I’m not famous. I’m not a politician or a movie star. But for a few years of my life, I had a self-appointed Greek bodyguard. I wish I could tell you this bodyguard was tall, dark, handsome, and resembled a Greek god. Unfortunately, my Greek bodyguard didn’t fit this description. She was a large stray dog named Litsa (lee-tsah.)

I met Litsa shortly after moving to Greece. She was our neighborhood stray dog. A large white dog with black spots and freckles splashed across her face. Whether from advanced age or the heat, she moved slowly, ponderously, yet with dignity.

Every day Litsa would make her rounds, which covered several blocks. She’d sprawl across the doorway of a small shop, while customers gingerly stepped over her. Later, Litsa would stop for a drink of water from a bucket and eat a snack left on the sidewalk by a neighbor.

Litsa’s favorite napping spot was the middle of the street. Our neighborhood streets were narrow, and if two cars approached from different directions, one car would have to pull over so the other could pass. Cars would carefully inch around Litsa, and when there wasn’t sufficient room, she would majestically rise, and with a sniff of her nose move over at least two inches so the driver could pass.

I love dogs and would always stop to pet and talk to Litsa. I didn’t know much Greek, but she seemed to understand my English. Or maybe she sensed that we had something in common. I was a lonely American stray trying to find my place in a new country.

Litsa immediately adopted me as part of her pack. Whenever I walked down the street, Litsa became my protector. She marched before me, heralding my presence to the entire neighborhood. No amount of shushing on my part would stop her barking, particularly if someone dared to walk too close to me. I felt like a queen with a royal trumpeter announcing my arrival. Except when she made a small child cry, scared an elderly man who tripped and fell, or caused a car to swerve and knock the side view mirror off a parked car. Then I’d pretend not to know this barking maniac.

One day, Litsa accompanied me to the bus stop, then sat beside me, and began lightly touching my knee with her front paw. She wanted to be loved. I couldn’t resist her soulful eyes, so I patted her head and scratched her ears until the bus arrived.

Once I was seated on the bus, a putrid odor wafted around me. I discreetly leaned forward in my seat, delicately sniffing and trying to ascertain if the man in front of me was the offender. I wondered who had skipped their shower that morning.

Reaching up to scratch my nose, I realized my hand reeked. Eau de Litsa! Frantically I rummaged through my purse, looking for a wet wipe, perfume, anything that smelled better than my hand. No luck. Not even a mint-flavored piece of gum. I resorted to sitting on my hand, hoping it would keep the smell from permeating throughout the bus.

After that incident, if I felt compelled to pet Litsa, I’d give a quick sniff of the top of her head. If the odor was too strong, I’d scratch the top of her head using one finger. I began carrying wet wipes in my purse for the quick removal of the fragrance of Litsa. Antibacterial wipes. Lemon-scented. Large-sized. Because I couldn’t resist petting my self-appointed bodyguard.

After all, Litsa was my first Greek friend.