More of the Regulars

Oliver



Oliver was seen running the streets in downtown Rishikesh. He was thin, young, and very cute. What was a dog like this doing on the streets? Even here, white fluffy, “designer dogs” are in. Between here and Haridwar, the next town, there’s a “Dog Farm;” in other words, a puppy mill. Puppies that are churned out for their looks, with no consideration for their or their mothers’ comfort, health, or well being. And no consideration for their temperaments, or socialization. So here was Oliver, covered in grease, painfully thin, and unbearably cute. I couldn't resist.







The other quality he had going for him was that he was male. When I try to find homes for some of the pups, I often hear … “Is it a boy?”

“No”

“Oh, if it was a boy I’d take it … “

So, here was a boy, fluffy and white (well, after a good clean-up), young, and adorable.
How could I leave him on the streets, scurrying between traffic, and into the garbage piles, scavenging for scraps of food? Simple, I couldn't.




Not so simple; I still have him. No takers, and not such good socialization skills.

The lack of socialization skills has me more convinced that he’s a puppy mill dog; churned out and taken from the mom and his litter mates too soon. They often don’t develop bite inhibition. With no mom or brother or sister to tell them when to stop, they simply don’t know when to stop. So, many torn shirts and skirts later, he’s still learning. It takes time, and hopefully a home will come along. If not, he will have to go back to the streets.







Doggie, Coco, Brownie


All the same dog. DCB, for short, was a wanted dog with a lovely temperament, and had a home. He’s an inside/outside dog and at an early age got a dog bite from another local dog, and the flies quickly set in. The wound became infected, and infested with maggots. This is very common in the summer time. Had he not had a home and caretakers willing to administer the proper medicines and change bandages, he would not have survived.





Happily Doggie/Coco/Brownie has done well and is thriving. He has many caretakers, hence, the multiple names. He is fed a regular diet of fresh cow’s milk and chapattis. He does well on this diet, an he is happy and wanted.




The little pup in the photo could have had a home here, too. He wandered into the compound with his brother, and they were both taken in and welcomed by the family and Doggie. After a few days, one puppy wandered off. After a few more days, someone showed up and said that was his dog. He lived not far away. He took the pup home. There was an outside cardboard box for the puppy for bedding and shelter. The monsoon rains were heavy that night. Puppy has not been seen since.









Rishikesh Bus Stand Dogs




Close to the Ganga, and just off the main road, sits one of the tourist Bus Stands.





Food stalls are set up for the tourists coming from the buses. Food stands and their leftovers bring hungry dogs. This mom made it onto the main road, and one sight of her I had to get out of my rickshaw and try to give her medication.





She was infested with mange, and untreated it would only get worse. She was sweet,and took the medication for her skin condition easily. She was obviously a mother, so the next question was were there any pups that survived and were still in the area.





I walked around and asked, and people gestured “yes, around.” As she had a horrible condition, it was likely the pups would as well. I found two, and yes, they did.

They were fearful of people, and not so easy to give the medicine to. Whether it was enough, I don’t know.




A man with a food cart offered me a bun for them. I shook my head “no,” and he said “Free, free.” He was offering them help. We fed them, and the one pup ate a little. I asked if I could take the man’s photo, and he shrugged, and gave a small laugh, and first had to twirl his mustache. Then he was ready.





I don’t know if the pups survived. This skin condition is common with street dogs. It’s painful, and it lowers the immune system. When the skin breaks and bleeds, the flies come to feed and lay their eggs. As the eggs hatch into maggots, they feed off the dog. The dogs are in misery as this condition progresses. The puppies usually aren’t strong enough to survive, and usually have internal parasites as well, plus a far less than optimal diet. I have returned to the site, but have not seen the pups.







When one considers all they have to go through to survive, you almost have to shake your head and wonder how survival is even possible.



Those that have been lucky enough to have someone look after them, do better for a while. This handsome black and white dog not only had someone watching over him, but he jumped into a tented home, and hopped right up onto the bed. Luxurious living for a street dog of Rishikesh.








Most street dogs live less than two years.


Monsoon Rains

The monsoon is endless. Rishikesh lies in the foothills of the Himalayas. The terrain is rugged, and steep. When the rains come the water pours down the mountains and carries with it everything along its way that isn’t bolted down. Landslides are common, roads are blocked, and roads turn into powerful rivers of rainwater.

Dogs are often swept down the roads, or try to run and find shelter wherever they can, not thinking of direction or familiarity with location. When the rain stops, they often don’t know where they are, and their scent is washed away. Many dogs are seen now that have never been here before. Some of them even look good, cared for. If they don’t find their way back home, that life has ended. The life they had is over, and they must start again.





They are now in unfamiliar territory, lost, chased by dogs that won’t give up their piece of the earth, and soon they will go hungry. Then the march begins; they walk and walk, not knowing where to, or to what destination, but they go on their own pilgrimage of sorts, finishing either with a new location where they will not be chased, or hit, and that has some supply of food, or with death. What is that point when they realize they will no longer be back “home;” that now they must find a place to survive, and that they will not retrieve what has now been lost?




