By Ganesh Saili
The phone rang. It’s a youngster, Gauri Uniyal, a family friend, who, without much ado, blindsides me by announcing, ‘Sir! We have voted you the best dog parent in town.’
‘We’ve got the perfect dog for you!’ he gushes; without stopping, he adds, ‘A Gaddi from Himachal!’
‘I need a dog like a bald man needs a comb!’ I protest. ‘I don’t want to hear about a dog. I’ve had it with dogs, and I don’t want another dog.’
‘Trouble was, our last dog, an inbred Gurgaon retriever, had epilepsy! For twelve long years, whenever she was unwell (which was pretty frequently) it meant walking her around the yard, even in the freeze of winter,’ I tried to explain, adding, ‘One had to make special arrangements for someone to stay at home to look after her, even if we just had to step out for a bit!’
While on a trek in the meadows of Himachal, these boys had bought a puppy for fifty rupees from a shepherd. They had a local silversmith craft an amulet shaped like a minuscule drum, which they attached to the puppy’s collar for good luck.
Pic courtesy: Rokeby Manor.
Trouble knocked when they left the puppy chained to the railings of a common passage outside their Kulri flat. The neighbours complained that the dog lunged at them when they walked past. He had to go, they insisted.
The next morning, Gauri drove to our home with the dog in tow and stealthily slipped him through my gate. That was that! It marked the beginning of an affair now in its seventh year, and we are just counting. Who but a fool would not fall in love with a brown bundle of fur? Soon after, he had left his paw prints all over our hearts. The only time he embarrassed us was when he gnawed through a finicky houseguest’s socks.
Pic courtesy: Niharika Bakshi.
Over the years, our family has had a fair share of dogs: from Cocker Spaniels to Lhasa Apsos, from Labradors to Great Pyrenees, and many others without pedigree. Talking of strays, I find myself back at Mrs Robert’s door, who lived in a picture-book cottage miles away from the nearest bazaar and kept an open house for mutts. In her youth, she taught dancing to the locals along with her husband at Hakman’s Grand Hotel. They resembled Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and were once the toast of this hill station till the fatal day he collapsed while collecting his war reparations pension. He left behind a widow, who turned recluse. Local vendors left provisions at the doorstep and returned to collect cheques she pinned to her door. It worked until the day she crossed the Golden Bridge. That night, Landour reverberated with the dismal howls of her bereaved boarders. Some of the dogs were adopted; others escaped into the villages, where you still find their descendants roaming around.
So, I had a dog now, whom I had not named; I had little to do with his ancestry. Everything, almost everything, had been pre-decided. And Gauri, this runt of a boy, knew I’d fall in line, and I admit that I did cave without further ado.
My gentle giant can distinguish the whine of my ancient cattle trap wheezing up a busy road, even though I am still a mile away. If he were not at the gate wagging his tail, it would break my heart, for he has turned this house into a home.
Legend has it that after Adam’s fall, an abyss opened between men and animals. At the very last moment, a dog leapt over to the man’s side. And that is where he has been. He conceals memories of both good times and bad, where, fortunately, the happy times dominate. Past the petting and cuddling, what more can one ask for?
My granddaughter, tech-savvy Niharika, Googles him to announce, ‘He’s a leopard hound! We’ve got ourselves a watchdog!’
As I write, the dog looks at me through droopy eyes. I wonder if he knows that, if I could only be half the person he thinks I am, it would be my link to paradise.
(Ganesh Saili, born and home-grown in the hills, belongs to those select few whose words are illustrated by their pictures. Author of two dozen books, some translated into twenty languages, his work has garnered worldwide renown.)
