shop in Campiello Barbaro very close to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. Hence very close to the famous grande dame herself. It’s a matter of record that she adored her Lhasa Apsos (and their graves are in the museum garden). Only the best for them, an emotion shared by most dog-owners, but unlike those others, she could easily provide anything for them that qualified as “best.”

So one day the great Guggenheim came into the shop as my friend was talking with the butcher (also his friend) and requested some morsels of filet for her dogs. The butcher didn’t hesitate, but got right to work cutting, weighing, and wrapping up the delectable meat. She paid and departed.

“You think I gave her filet?” the butcher scornfully asked my friend. “For her dogs?” You might think that scruples are unknown to any Venetian merchant, but sometimes there’ll be one who discovers he has a limit. “I gave her an ordinary cut of beef, and I’m going to give the filet to whatever little old person comes in next.”

So many stories about dogs turn out to be about something else.

This would be my dog. An ocean-going tugboat made over into a luxury vessel. https://www.yachtcharterfleet.com/luxury-charter-yacht-26262/mastiff.htm

Yes, I was distracted and thoughtless not to have noticed I didn’t have the entire vessel in my viewfinder. It’s just so cute I’m throwing this in anyway.

Some water, a boat, a dog. This must be Venice.

Venetian-ness

bows of happiness

January 12, 2026 12 Comments

“Three things remain to us from paradise: Stars, flowers, and children.”

This enchanting statement is often attributed to Dante Alighieri; I regret to say that no evidence supports this. So rather than waste time grappling amongst a thousand footnotes for the truth let’s agree that the very talented Anon. wrote it.

It came to mind because of Sophie’s arrival across the canal from us on January 4. I don’t know her; I haven’t seen (and, strange to say, haven’t even heard) her. I only know that she’s a new neighbor and she has brought joy with her.

So in the spirit of Anon.’s poetic observation, here are a few glimpses over the years of these particular remnants of paradise scattered around here. Flowers and stars will follow.

CHILDREN

What a lovely thing to see when one looks out the front door.

I’m always on the lookout for the welcome ribbons. Pink for girls, blue for boys, as you know. They always make me feel a bounce of hope.

More twins! That was certainly a lively Christmas at their house.

I think her name is Roberta, but the big message is strung over the street. “E’ nata!” She’s born!

INTERLUDE: A summer stroll around Pellestrina, August 7, 2022. I was there on a typically sweltering summer Sunday to watch the annual local Venetian rowing races. With at least two hours to spare, I had plenty of time to lollygag. This was not at all my first time to this lagoon outpost of some 3,000 souls, so I wasn’t expecting surprises.

But surprised I was, to discover that the Stork had been working overtime. The number of ribbons I found tied to so many houses seemed almost like some sort of game. I won’t hazard any theories as to why a regiment of births had marched through this modest municipality in early August, though I’d like to know what had happened during the preceding November. Massive power outage — no TV but lots of candles? A village-wide festival of wine or grappa that got out of hand? Did a whole cohort make some crazy bet? Is it a cult? Articles continually come out lamenting Italy’s falling birth rate. Maybe they should come to Pellestrina and test the water?

This certainly cuts off the question “What are you going to name him?” Enea (eh-NAY-uh) is the Italian version of Aeneas, the Trojan warrior for whom *The Aeneid* is titled. A lot to live up to. I couldn’t even live up to this gate.

I notice that white ribbons from a wedding are also attached to the gate. Probably just coincidence.

One single bow seems a little sad somehow, compared to the extravagance of the other families. But wait! Another white bow? Has Pellestrina — or maybe the parish priest — gone mad?

Statistics reveal that typically more boys are born than girls, but Pellestrina appears to be taking the situation far too seriously.

You don’t even have to write a book — the whole story is right out in the open here. It looks like the set of a comic opera when the curtain rises. Those two babies are doomed (by their mothers, obviously) to marry. Either that or one of them escapes destiny by fleeing to the South Seas to become a pirate.