This beautiful girl came one morning after a night of heavy rain. She was bewildered. She was obviously lost. She stayed for two days in the area, walking up and down, back and forth. She would join crowds, blending in with an army of ankles and feet, searching, hoping to find the person who belonged to her.




I fed her, found her more than once, but she was looking, looking, not interested in staying. I even brought her into my home, there was something so sad about her, I didn’t want her living on the streets. Lost. But she left the yard on her own. No other dog has managed to get out, and yet, this little terrier mix didn’t stay for more than a few hours. She wanted to find her home, and her person.

I had given her a contraceptive injection; “Family Planning,” it’s called here. She’s young; at least she won’t have the burden of being a puppy with her own litter of puppies to take care of for a while. Maybe this will give her enough time to continue her search for that which she calls “home.”




Rishikesh is part of a holy pilgrimage route in India. I can’t help but be struck how these dogs and their searching, and their endless walking take on their own sort of pilgrimage. What are we looking for as we walk? Do we really know ourselves, or are we driven by a sense of faith that there is something better, out there, for us in our own quest for “home.”

Is the sense of faith enough, or is there doubt, and uncertainty, and only a need to search that drives us in our quests?


Picky Eater

I’d been told about this pup by the Ram Jhula bridge. I was told she was very cute, very thin, and not eating. I didn’t really want to go see her; it sounded like it was too late. I sent one of the local boys who helps with the dogs to go over, and give her de-worming medicine. To everyone’s surprise, it was enough.



I saw this adorable little face looking up at me as I walked past one day, and she fit the description of the sickly dog. She has improved, and although still a "selective" eater, she should be alright. The bigger dog showed up and came alongside for food, who else could it be, but “Mama.” Both dogs, and this area have now become one of the regular feeding and caring stations for the street dogs.





Another friend shows up for a free meal; why not? They are all still there, and more, and even with the heavy rains are doing ok, so far. Family planning on order for Mamma.





Other Side of the Bridge

On another side of the bridge, this little one has found her own home. She sits, or stands, in the middle of the road, and stares into the restaurant. There are many food stands and restaurants along this road, she's picked this one, and she's loyal. Whether there's a person there to whom she has attached herself, I don't know. She's intently focused onto this restaurant. I try their food, it's ok, but nothing out of the ordinary. I try to coax her with other doggie delicacies, to get her to the side of the road, but she's not that interested. It has to come from this restaurant.




I ask them what she wants ...

"A bun."

I've got buns, I offer her some. Nope. I buy the same type of bun from this food stall, probably from the same local vendor as my bun, but now, success. She eats her bun, and goes to her bed. Someone has placed a burlap sack in a little cubbyhole under the floor of her restaurant. She goes to rest, after her bun, from only this restaurant.







She's obviously had pups, and I ask where they are ... A shrug of the shoulders is all I get.
I treat her for parasites, and she starts to put on weight. She starts to look good. Then one day I come and she is lying in the road, as usual, but when she gets up, she collapses. My heart sinks. She's been struck by a vehicle. How could it not happen; it would only be a matter of time with the way she positions herself.

I wait, not sure if moving her is good for her, and if there are internal injuries, there's no one who can help her anyway. Two days go by, one day she looks good, the next she looks in pain, and not interested in food. I dread coming today, fearful of what I will find, and I prepare myself for the worst ... Happy surprise! There she is, standing in the middle of the road, staring into her restaurant. Her customer loyalty is rewarded; I buy her a bun, she eats it up, and goes into her little cubbyhole, curls up and takes a rest.



Will repeat.


Mule and Bull

Street life is hard, for dogs, people, aging pack mules, and blind baby bulls. I had seen this female mule out on the road, in the blistering sun. She was thin, and frail, and just standing in the heat. She had a terrible wound at her back end, and the flies were gathering. I tried to find help for her, but couldn’t find her again.




Some time later, a small compound had been donated to care for street animals. It’s small, and can only house a few animals at a time. A local family has free room and board there, and they provide daily maintenance of feeding and cleaning. The mule was found again, by some local people, and to my surprise, brought to the compound. She’s still thin, and frail, but she has regular food and water, receives medical treatment, and has people who care about her looking after her. She will die, she has a condition that is too far gone to treat, but at least she now has shelter, and will not die in the street. She’s been worked hard all her life, and when no longer useful, turned out into the street, to fend for herself, as is the usual case for pack animals.

Hopefully, she has found some comfort in her final days. Her condition is not uncommon, and there are others like her on the street. More space and housing is needed to provide for even a few more.






Blind Baby Bull is the other large, current resident of the compound. He was found staggering in the streets, and is totally blind; navigating the streets and finding food was impossible for him.





I’ve been looking for a cow shed or ashram that has more room for him to take him in, but so far, no luck. He’s growing quickly, and will soon need more room, but for now, he’s sweet, and happy and well fed. The veterinarian says he’s completely blind, but he keeps turning his head as though he can see just a tiny bit out of the corner of his left eye, maybe just shadows, or light, but he keeps turning his head, hoping to see.

He will need a larger home very soon.







White Puppy





This pup was one of a litter of two. They were a yellowy white, and tucked up in a little cave in a mountain side, on a busy road. A safe spot for the mom to have her puppies, but a difficult spot for them as far as safety, once they would be old enough to move around.

