Walking That Extra Mile

In a country like India, where human woes are too great to tackle, animals often do not qualify to be considered within the limited resources.




This was last year; it was the end of March. Nagpur was getting ready for another hot summer. In the lane adjacent to our house, we noticed this little fellow. He was of indeterminate age; that he was no longer a puppy was clear, however, so small and thin was he that he hardly looked bigger than a puppy. He was of indeterminate sex, and could well have been a ‘she.’ He was suffering from some skin disease, which had led to a loss of his coat and left the entire skin exposed. Every few minutes he would roll on the ground in a desperate attempt to soothe the itching. He was miserably thin and whenever we went to the provision store, on that lane, we would buy a packet of biscuits for him. He was perennially hungry and the biscuits vanished before you could say, ‘slow down fella!’ However, this was not a regular ritual, as we went to the store at irregular intervals.

Slowly we graduated to feeding him daily, at night. He would be waiting and the moment he spotted us, he would come running, his thin body and long tapering tail moving in abundance. However, as March rolled into April and the Sun shone brighter, one day we saw that his entire body was covered with self-inflicted wounds. Rolling on the hot asphalt, he had scrapped his skin, and the bleeding wounds were now exposed to the heat and dirt and this caused more irritation. The situation could no longer be ignored. This was just not a hungry dog anymore. We just couldn’t let him die without some attempt to make him well. We consulted the local vet, who suggested a tablet that had to be given for three consecutive days. We started the treatment and after three days there was a noticeable change; he was visibly less irritated and because the scratching had lessened, his wounds had lost their raw look. The next week we were supposed to start with a medicated bath that the doctor had advised, as the second phase of treatment. We were away for the weekend and returning on Sunday night, I was too tired to venture out with Kalua’s food (he had been christened by then, the name a tribute to his muddy black colour). Thinking that the store-keeper would have already given him a packet of biscuits, for which I had left some money with him, I went to bed.

In the morning I woke up with a terrible dream; I saw Kalua running towards me, at his usual jet speed. Just as he was about to fling himself on me, I moved away. I woke up, feeling extremely guilty. I would have allowed him to do this, had he not been ill. I got up, got dressed and went out with some bread and milk. As I neared his usual hideout, I called out to him. When he did not appear, even after calling several times, the dream felt like a premonition. The store was not yet open, and I wondered around aimlessly, calling out at intervals, though I could feel that he was not around anymore. I started going through the list of possible options; he could have been run-over by the numerous speeding vehicles, he could have succumbed to the disease, he could have… I could think no more. By this time, the store was putting its shutters up and I rushed towards it. “Have you seen the dog?” I asked, taking the man by surprise. He looked at me for a few seconds and seemed to collect his thoughts, then as clarity manifested itself, he said, “oh, han madam; wow kutta na? society walo ne complain kiya aur muncipalty wale use uthake le gaye.” I was aghast. Where had they taken him, how will I ever find out? He was on the verge of getting well. If they terminated him, because of the disease! The tears swelled up in my eyes. I stood there helplessly.

I came home dejected. Why did I have to go away, I thought irrationally. The first few days were bad, as the dream played on intermittently. I tried to console myself in various ways. However, as clichéd it may sound, ‘time is really the best of healers,’ and soon I was showering love and food on the ubiquitously present deserving canines on Indian streets.

It’s been over a year. Kalua was history. I had not remembered him even once in the last few months. A few days back, out on my regular walk, the evening hot and balmy, I saw this exceedingly thin creature scampering towards me. He braked to a halt, inches away from me; a tiny face, black glistering eyes, a dirty fawn coat, the only thing that stopped him from being mistaken for a deer was the lack of stubs on his head. As I bend down to pat him, he moved back hurriedly and started his mad prance, all around me. Was this Kalua? No, it could not be. He was almost the same size. Surely, if this was Kalua, he would have grown, would he not? Suddenly the questions were not relevant anymore. I rushed home to get him some food.