When interacting with other dogs, Hałas would always take the alpha position. He had the kind of look to which smaller and similarly sized dogs reacted by running away and larger dogs – by calmly withdrawing from the conflict. I can’t remember any situation in which Hałas had to use any other arguments other than standing still, tilting head slightly, ears pulled back, teeth bare. Except one time. 

In the farm owned by my Father’s family, in a small village between Rzeszów and Sokołów Małopolski, there lived a big, black dog, called Baca. “Lived” was an overstatement. He stayed there sometimes. He would stop there from time to time, when he was not hunting in the forest nearby, or when he did god knows what when he was away for many days at a time. One time, when we went to visit the family there, we took Hałas with us. Baca happened to be at home. The first meeting went as it usually would. Hałas noticed Baca, raised his hackles and growled quietly, and seeing no reaction that would challenge his superiority in the herd hierarchy, he urinated, and ventured on to explore farm, showing his anus and testicles to Baca. Baca looked after Hałas with weary eyes, seemingly showing no further interest in the matter. He went to lie down under a tree. It looked as if he had fallen asleep. But as soon as all grown-ups were out of sight (I was about 13 at the time), Baca stood up and dashed towards Hałas. Silently. Without making the slightest sound, he knocked Hałas down to the ground, held his muzzle with a paw and clamped his jaws on his throat. Hałas was two, perhaps three times smaller than Baca, but he was very agile and strong. After a short struggle, Hałas managed to free himself and run away towards an open barn. Baca rushed after him and they both disappeared behind the door. I snapped out of my numbness and ran after them, on shaky legs. I found them in the middle of the room, in exactly the same configuration as before: Baca had his teeth clamped around Hałas’ neck, except that this time Baca was swinging his head – and thus Hałas – in all directions, clearly aiming to break Hałas’ spine. And all that happened nearly soundlessly, or at least this is how I remember it. Overwhelmed by absolute trepidation, I grabbed a broom that was standing there in the corner – it had a long wooden handle. I started slapping Baca with it on the back. I was screaming Baca’s name over and over, with all my might, and my voice broke into squeaky tones every now and then. And so I screamed, and squealed: Baca, Baca! 

Hałas proved to be a victim that was not easy to finish off. When I was certain he wasn’t moving any longer, and clearly Baca thought so too, because he stopped shaking his adversary around and put him down on the ground, releasing the grip slightly. Hałas tensed up, bucked to the left, to the right, slipped Baca’s grip, and then dashed towards the field behind the barn. Baca threw me a strange look. I was not afraid of him, we had known each other since childhood and I had never felt the shadow of a threat from him. So I wasn’t afraid; it wasn't fear but something else that made me look away and walk calmly out of the barn. I looked towards the fields. Hałas was no longer within my range of sight and deep inside I throught that I would never see him again. I ran to the adults to tell them all about it. Suddenly, there was a big commotion; everyone ran out of the house, some went looking for Hałas, others were shouting at Baca. One of the hosts started beating him, what Baca endured patiently, knowing full well what the hits were for; he was showing insincere remorse – following a convention that was explicitly clear to all. After inspecting the barn, the adults determined that there were not that many blood traces there, so Hałas should survive. They started the search, but stopped after a while; the fields stretched far, far into the horizon; there was no point in going ahead. Simply calling him had no effect. As I was walking back home from the field, I noticed that I was still clutching the broom tightly in my hand. 

Hałas returned a few hours later. He circled Baca by a wide margin and did not look in his direction, but otherwise seemed completely calm and in good spirits. After that, I liked to think that he owed his life to me, but he didn't seem to share that view in the slightest. He didn’t respect me any more or any less (that is, hardly at all). His attitude towards other dogs didn’t change either.

I have a feeling that I have already wrote about this before. But, as planned, I decided not to check.

I finished the seventh miniature. I’m about to start another one and I’m writing the text of the ninth one – probably the last one in the entire opera. I can’t see the land yet, but I can already smell it at times. I’m filled with that special feeling – exhaustion coupled with feeling absolutely and immensely powerful.

(transl. Magdalena Małek-Andrzejowska)