Mom was a beauty. She’s another one of these dogs that just shows up … who knows where she came from, or what her story is, but there she is. She was as sweet as could be. All white, a pretty creamy white, and gentle, and affectionate, and pregnant. She loved people, and if she thought you were safe, she would come and nuzzle up against you, and just rest, at your side.

She found this very strange spot to have her babies; literally in a hole in a mountain. She had to leap up with the skills of a mountain goat to navigate her way up and down the hill. Food of course, was not on the mountainside, but across the road, where there are food stalls and people, and restaurants. We worried about the puppies, and how they would manage once they were able to walk around, and want to play. How would they climb up and down the mountain side?

Pilgrim season came, and the road traffic increased dramatically. When I saw the mom go on her search for food, it was her safety I worried about. She would cross the road by a fast dash across, not looking in either direction, but simply throwing herself through the street. This would only work so many times. When I did not see her for some time, I asked some of the local workers … it was the answer I feared. A shake of the head in a “no,” and the word “auto.” The beautiful white pup who was a mother was gone. It was her habit to run across the street only to eat, and come right back to her two pups.

Then there was only one pup. I don’t know if the one just wandered off, or also had an accident. The remaining pup learned to navigate the mountainside, and wanders down for food. This is the last time I saw her. She was a little shy with me, but when she saw I was “ok,” her little tail wouldn’t stop wagging. I want her to live. That beautiful mother should have something left of her. The pup is starting to look like her, and I hope she has the same gentle nature of her mother.



I heard from one of the children by the river that they saw a beautiful white puppy by Omkarananda ghat. This is where her mother liked to sit. It’s a beautiful area by the river, and fairly quiet and unpopulated by tourists. I no longer see the puppy on the mountainside. I hope she is all right.

Some of the Regulars

Here are a few of the regular animal friends and others visited throughout the days ...

Sarou & Black Beauty

When Beauty first came onto the scene she was thin, shy, and filled with disbelief that someone would offer her food. The other pups ate greedily, but she just looked, with uncertainty. One could see she was starving, but when I put the food just, just for her, she looked at the food, then me, back at the food, hesitant, and uncertain. Was this really being offered to her? She ate slowly, unsurely, all the while looking up at me to see what would happen next ... a raised hand, a blow, a stick, or a kick ... She was afraid of people, so much so that even a gift of free food was cause for alarm. In a life where she must depend on "the kindness of strangers," a wagging tail and a bowed head are an asset for survival. I left the food and walked away, thinking I would probably never see her again.

In this photo she's with Sarou, a Baba's dog. This puppy stood out from the others. He had manners, a collar, and seemed well taken care of; and he was, for a while. As the pup grew, the Baba's ability to watch over him and feed him properly diminished. He also had a wound inside his mouth that would not heal, so eating was difficult for him. Still, he was watched over more than most street dogs, and he always had a place to sleep. The Baba took pride in keeping Sarou looking as good as possible. There were a few dogs in this area that the Baba helped, but Sarou was "his," and as such had the privilege of always being served first (of what was available), a place to rest, and always being well groomed. Sarou was doing all right.

Then one day the Baba told me he was leaving ... Nepal, visa, ... no return ... no money. No more Shanti here.
Then he told me money "fix problem." He was asking me for money, to pay off the police, apparently. Problem, fixed; Baba stay.
Or, not.

Then he was leaving again, suddenly, and another Baba would be staying, maybe.

One day I showed up, and he was gone. This is the life of transiency here, and uncertainty. One ay someone is here, the next day, they are gone. Whether it's a Baba, a tourist, or a local who's off to find work somewhere else, or back to their village for family obligations. Or whether it's a dog.

The old Baba left, and the new Baba came, and Sarou was taken care of, even better than before, And one day I showed up, and he was gone. The other dogs were there, but the one that was the "pet," and the most well taken care of, was gone.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Double Good," I am told.

"Double Good?"

""Double Good. Baba walk 7 kilometers to see. Good house."

"Double Good?"

"Double Good ... non-veg."

"Ah." Good luck, beautiful Sarou. You were happy on the ghats by the river, running with your friends ans sleeping with the Babas. I hope you are well.


Beauty blossomed into a real surprise. I did not expect to see her again, not as a regular, anyway. Somehow that offering of food seemed to make a difference. She stayed in the are and thrived. She was finding food somewhere, and was filling out and looking well. She transformed from a dog that was afraid of people, into a dog who wanted nothing more than to attach herself to someone, and have a home. She made it difficult for me to leave each time she saw me, and I would have to play games of trying to evade her, nearly always losing, unless I got lucky and lost her in a crowd. Usually I would have to buy her a favorite snack, toss enough food down, and run off before she finished eating. Her job was to eat as quickly as she could, finish while I was still nearby, and quickly try to catch me. I'd say this was about 50-50. Sometimes I would win, sometimes she would; in which case I'd have to start again.

There was a prospect for a good home, and i tried to place her, but when it slipped that she was a street dog, the deal was off. She would have been perfect for them. She never joined any pack, but was always by herself, a little bit lonely, waiting for that bit of connection and companionship that she might get now and then by the river.


