Mishri-Ki-Dalli
I first saw you cowering away from a dish containing curd-rice. Runt-of-the-litter, you were being bullied by your siblings who growled each time you came close. I kneeled down by your side and offered my hand for you to lick. You looked into my eyes and I melted, cooing encouraging nonsense. Suddenly, you turned, growled deep, and launched yourself at the startled puppies. They scattered pell-mell and you ate your fill. Atta girl, you just owned me. Now I've always strongly bought into the "if it isn't a poodle, it's just a dog" adage. You were a black miniature poodle. In a daze of happiness I offered my first wages of a royal INR 4K/- for you. The Tamil breeder looked over my veterinary degrees, smiled indulgently (every other pup was going for INR 10K/-) and launched into an excited staccato of instructions. Registration papers were exchanged and just like that, I’d made Mommy. I picked you up in my arms and brought you home.
You fit snugly into the palm of my hand. I was totally enraptured with your perfect size, glossy coat of black and sweet temperament. You loved bouncing along with India rubber balls that you dutifully chewed at the end of each play-session. You danced upright on your hind legs each time there was peppy music to be played when Mommy danced and fell promptly asleep when she listened to classical music. You could jump ten times higher than your height and were this constant source of energy I plugged into each day to charge myself. I bought you the choicest chew toys but you hankered after leather shoes. My best pair of Clarks shoes and daddy’s Ambassador shoes were demolished post-haste. When I lifted my finger severely in admonishment, you raised an arm tentatively to my face to plead innocence. Cat-like, you took to wrapping yourself around my legs while I cooked and I giggled each time I tripped. Your day started with your daily dose of fresh cream and mine with muttering sweet nothings in Punjabi. One bad miscarriage later, I was helpfully told I mightn’t have a child. You were the outlet for my pent-up maternal affection and how! Slowly and surely you staked claim to being the best daughter EVER.
The first month you single-mindedly concentrated on eating while I vaccinated and dewormed you and put you on a high protein diet. I had visions of a fat poodle on my hands but you blossomed into unbelievably Barbiesque dimensions. You grew into a happy dog that rarely barked or growled. Docile. Quiet. Amazingly well behaved. Fiercely intelligent. Utterly lady-like. That’s until there was thunder and instead of hiding you’d launch yourself at the French windows to pick a fight. Each Diwali you flew to Gurgaon and while all dogs cowered and shied away from the noise of the crackers, you were at the gates confronting your fears, prancing indignantly and barking choicest admonishments.
Three years later, we traveled to Gurgaon in the summers. I was seven months pregnant and ambling whale-like post-dinner seemed like just the thing to do. I thought I left you waiting inside the gates of the house. I turned at the end of the lane when suddenly I saw a streak of black chased by stray mongrels. I’ve never sprinted faster in my life. I snatched at a walking stick and ran into the darkness with the whole family running after me. We searched high and low for an hour before I discovered you sitting on a five foot high window ledge of a house under construction nearby. “Mishka” I wailed and you leapt straight into my arms. Daughter, I never went walking without you after that. We were inseparable.
You made yourself a beautiful and healthy life. Other than your cataract at age eleven that didn’t respond to treatment, you’d almost never been sick. I watched you go blind and stopped my periodic rearrangement of furniture. You rarely bumped into it as you intelligently mapped the outlay of the apartment in your head. At age twelve you were still chasing a tinkling ball at the park downstairs. Then suddenly you showed the first signs of old age. You slept close to twenty hours a day, lost weight and almost gave up eating. I had your mouth restructured this summer and never thought you’d survive the GA. But for one, all your teeth were still intact and you came out with a dazzling new grin. You still wouldn’t eat though. I pumped you full of drugs, pricked you for intravenous lines and bathed and groomed you incessantly because you bore the fetid smell of death. You were frail, so frail and I clung desperately to you and refused to let you go. That fateful morning I saw you falling as you struggled to eat and I decided to put you down. You died peacefully in my arms. Forgive me.
Why write this while I still grieve, struggle to draw and grope for words? Because catharsis. RIP, Mishka.
Mishka (12/12/2000-12/09/2014.)
You fit snugly into the palm of my hand. I was totally enraptured with your perfect size, glossy coat of black and sweet temperament. You loved bouncing along with India rubber balls that you dutifully chewed at the end of each play-session. You danced upright on your hind legs each time there was peppy music to be played when Mommy danced and fell promptly asleep when she listened to classical music. You could jump ten times higher than your height and were this constant source of energy I plugged into each day to charge myself. I bought you the choicest chew toys but you hankered after leather shoes. My best pair of Clarks shoes and daddy’s Ambassador shoes were demolished post-haste. When I lifted my finger severely in admonishment, you raised an arm tentatively to my face to plead innocence. Cat-like, you took to wrapping yourself around my legs while I cooked and I giggled each time I tripped. Your day started with your daily dose of fresh cream and mine with muttering sweet nothings in Punjabi. One bad miscarriage later, I was helpfully told I mightn’t have a child. You were the outlet for my pent-up maternal affection and how! Slowly and surely you staked claim to being the best daughter EVER.
The first month you single-mindedly concentrated on eating while I vaccinated and dewormed you and put you on a high protein diet. I had visions of a fat poodle on my hands but you blossomed into unbelievably Barbiesque dimensions. You grew into a happy dog that rarely barked or growled. Docile. Quiet. Amazingly well behaved. Fiercely intelligent. Utterly lady-like. That’s until there was thunder and instead of hiding you’d launch yourself at the French windows to pick a fight. Each Diwali you flew to Gurgaon and while all dogs cowered and shied away from the noise of the crackers, you were at the gates confronting your fears, prancing indignantly and barking choicest admonishments.
Three years later, we traveled to Gurgaon in the summers. I was seven months pregnant and ambling whale-like post-dinner seemed like just the thing to do. I thought I left you waiting inside the gates of the house. I turned at the end of the lane when suddenly I saw a streak of black chased by stray mongrels. I’ve never sprinted faster in my life. I snatched at a walking stick and ran into the darkness with the whole family running after me. We searched high and low for an hour before I discovered you sitting on a five foot high window ledge of a house under construction nearby. “Mishka” I wailed and you leapt straight into my arms. Daughter, I never went walking without you after that. We were inseparable.
You made yourself a beautiful and healthy life. Other than your cataract at age eleven that didn’t respond to treatment, you’d almost never been sick. I watched you go blind and stopped my periodic rearrangement of furniture. You rarely bumped into it as you intelligently mapped the outlay of the apartment in your head. At age twelve you were still chasing a tinkling ball at the park downstairs. Then suddenly you showed the first signs of old age. You slept close to twenty hours a day, lost weight and almost gave up eating. I had your mouth restructured this summer and never thought you’d survive the GA. But for one, all your teeth were still intact and you came out with a dazzling new grin. You still wouldn’t eat though. I pumped you full of drugs, pricked you for intravenous lines and bathed and groomed you incessantly because you bore the fetid smell of death. You were frail, so frail and I clung desperately to you and refused to let you go. That fateful morning I saw you falling as you struggled to eat and I decided to put you down. You died peacefully in my arms. Forgive me.
Why write this while I still grieve, struggle to draw and grope for words? Because catharsis. RIP, Mishka.
Mishka (12/12/2000-12/09/2014.)