The Power of A Dog

“[if] There is sorrow enough in the natural way, / ”/ So why in heaven“[before we go there]/ should we give out hearts to a dog to tear?”...

It was on a hot summer afternoon that a friend walked in with a tiny snub-nosed, squint-eyed, hairless, squirming bundle in his arms. The moment it was put on the floor, it began sniffing at the knees, hands and faces circling him. Slightly unsteady on his paws, his were a tippler’s movements, and that, when coupled with bow-like ears bigger than his face, made for an irresistible package.

Within the span of a few months, the bundle grew into a four-legged monster of mess that left puddles of piddle on the floor [not on the newspaper], and deposits of puppy poop in shoes that had dared to venture out without Him. The initial months also saw tattered saris because our hero waged mortal combat with clothes hung out to dry in the balcony where He was sent to crap. We didn’t last the vet advised mandatory six-month house arrest for Badshah [that was the name our Boxer earned, among many other generically confused expletives of ass, donkey, pig, etc.] because the four-and-a-half months of failed toilet training were more than we could take. When we took Him for His very first walk on tarred turf [the grass being off-limits], the perambulations around the colony lasted for the quarter of an hour, because His Highness refused to defecate outside the confines of His private loo. We returned a disappointed lot, feet weary of walking, and hands clammy with the soggy bacon flavoured dog biscuits we’d carried to “reward” Him with.

A few weeks later, He lost His inhibitions, and went the Indian male way. There was a general sense of relief as everyone congratulated themselves on their liberation from the drudgery of piddle-poop clean up services, and also because he seemed to have graduated form nipping at saris, to pleasures afforded by a game of tug-and-war over a discarded pair of jeans. But the euphoria was short lived, our myopic vision never anticipating that teething problems could develop into gnawed table-legs, chewed slippers, and mutilated newspaper bundles that greeted us if we woke up after 6:22a.m.

And throughout His misspent youth, He never got a whack or a sharp word as parents had read a dog book which advised “distract” over “punish”, “prevent” over “cure”, and, “anticipate” over “rue” [why don’t people author such books for F on report cards, for minors discovered with the car, or for exorbitant telephone bills?]. It took a lot of bribing to distract Him from furniture and fingers: moth-eaten teddies unearthed form the trunk, basketballs He punctured when anyone was stupid enough to indulge Him, chewed pipes from neighbours” gardens where He went on a rampage, stones He’d pick up during His walks to add to His rockery, and the chewy bones and shoes sympathisers would bring on visits. The only time he was really well behaved [in the strictest sense of the term], was when “top dog”, [my father] was around.

In the initial months, my sis, bro, and I shared a very competitive relationship with the object of every one’s affections, peeved when in the contests for attention in the pack, He always won. Gradually, it dawned on us that we, of a lesser species, never really had a chance! So we watched resignedly as the car was hijacked for trips to the vet or for joyrides for our four-legged sibling; and as dog chocolates, extendable leashes, and bacon flavoured dog biscuits replaced lingerie and butter popcorn as priorities on shopping lists when anyone went abroad in the pre-liberalisation days. But the initial animosity didn’t last. By the end of the first year, everyone in the family and in the colony had become slaves to do His bidding: rides in the front seat of bro’s girlfriend’s van; sprawling on my bed, displacing friends who came over for a night spend; getting His doggy derri’re scratched at any point in the day; walks in summer afternoons [yes, I have a mad dog] and in dust storms where every leaf He pounces upon becomes the eternally elusive squirrel; generous helpings of chocolate cake and buttered toast sneaked to Him when everyone turns a blind eye...His Will is paramount. My dog’s histrionic abilities never cease to amaze“His canine cranium can execute roles as diverse as menacing bully, ass licking sycophant, limpid eyed blackmailer, stubborn brat, growling goonda”anything that is guaranteed to get His way. No one is immune to His charms [for how can anyone resist the combination of concentric swirls that make for a designer ass, melting chocolate brown eyes, a pink whiskery chin, and the wet, slobbery greeting for any one who stops to say hello!]. I am sure He has read the family copy of “Mad’s How To Be A Successful Dog”, [the Bible for any pet] where, Spot, the canine author of the book, says that learning to be cute is the essential of dogdom, guaranteed to get you in to your masters favourite arm chair.

I remember reading a poem by Rudyard Kipling where he asks, “[if] There is sorrow enough in the natural way, / ”/ So why in heaven“[before we go there]/ should we give out hearts to a dog to tear?”...It’s a question I’ve often asked myself, [and one that all dog families ask themselves]’ It could be because of the cold nose that pushes itself in through the layers of quilted sleep on cold winter mornings, or because of the slobbery lick I get in lieu of the paw He doesn’t want to shake. Perhaps, because of the live, warm-water bottle substitute that snuggles up to me, or because of the walks that keep me in shape and the opportunities they offer with the opposite sex! It could also be because He is always there to dance with me when I’m single and stranded on a Saturday night, and because whenever I am on a trip about how hajjar fucked life is, His wiggling backside seems to say that it’s a doggone wonderful life!

After seven memorable innings with Badshah, I am no closer to answering Kipling’s question than I was when I first thought about it.