Jackson

Jackson showed up one day, friendly, almost fully grown, and just a nice, social dog without any bad manners. A little bit too thin, but not too bad off. Turned out he had been taken in by a German woman while she lived in town, and was let out onto the street when she left.
Jackson got lucky, I thought, as an Englishman came to town, took a liking to him, and added him to his family of dogs. The Englishman was a legal resident of India, not just a tourist, and loved dogs. He came to Rishikesh with his pack of dogs from the north, hoping to start a seasonal business here. Now it seemed Jackson was set. Regular meals each day, companionship, and the security of living with someone who's laid down roots here. Or so it seemed.
The Englishman went back North, with the intention of returning and taking the dogs back a soon as he resettled. He's not returned, nor has he been seen or heard from. Jackson, and the three other dogs who had a home are now living on the street; back to scavenging for food, and depending on the kindness of strangers and good providence from above, for survival.



Old Man


Old Man, with his white muzzle, looks like he's been around for a while.

An unusual sight for street dogs. Most dogs die in early puppy hood, and those that do survive the early weeks or months usually live for only a year or two, three, tops. This summer Old Man has a nasty maggot infected wound on his side. He's obviously being fed, but not treated for the wound. It's fairly simple to treat, and I start giving him antibiotics for the infection, and a topical spray for the maggots.





He doesn't like the spray, but left untreated, he will most likely die from
this. Although he dislikes the spray, he loves his food. It's a routine that works ... toss food, spray. I get two to three chances at a time. It works, the wound heals, eventually, and he continues to come out to the market in the evening hours, taking his stroll. I can't say he shows a lot of personality, or charm, but why should he? He seems a little bit cranky, probably suffering from a few aches and pains of the physical body, and he just wants to go out for a stroll. Uncomplaining, and content to be out on his own. He deserves his solitude in his stroll. The locals like him, and they just smile and shake their head when he slowly walks by.


Mule

Dogs aren't the only ones to suffer from maggot wounds. Pack mules and horses carry heavy loads of rocks and sand up and down winding hills all day, every day. They are a source of income for local families, and generally looked upon as flesh machines. After a hard days work, they are set out to feed themselves ... to graze in and out of traffic looking for green vegetation to eat. Machines that keep themselves fueled. Injuries and wounds where the saddle rope may rub against the skin are common., and fly and maggot infestation added to the open sore, is also very common. These pack animals are usually worked until they drop. If they can no longer work, they are released to the streets, to fend for themselves until they die. This one was wandering the roadside for some days, and I keep watching the size of the wound increase. How to treat a wound on an animal this size, and not get kicked. Once again, the distraction of food and relief from hunger comes into play. This was a two person job; one feeder, and one sprayer.

The wound healed, the mule put on weight, recovered, and was no longer seen. Once again a valuable commodity, she was probably put back to work.



Jimmy

This is the only photo I have of Jimmy. A beautiful female who appeared to have a family who loved her. She was half street dog, and half family dog. But she was theirs, she slept inside. She often had to be let out to go and find food on her own, garbage mostly, and scraps from strangers. She became a local favorite, and learned to greet the foreigners with a happy tail wag and an overly exuberant jump-up greeting.

She was thrilled to see her new friends, who were happy to see her, and offered biscuits and affection. She was always smiling.

Her family saw me petting her one day and said to me with obvious pride, "Jimmy's very beautiful, isn't she?"
As a lovely cross of yellow lab and handsome street dog, it was very easy to reply.

"Yes, she is, very beautiful."
She was always too thin, so I treated her for parasites, and a few of us started feeding her regularly. She started to put on weight ... and for the first time in her life, became a mother. She and the puppies were taken care of by the family, and I gave them food for her and her pups. One day the young boy of the house was taking the puppies around to see if anyone would take them. They were girls, no takers.
Then one day they were gone. Shortly after that, Jimmy was gone. Although the truth was hard to come by it was eventually found out that the family who "loved" her, so feared her having puppies again, and found it so hard to feed her, that they took her far away. They took her some distance from where they lived and abandoned her.

Jimmy was a shy and submissive dog around other dogs. She was not good at scavenging for food on her own, and was easily intimidated by other dogs. She depended on the westerners to feed her. When she was approached by a strange dog, she would instantly cower, and curl up into a ball. Jimmy would never fight with another dog. It was her happy smile for the foreigners and her happy tail that got her her food. Where she was taken was a less populated area, with no foreigners. I spent weeks looking for her. She has not been seen. It is doubtful she survived.


Geronimo

Geronimo came to Rishikesh as a puppy. He was supposed to be a Gharwali mountain dog. It's a large, protective herding dog, with a coat warm enough to withstand the cold of the mountains. An American brought him, convinced of his specialness, and repeatedly expressing his commitment and love for him. He was here as a traveler.

"What will you do when you leave India?"

"I'm taking him with me."

"Not all countries have easy quarantine policies."

"Then I'll only go where I can take him."

"How long are you staying?"

"I don't know, it doesn't matter, he'll come with me."

He's obviously a good looking dog. He was well fed, highly social, and abandoned at about five months of age. The American took off, and left Geronimo behind.



