I have a strong feeling that except for ‘The DOG (The Dog Owner’s Group), this article might not strike a chord in any other heart. It may sound strange to some, silly to others, even preposterous to a few. But on behalf of all my canine friends, whose barks and whines duly deserve to be decoded, I still choose to write it.
A dog is considered a man’s best friend. Yet man finds umpteen excuses to choose his friend. For some it a question of status symbol, for others a method of safeguard. Very few search for companionship. However, what has always attracted me was never the breed but its deeds. Not to mention the unspoken message in the gentle eyes of this selfless species.
Four years ago, right behind the bushes of our Railway club I came across one such timid creature. Everyone called it a bitch. I called it a mother. A fertile mother, who seldom kept her gestation period on a leash- not necessarily because of her manufacturing machinations or her scarlet ways but for the fact that two outside studs loyally kept her company. Constantly living in an environment where pelting stones and energetic kicks were delivered at intervals, it took me a few months to gain her complete confidence.
First when I noticed her widening girth I felt proud, thinking it was the effect of the stray crumbs I had been scattering around. Two months later she delivered a litter of puppies. Apart from tottering teats and skeletal bones that protruded from within her undernourished fragile frame, a huge sore now stood out. The day the 'bitch' was found outside amidst kitchen leftovers trying to 'spread rabies', the abscess received a stinging blow from the chowkidar's lathi. She was still wary of humans and except for eating from a distance she would not even allow me to touch her. Helplessly from a distance, I watched the mother's warm tongue lick her babies and her wounds. A few chilly nights later the wounds healed. The entire litter however perished.
Five months later, stagnant eyes again reflected her pregnant state. To help however involved cunningly luring her onto a rattling van to surgically remove her most productive organ and her trust in me. A trust I had taken almost a year to build. But this time when the litter was born her confidence in me had increased. With regular doses of calcium, bread, milk and love, three puppies grew up to become the Club’s regular dogs.
The black and silky was the quiet one- a female dog, who I got spayed at the Blue Cross, to avoid any complaints about population control. The other two were ‘Naughty’ and ‘Brownie’. The Club boys loved them. The children doted on them. Some members enjoyed their affection. Only a few shied away.
I was a frequent Club guest. The added attraction in my daily visit was the hearty welcome I received from my energetic Reception Committee. ‘What do you feed them?’ was a frequent refrain from a few irate members. ‘They don’t even touch what we give’. I found it difficult to explain that it was not ‘what’ but the ‘how’ factor that was more important. I did not ‘throw’ the food to get rid of them. Silky, Naughty, Brownie and their mother welcomed me with their hearts because I welcomed them with mine. Their alert ears perked up at the slightest sound of my footsteps and even before I reached the gates, they would arrive in leaps and bounds. It warmed my heart. It made my day.
Three years passed. Our Old Railway Club suddenly felt it required an immaculate facelift. The wrinkled mosaic flooring was proposed to be ironed out with a marbled one. The balding crop of greenery was to be replaced with luscious lawns. The antiquated furniture was required to be given a thorough dressing up. And defying the laws of gravity, the entire spine of the Old Railway Club was to be straightened out. Funds flooded in. Elaborate plans were made. But sometimes when changes occur, even for the better, it also means a complete disruption in the normal lives of some. Usually it is the poor and the helpless who undergo it. In this case it affected my voiceless friends.
The renovation started. During construction, the entries and the exits had no import and animals being animals, obviously did not heed to the calls of etiquette. With no one to guide or train them, during thunderstorms the puppies naturally took it upon themselves to invade into the interiors of the open Club. Deafening Diwali sent them cracking and shielding their selves on accessible furniture. I felt a bit apprehensive. I tried in vain to pacify others that once the entrances were closed everything would be back to normal but nothing made any sense to anyone. Soon grievances started pouring in. And humans being humans, the authorities and members no longer welcomed the idea of sharing a ‘new’ Club with ‘old’ friends. My sense of foreboding increased. I tried to speak out once more. But in a thundering cloud of complaints, a whisper is often unheard.
One evening I arrived to a deadened Club. Something was missing and I realized with a pang that it was my Reception Committee. The Club boys rushed to tell me of the MCH Van that had appeared in the morning. They described the heartrending details of the ruthless chase, the beseeching whines, the imploring gazes, the callous catch and the final hurl. The big tin coffin had then driven away with my friends.
I walked into the Club. I surveyed the entire scenario again. Everything was gleaming now. The grass was carpeted from gate to gate. The furniture dazzled. The floors sparkled. The windows glistened. Everything shone. But the gloss was too glaring. My vision suddenly blurred. It was clouded with a strange mist of emotion that made my heart feel empty and full at the same time.
‘Our Club is really looking nice now’ my friend commented.
‘Yes’, I whispered, the lump in my throat obstructing my speech. Like our country (a few days ago) our New Railway Club was also shining. Yet in all this supposed sheen, something was terribly lacking. Could it be the ‘feel good’ factor?
Nargis Natarajan.