My
anamnestic afternoon exercise for this week was to settle myself on the floor of my old room in the midst of strewn photographs; some in color, some in black and white, some discolored, some frazzled and in tatters with a tape holding the pieces together and some beyond repair. Among the ones that have endured and survived the test of time, of moving houses and of neglect are a couple of ones that brought in the wistfulness and longing surrounding the loss of a loved one. These photographs are of two lesser known members of our family; Mickey and Bobby.
Mickey (1974-1987) was a stray; mum and aunt had found him as a pup, somewhere on the streets of Bombay circa 1974. He was being stoned and teased by some wretched, sadist lads who were deriving pleasure from the little one's whimpers. Severely admonishing the boys for their brutality, my aunt picked up the whining pup and caressed him till he was convinced that he was safe. He seemed to have a belt round his neck, but there wasn't a leash attached; he appeared to have broken free from his master. The belt also could hardly be called one, it was a coarse, frayed piece of rope which probably had been put there by some of the street urchins. Once his whimpers had hushed down to coos, they placed him on the pavement and started on their way only to realize a while later that they had a new fan following. And so they brought him home. That little pup went on to grow to the size of a small calf. This picture of him nibbling on my aunt's hand was taken when he was just 3 months old.
From the time of his entry into our family till the year I was born ,Mickey was never kept on a leash or forced to stay outdoors, though at night he preferred staying out. Sometimes he would just take himself off for a walk around our colony. On other nights he would choose to loiter around our garden or simply sleep on the bench in our patio. During the day he would tail my grandmother all around the house. He would sit at her feet obediently as she cooked in the kitchen, he would tug at her saree pallu cajoling her to join him in his playful antics as she hung the clothes out to dry, he would whine around lunch time with a soulful expression of absolute starvation on his face and he would curl at the foot of her bed during her afternoon siestas. He absolutely loved company, not as much canine as human. When my mum brought home her friends from college, Mickey would grace the drawing room with his presence and would neatly settle himself right at the center of the gang, occasionally throwing in a bark or two while the friends sat chit-chatting. And the friends absolutely loved him.
Most people now believe that quite a few animals including dogs have an intelligence to match or exceed that of humans. But on an emotional level, they still think animals to be quite devoid of the profound faculties. When my grandmother lost her sister, as she was lying on the bed mourning with tears pouring from her shut eyes, she felt something wet wipe away her tears from her streaming cheeks. She opened her eyes to find Mickey licking away her teardrops. And he kept doing so all night, till she stopped crying and fell asleep. Only after that did he lie down right there at her feet. On his mischievous front; Sofas and beds were out of bounds and my grandfather would make it clear to him with a "Mickey, sofaari chonu bashcha na" (Mickey, no climbing and sitting on the sofa) every morning before leaving for work. So every morning right after the sound of his footsteps would die away, Mickey would make it a point to jump onto the sofa, run the full length of it, jump on to an adjacent diwan and jump back onto the sofa, to and fro, till he would get tired of the exercise. And every evening he would be on an alert, straining his ears for the sound of my grandfather's footsteps as he returned from work. My grandfather's stepping into the veranda coincided exactly with Mickey's descent from the sofa and he would settle himself in one corner of the room, a picture of virtuousness and saintly inculpability as if he never so much as knew the feel of a sofa.
When I was born everything changed; my entry meant Mickey's exit from the family home. He was confined to a kennel in our garden. I feel guilty thinking that I might have been responsible for his losing most of his playfulness in the years to come. When I got a little older, he was sometimes allowed inside the house. I used to play with him quite often and have sometimes had a ride or two on his back. He still was deeply attached to every member of our family but he must have missed his sense of belonging and freedom. He started falling sick quite often. On one such sickness spell, he developed ulcers both inside his throat and also on his body. The body wounds got septic and used to ooze out pus that had a really foul smell of rotting flesh. The vet had given up and was egging us to put him to sleep. But my grandfather refused and took it on himself to feed him, bathe and doctor his wounds. Every day, wearing a surgical mask to keep out the infection as well as to beat the foul smell, he would bathe his wounds, apply antiseptics and bandage them and then would feed him using a tube that he had fashioned from the garden pipe and had sterilized. And Mickey did survive. He continued guarding our house for many years thereafter as he had done several times earlier and managed to foil several burglary attempts around our neighborhood.