Geronimo and Friend

This beautiful female, clean, well fed, but a little shy, showed up for just a few days. She was not at all confident with strangers, and would run off if she was stared at too hard. I have no idea where she came from, or how long she would be around. She played with Geronimo for a day or two, and
Geronimo was taken in by the same Englishman who took in Jackson ....

The Englishman briefly resurfaced, and took Geronimo up north. Geronimo went missing, or was stolen, within a few days of having moved up north into the mountains. He has not been seen or heard of since.

Ram Jhula Mama

I first saw this dog by the underground taxi/auto stand at Ram Jhula. I was horrified with what I saw. She was walking around with open, bleeding sores on her back. This is an awful area. It's congested, polluted, and loud. The sweltering summertime temperatures hold the car exhaust and human sweat in the air, with no breeze to clear through. The horns blare, and scooters and cars and pedestrians vie for what little space there is, to get through. It's perilous for any pedestrian, human or canine, and there she was, marching through, with open, oozing sores on her back. some one had placed a napkin on her back. I don't know if it was to help, or to cover the hideous sight. I didn't know if she was friendly, or how she would take to a stranger approaching her trying to put some foreign matter like antibacterial powder on her back. How would she know it was medicine, and that I was trying to help her.

I had my camera with me, and it would have made for a telling photo, but what do I do, take a photo and risk startling her, and miss an opportunity to medicate her. Of course I chose to medicate her. It's simple enough to give oral antibiotics to the dogs here. You wrap them in a sweet, and the dogs hungrily snap it up. She took the meds very easily, and surprisingly, she recovered quickly. The antibiotics and the mange medicine worked.

She's still in the area, sleeping in a small enclave where a few families live. She is doing well. Someone is watching over her.

Spotty

Spotty showed up one day close to The German bakery. She’s trying to get out of the heat in these photos. Clever girl has found a slightly shady spot, and some cooler sand to lie down in. A young Baba who is more beggar than Baba knows I have a fondness for dogs. "This is Baba’s family dog. Chai (Tea)?" He wants money.

"Baba’s family dog" is seen some months later on another side of Rishikesh, with four puppies. She’s named "Spotty" by an Englishman who comes to Rishikesh on a regular basis, and she becomes a favorite of his.

While he’s here he helps her and her pups with food, but he has a policy of slight intervention only; too much will make them too dependent and they must learn to fend for themselves.

He’s right, of course.

The pups die after he leaves.

Young Man

Young Man lives on the first dry bridge between Ram Jhula and Rishikesh. I hadn’t noticed him much until he walked into Ram Jhula one morning and was immediately chased off by the pack dogs. He’s a lovely dog, and I noticed him later this same day some miles away from this location. What’s he doing so far from Ram Jhula, and does he know where he’s going, or will he be another one of the so many who wander, and travel off on their own, always looking.
In a day or two, he’s back at the bridge, and seems to be staying there. He’s quiet, and doesn’t seem to bother other dogs. Is that the secret to longevity here … to just blend in?
No one seems to be taking ca e of him, and yet he’s doing all right, so far.



Rishikesh Beauty






I first saw her on Dehradun Road, the street that has all the pharmacies, including the one pharmacy that caries veterinary supplies. She was lying down on her side, too still, and too thin. I gave her a treatment for parasites, and hoped that would help. As lethargic as she was, when another thin, frail dog came along and I tried to offer him food, she started up with enough of a bark that he backed off. A good sign, I thought. The days went on, and she looked the same. I noticed one local shopkeeper who was giving her milk and some food, and this is where she stayed close to. But she got thiner, and slower. She languished for some time like this, and then she was seen no more. I asked what happened to her, and he just shook his head.

"No."






Beach Pups





Ram Jhula beach pups. This little one didn’t make it. She was adorable. Friendly, sweet, and yes, she smiles at you. I saw the signs in her litter mate but didn’t put it together soon enough. The litter mate had lost control of her hind limbs, and had bodily twitches after a while, with loss of appetite. Distemper. The entire litter passed.

This is not far from Spotty’s litter. I can only speculate that they may have died of the same disease.




My Little Man, STRIPE.




I first spotted Stripe in the heart of Rishikesh, not far from Dayananda Ashram, in a slum area where many Bihari families live. They come here hoping to find work. He stood out, because he was a handsome pup, and because he looked very much like he could be a litter mate to a dog I was fostering. I had by now found a small home with an enclosed yard, and would take in those that seemed urgent, and had a chance for a future if someone would just take care of them for a brief recovery period.

I got three calls about his s ister within twenty minutes. A puppy had been run over by a rickshaw. I was hesitant to take her in, because even if she recovered, then what? Put her back on the street so this could happen again? She was female, no one would want her. Then I was told she had been tossed from a car, and ran directly under an autorickshaw. Alright, this was different. This was an act of abandonment; they wanted her to get lost. Puppy bones are quite soft, and if they are lucky, they can survive. She did, and she thrived. She came with a set of skin parasites, and a penchant to scratch, even when the parasites were cleared up … Hence, the name, Itchy. When she’s nervous, she will automatically and unconsciously, scratch. When she is very good, the spelling of her name is "Ichi."





