Konni

Moscow, 2000 — frost on the Kremlin tiles, the smell of leather and ozone from bodyguards’ radios. Vladimir Putin’s black Labrador, Konni, padded through the corridors ahead of him, nails clicking like a metronome for power. A gift from Sergei Shoigu, she quickly became part of the choreography — at photo calls, in motorcades, beside the boots of soldiers and heads of state.

She sat in on briefings, attended press tours, and once startled Angela Merkel, who confessed her fear of dogs. Putin smiled. Konni wagged her tail, neutral as any instrument of diplomacy.

She outlived her own usefulness by a few years, aging into a relic of early-millennial bravado — the friendly face of authority. When she died, state television aired a short tribute. Putin called her “a true friend,” a phrase that landed like policy. In the official portrait, the dog and the man share the same expression: alert, unblinking, unreadable.