One such burglary that Mickey helped nip in the bud cost him his life. Two afternoons after the night he had raised the alarm by his incessant barking and pounding on the kennel door, my grandmother found him lying listless inside his kennel as she took him his lunch. He did not acknowledge her with his usual welcome barks or even eye the food that was placed before him. My grandmother chided him to stop fussing and threatened to take away the food to which he listened to with flattened ears and a teary look. Finally she left him on an acid note saying "Megele saglo dees na tukka javonu baschaka" (I do not have a whole day to feed you). That evening when our gardener, with whom he was on the friendliest of terms, called out his name there was no response. He pulled him by his feet only to find him gone; blue bottled flies and ants had already made home on his furry coat. Someone, in a streak of pure vindictiveness, had poisoned his food the previous day. I was five then. That picture is still vivid in my mind as I tearfully watched my friend being bundled into a sack.
Bobby (1992-2003) came to us as a month old pup. He was a cur; mixed breed of a dalmatian and a stray. Unlike Mickey, Bobby was always kept outdoors. And his personality was also quite in contrast to Mickey's. Bobby was hardly ever friendly to anyone outside our immediate family, was a sickly sort and remained little bigger than the size of a pup. But his ferocity was in contrary to his stunted size; he would tug his leash with all his might and snarl menacingly at anyone who happened to so much as touch our gate. And like Mickey, he was a faithful companion for eleven years.
He was kept harnessed; tied to our drawing room window that overlooked the garden. Whenever he needed to grab our attention he used to balance on his hind paws and scratch continuously on the glass pane with his fore paws. He was terribly fond of biscuits and had learnt what the phonetic of the word meant. Any mention of the word would bring in the rasping and he wouldn't stop till he was given one; later we used to spell out B-I-S-C-U-I-T if we ever had to say the word. He loved auto rides, chasing butterflies, playing fetch and was petrified of the water. When out for a walk, he would bark at and challenge other dogs while still on the leash. Once set free, he wasn't much of a hero that he wished to make us believe; he would try and hide behind our legs while the barks would turn into soft woofs.
When it comes to Bobby too, I feel guilty for he was not kept as close to our family as we should have. He must have been lonely which was evident from his overt jubilation when he was sometimes set free inside the house. He would run around like a maniac with such joyful yelps, lick people's feet and finally settle down on someone's lap hoping for a few petting strokes and more tit-bits. I wasn't around during his last moments and have my sister's depiction to go by. He had been sick for a while and wasn't showing any signs of improvement. That afternoon while I was away at college, his gait became a trifle errant and he suddenly slouched while trying to get to his feet. My grandfather then picked him up and placed him on his lap while his breathing came in gasps and looked pleadingly into his eyes as if trying to find reassurance and comfort in them. For nearly an hour and a half, he sat cradling the little fellow, all the while talking lovingly to him and soothing him with soft caresses till he breathed his last in my grandfather's arms.
They say a dog answers to only one master. For both, Mickey and Bobby, that master was undoubtedly my grandfather. They were both terrified of him and at the same time loved him unconditionally with all the devotion that a dog has for his master. The rest of us were sous-masters; we were to be loved but never obeyed to. That was reserved solely for their master. One raised eyebrow and one call of the name was more than enough to get them crawling on their knees. And I know, though he does not speak of them often, he misses them more than all the rest of us put together. We have never had the nerve to introduce any more pets into the family after these two. The dismal truth that those welcoming barks will never fall on these ears no matter how hard we strain them and the heart wrenching spectacle of watching the little balls of fur turn to dust is not something that our hearts can endure for a third time! Love you, my munchkins. We miss you! :'-(