I’m not in the Bihari section of Rishikesh on a daily basis, but I go there every now and then. When I first saw Stripe he looked like a typical street puppy. Not too good, and not too bad. What stood out about him was how much he looked like Ichi … very possibly a litter mate to my girl. He was handsome, with lovely, sweet eyes. As a male, it looked as though he was wanted to a degree, and looked after.

When I saw him again some weeks later, my heart sank. He could barely walk. He was emaciated, and his legs had trouble holding up what little weight his body carried. His skin was raw, and he was half bald. Mange, a skin condition. I could see no other obvious signs of illness or injury. The parasites and the pain from the inflammation of the skin can become so overwhelming, the dog gives up. I tried to give him some food, but he did not know me, and a stranger approaching him scared him, he tried to hobble away. I set down the food, but some other, stronger dogs quickly swallowed it up. It was also oppressively hot. Moving around with a healthy body was difficult. Moving around in the heat, in misery, awful.

The vision would not leave me. I didn’t expect to see him again, but I had to go back, just to make sure. I went in the early evening, and did not immediately see him … but I found a Durga Temple not far away from where he had been earlier. There was a temple man squatting down along the wall. He was elderly, quiet, and frail looking, himself. There was something compelling about him, and I didn’t want to stare, so I walked to the Temple, and kept glancing his way. I liked him. He nodded his head to the right. There, in a small dirty alley way next to the temple, was Stripe. He was barely visible as he blended in with the brown stones and dirt of the lane. He was curled up and weak. Had he come there to die? He started trembling when he saw that I was looking at him. He was now afraid, and he had come for a place of rest. What’s the right thing to do? Do I even try, or do I leave it alone.




His eyes wouldn’t leave mine, and then I glanced down, and someone had carefully placed some food on scraps of paper . The paper was evenly torn, into makeshift plates, so the food would be clean, and not mixed with the dirt and sewage of the alleyway. Someone wanted to help, someone wanted him to live. These offering were carefully placed away from the sewage, out of sight from other dogs that might pass by, and close enough that Stripe would not have to walk too far to take his food.






The food was untouched. He had no appetite. I had to try with "paneer," a type of cheese that’s very digestible, too expensive to be an everyday indulgence, but very tasty and full of protein. The dogs love it. There’s a dairy shop close by, and I break it up into small pieces for him. He shakes as I approach … will he eat, or is it too late, is he too far gone. I suspect the latter, and fear dehydration must have set in, as his eyes are sunken … He eats. Not with gusto, or vigor, but he eats. I pour him some fresh water, he drinks, and slowly, carefully, takes two steps back and falls into a curled pose, once again.

I have to keep trying.





I go regularly, two times a day. Slowly, slowly, he starts to look better. The Temple man and I exchange few words, but we great each other with respect and care. The routine is the same each day. Paneer in the morning, carefully crumbled up so he can eat it quickly, repeat at night. He is always asleep, always curled up, always in the same alley. I come, I wake him, he looks up, a little fearfully, and when he sees it’s me with food, he will slowly get up. He finishes his food, takes two steps back, and goes back to sleep. Always, every day. I still worry that he lost so much weight it’s too late for him.

The Goddess Durga is a form of Devi, the supreme goddess. She is the embodiment of feminine and creative energy. I get a lovely surprise one evening when I arrive and the temple is filled with local women chanting songs to the Goddess. They come every other night, and their chants are tribal, and hypnotic. Stripe, you couldn't have found a better spot for yourself, I can't help but think. You are safe, and surrounded by Shakti.



One day, I approach, the temple man nods, and I look over … Stripe, is sitting up, waiting for me. This is a first. His beautiful eyes are looking up at me, expectant, and happy to see me. He’s getting stronger. His hair is growing back, his skin is getting better. This goes on for a few more days, and I now expect to be greeted by him ... then I come one day … and he is not there. Ok, … he’s off for a walk I tell myself … I’ll wait. I wait, and wait, and come back in the evening. No Stripe. Days go by. No Stripe. I wait a week, still no sign. He got better, but where is he now?
These are the realities one must face here. We do all that we can, maybe we do what we are supposed to do, what we want to do … but will the outcome will be the same whether we intervene or not? Does it matter?

I ask the Temple Man, he motions that Stripe would follow me or go looking for me when I left. Then he motions in another direction. It is towards the area where I first saw him, and where he probably had lived. I debate whether I want to keep looking. It’s hot, and the heat has been endless. I slowly start in that direction, looking, not looking … I’ve walked for twenty minutes at this point, and another alleyway catches my eye. This ones clean, and cool, and there’s a dog in it, sleeping. It’s a striped dog, but his face is turned away from me and he’s in the shade.

The dog looks well. I don’t know if it was Stripe or not, and I choose not to wake him. The dog looks well.

If it's not Stripe, then it is some other dog that is well, and for that I'm pleased. If it's Stripe and he's well, I'm pleased. But to keep looking, and wondering ... there are the times to let go, and go on.

I had done all that I could, and the outcome was now up to the stars, and maybe the Goddess Durga. I had to leave it.

Retreat, And Bring on The Noise

Christmas time was coming up, and I decided to go to a short Christmas retreat, to what else, but an ashram in Rishikesh. My first day there, before I even get to my room, I'm greeted with Swami's and helper Swami's with ...

