When the Cats Are at the Dacha ...

(From The Moscow Times)

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As dacha season winds down, it's hard to give up the joys of country living for the big city. Fresh air, the gentle sound of wind in the trees ... relaxed afternoons in the sun ... evenings on the terrace ... breakfast in bed...

If you are imagining me reclining and waiting for eggs Florentine and the morning paper on a tray, think again. At my dacha, the cats bring me their idea of a hearty country breakfast: a small creature delivered right in bed, sometimes dead but more often alive. The dead ones get dispatched; the live ones get scooped up in a specially designated rodent receptacle and deposited at the end of the street, where hopefully they will go on to lead long and happy lives, full of adventure less fatal than what my cats had in mind for them.

Over the years I've been made present of hundreds of iieaee (voles), eethiou (moles), iuoee (mice), caieaethieee (shrews), ioaiou (fledglings), noethaeicu (dragonflies), and once even a squirrel (aaeea) that was larger than the cat that dragged it in. There is one other animal that shares our yard that they won't go anywhere near: a (hedgehog). The cats figured out quickly (and presumably quite painfully): Look, don't touch.

Russians regard the comical, waddling little hedgehog with particular affection, even though the little guys are among God's most stupid creatures. Iiiyoii aaaa aeeo! (It's as plain as the nose on your face!). In English you might also say "it's a no-brainer" or, if you are feeling a little more sophomoric, you might condense it to: Duh!