Years ago I read a little report in the Gazzettino. The parish priest of Pellestrina — I’m pretty sure that’s where he was — had just happily celebrated the baptism of a new arrival. And he asked, “Why do we ring the church bells only when someone dies? We ought to ring them too when a baby is born.”

He’s not wrong.

Venetian-ness

seize the tomato

January 4, 2026 29 Comments

Who knew that three small cans could be a social experiment?

The young man in the Coop supermarket yesterday was either a new kind of tourist, or a new kind of young man, or some prototype of either that I earnestly hope doesn’t move to the production phase.

It was simple, brief, insignificant encounter. Now that I think of it, the moment could have made a moderately useful sketch for first-year acting students.

But we weren’t acting, we (including him) were just living our own banal little lives, stuck in the narrow, crowded aisle amid bottles of olive oil, cans of tuna, and containers of tomatoes in almost every form (the tomatoes, I mean) — tubes of dense concentrate, bottles of thick liquid passata, or puree; cans of tomatoes peeled or pulped. Strange, now that I think of it, that tomato juice was missing.

Anyway, it’s always a challenge to shop in peak tourist season, and going late Saturday afternoon is just asking for trouble. Not only does everybody suddenly realize they have to get yogurt or potato chips or a bag of lemons or 8 six-packs of beer or whatever right then, but it being winter, everybody is taking up twice their space thanks to their bulky down jackets. Especially that tall, strapping young man with his back turned to me.

There was only one package left of three small cans of polpa, and it was far back on the top shelf. Bonus points because at that spot there is a small ramp and I was halfway down the incline, so I had no chance of reaching it myself. But I came for the polpa and I intended to get it.

Cue the tall, strapping young man! Destiny calls! You haven’t reached this height and weight just to waste time training for the varsity clean and jerk. Fate has placed you between a high shelf and a small woman and if you mess with fate you’re doomed to live the last act of “The Flying Dutchman” forever. I guess that’s a little redundant.

Did I mention he was German? Nothing against Germans, honestly, but somehow it matters. It went like this:

Me (one tap on very high shoulder).

He turns around. So far, so normal.

“Puoi tirare giu’ quello?” (pointing to distant object).

“I don’t speak Italian.” English, German accent.

“Could you pull that down for me?” In most of the civilized world — I use the term loosely — that’s generally regarded as a rhetorical question. But here I get a sublimely literal answer.

“Why? I don’t work here.” Completely serious. I already knew that he didn’t work here — it’s the “Why?” that haunts me. I will always regret not having thought to say “Neither do I.” Instead I just said “Do me a favor?” I’m so lame.

He reached up and pulled it down. Turned away. Moved on.

I started to laugh, it was so ridiculous. I hope he heard me.

And so now I dream of Germany, where life is beautiful all the time, you obey the law, follow the rules, stay in your lane, where life is constructed entirely of square pegs and round holes which always fit in their correct and corresponding spaces. This young man must feel like he’s come to a madhouse, here in Italy.

Still, he did leave me a present. “Why? I don’t work here” now sits in a very pretty little crystal box in my mind where I can admire it whenever I need a little boost.

Good thing I didn’t ask him to reach me down one of these.

Venetian-ness

a farewell to Christmas

December 31, 2025 32 Comments

“Merry Christmas” in pure gold leaf beaten by Marino Menegazzo, the last man in Europe who beat gold entirely by hand. Stefania Dei Rossi’s shop “Oro e Disegni” has plenty of beautiful golden things but the sentiment here is 24 karat.

Naturally I intended to get this out before Christmas, but Christmas itself tangled me up. (Pretty bold move to blame an entire holiday for my own lapses.) Still, I wanted to squeak this into the calendar before 2025 reaches its expiration date.

Just a few glimpses of what I saw as I wandered around. Seems like the holiday was composed mainly of scraps, but they were good scraps.

Heartfelt best wishes to everyone for a peaceful, healthy, safe, nutritionally balanced, philosophically harmonious 2026.