"Good, you're here. Someone dropped off a litter of motherless puppies; you can take care of them. They're all girls, no one here [India] wants girls, that's why they left them."

Oh, ... sure ...

Unofficial care, of course. So much for retreat. This would mean early wake-up times, as in 4 a.m. for puppy breakfasts, a second breakfast after 7 a.m., lunch, two dinners, medicating, shopping for food, with all this in-between the rather rigorous schedule of the "Retreat." Anyway, they are adorable, and I get "rock-star" living quarters for the duration of my stay at the ashram; most unusual for a first time visitor, of no name or fame. Thank you puppies. My own kitchen, bathroom, hot water, and a million dollar view of the Himalayas, the Ganges, and greenery and serenity in between. Thank you God, Shiva, Shakti, Laxmi, Hanuman, Ganesha, and all the ashram Swami's who wanted the puppies to have a chance ... unofficially, of course.

I'm quickly taken to my new wards, five adorable blonds, almost six weeks old. It would have been better had they been with their mother, but, at six weeks, they can eat on their own, they've got each other, and a chance for survival with the right care, and the right stars in their astrological charts; I suppose one explanation for survival is as good as another.

They are tucked away by a back entrance, close to the living quarters of some workers and locals of the ashram of lower caste status. It's also located by a short cut down to the main square for some of the villagers. Tucked away, but still visible enough that whoever placed them there must have hoped that someone would take a liking to them, and possibly take one or give them some form of care that they could not. The community seems to be rallying around their survival. Although the people who live near here have very little materially and financially, I find scraps of food left for them, a water bowl regularly re-filled, and passers -by who quietly take count when they walk by ... one, two, three, four, five! I see monks and swami's slowly walk by, thinking no one is looking, and bits of food are discreetly tossed down, and I see them take count ... one, two, three ...We all seem to hold their breath as we take count. Survival here is hard, and somehow, hopes are pinned to these small pups, abandoned, undesirable for their gender, and yet innocent, precious, and unsuspecting of what the future may hold.




The stars must be with them, as the five mini-goddesses have three earnest protectors; three exuberant pre-teen boys who regularly fill their water bowl, come to play with them, and have taken on the task of building appropriate shelter. The playful, smiling boys have become engineers and carpenters as they set about house building. They approach the project with great care, ingenuity, and zeal. The puppies had been placed by a large pile of scrap wood, providing endless building materials for the volunteer builders. The first house, although sturdily built, and truthfully a correct size for these little pups, was not grand enough for the imaginations of the young engineers. It lasted a day. Immediately following the calculated demolition it was replaced by a far more complicated architectural design . Alas, what this design gained in imagination, was paid for in engineering shortcomings. It also lasted only a day, but now, crumbling from the weight of exuberance and excess load. The boys spared no materials as the scraps of wood were heaped and heaped upon one another. Collapse, but no injuries. Only a broken crock pot that held the pups water. The boys were not daunted by defeat, and quickly rebuilt. Logs, warped plywood, tree limbs, and a new design, this time seeming to show more care for structural strength, soon reveled an entire dog house complex. This was far more than the single sleeping room. This house contained a sleeping area, a dining room, an activity center, a front porch, and a veranda for sun bathing. The boys proudly awaited my mid-day arrival hoping for a sign of approval from me. Approval indeed! I smiled at their enthusiasm, their ingenuity, and their sincere concern for these little pups and their survival. We added scraps of old tarp for weather proofing, some old sacks for bedding and flooring, one formerly luxurious sweater provided by me, and we were in business. This dream house was built to last. Chocolates and fruits for the boys later that day to celebrate the grand opening of the new complex. Extra milk and curd for the abandoned pups in their new abode fit for the goddesses that they were.



There were clear signs that some local person was taking care of them as best he or she could, but no one wanted to come forward as the one who was feeding, and caring for them, almost embarrassed that they cared so much for this abandoned litter. But care for them we did. They were "unofficial" of course, and it was better not to draw attention to them. But we formed fine friendships in our care of these little girls, always with the understanding that we never knew when it would be the last time we would see all five. The odds are truly against them. They are out in the open, frail, and in an area of bold monkeys, hungry leopards, and in territory closely guarded by the slightly "more official" ashram dogs.

A half acre or so below the five mini-goddesses, the two "somewhat official" females of the ashram had given birth to their own litters. In contrast, these were the "golden ones." Accepted, in full public view, and very well cared for. Does caste system extend even into the canine worlds with our projections of class, status, and worthiness? These dogs were not only well fed, but given supplements, canine milk and honey, and literally cared for around the clock. The mothers and father of these packs guard their territory with ferocity. Canine intruders are not accepted lightly. The small pups are also in danger of being spotted by these females, who will kill to protect their territory. At this young an age, these lowly born little females would not have a chance to defend themselves against the strong, bold, defenders of the land.

GLUTTONY

Routine settles in, with the retreat schedule, feeding schedule, and social schedule. The schedule of the retreat was not easy, up at four and booked until nearly 10 in the evening. Finding time to run out and find food everyday was time consuming, and not always possible. The meals we were given in the ashram were fantastic, frequent, and plentiful. It was sometimes necessary to stock up from my meals a day for the pups, rather than to go outside and shop. I would fill my plate with far more than I could eat, and hold my head high as the fellow diners looked on with disbelief at the amount of food heaped on my plate. I would take my plate to my room, and store the extra in canisters for the pups until their next feeding time.

"It's always the little ones who eat like pigs" I heard one not so discreet fellow retreat member remark as I passed through for seconds. Never mind, I told myself; As my friend Cindy would say on her way to the gin shop just outside of town (Rishikesh is dry, and women never stock up on the booze themselves, anyway) "just hold your head high, and carry on as if nothing is amiss."

OK, then ... I would remember her advice and hold my head high and smile as I passed by amazed onlookers with my heaping plate of food. Sneaking food; pathetic, but these girls need their calories. It didn't stop there of course. The building attendant would watch me leave the building after meal times with the food canisters, and just shake his head. He thought I was going to the dining hall for more food for myself. One day he said, "Madam, do we not give you enough food? Do you have to go eat more, so soon?"

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. They think I'm a glutton; I make few friends on this retreat.

THE DAYS OUTSIDE CONTINUE

Outside the ashram, in another side of Rishikesh, on a day of rest, another animal sight has caught my eye ... A mother and her two pups are lying on a burlap sack, in a corner of an intersection. They are resting, and the babies are trying to nurse. It's an o

dd spot for a mother to take a rest as it's very close to cars and buses passing by; they are literally in the street. I look more closely, and see that they look bad. The mother is emaciated, with broken fur, raw skin, and sores all over her body. The two little brown pups appear to be confused, but trying the best they can to figure things out; something's not right. I look more closely and see. The mother dog can't move, her feet are mangled, and she tries to get up. It looks like an injury to her left side, and both the front and back left legs are a mess. She gets up, awkwardly, puts her right front foot forward, and collapses, unable to balance on just the two good legs of her right side. She gets up, takes another step, and collapses

again. This is how she has to walk. Slowly, falling with each step, but having to get up again, and fall, again, first moving the front leg, falling, and then the back leg, falling. Movement is slow, and this is the only way she can travel, for food, water, or shelter. The bewildered pups follow; trying to nurse, but mom keeps falling down, and picking herself up again. She's trying to cross the street, and unbelievably, they make it out into the middle of the intersection, with full traffic blasting by them. I buy them some food, and get them back to the corner, at least out of the middle of the intersection. I routinely carry medicines with me, as there is an endless use for them here for the street dogs, and apply medication for mange, fleas and internal parasites. But it looks impossible; how can they manage under these conditions.

The legs of the mother show no immediate injury; no blood, no open wounds; but rather two mangled and gnarled limbs. Her feet are deformed, and the nails are curled and growing into the pads of her feet. Is it congenital, or an old injury somewhat healed, leaving her permanently crippled? How can she have survived for as long as she has in these conditions; not only having to care for herself, but now, with two struggling pups, following her for food, not knowing the dangers of traffic, and humans. All they know at this age is to try to follow their mother.

As I'm feeding and medicating them, I see building doors open, and people slowly, shyly, come forward. I'm in one of the poorer areas of the city. People offer to help , and they bring scraps of food, and they bring their hearts. They do care, and it is good to see a circle of kindness come forth, again, in the company of dogs.

Still, they look bad, and there is no place, no shelter, no hospital I can take them to. All I can do is come back again the next day to feed the mother, hoping to relieve her of having to struggle for at least one meal a day. I first see one of the pups, exactly where they were the day before, but it's not good. It's a body, but it's lifeless. A crow has already started to feast on what is now a carcass. Not far, off to the side side, the mother comes forward, and leans her head down to her pup. She sniffs, she nudges, she sees me and looks up at me with direct eye contact, looks back to her pup, then me, again. We both know there is nothing to be done, and she walks on and away, as best she can, struggling, with her tail held low.
Where's the other pup, I have to wonder? Is it also dead? These are the things one has to face here everyday. A local man comes forward. He shows me a closet, with a locked door. He takes some of the food I have for the dogs and tosses it under the door. I hear shrieking. The pup screams and I shudder, waiting for the cries to stop.

"Auto, auto", he tells me.

The other pup had been struck by the auto as well, but this one survived. Which one was the lucky one, one can't help but wonder. It's not his building, and he does not have the key to unlock the door. I'm half relieved I don't have to see another mangled pup.

I feed the mom, and walk away. I keep walking, sad and numbed. There's still a crying, injured pup locked in a closet, with no way to help it. Some one's trying to help, I suppose, by getting it of the street, but what to do other than come back later and hope I can find the right person to open the door. But with no veterinarians here skilled in anything beyond minimal care of injections and dispensing meds, what can be done if the injuries are severe? And what if it's a female? No one will want it, anyway.

On the next road, on the path in front of me there is a giant black bull, lying down with his right front leg extended out, covered in a cast. Bulls have no value in India; they are a nuisance. A female is useful, and provides milk, but a bull has to fend for himself and live in the streets. Accidents are common. That someone has taken the time and care to bandage his injury is beautifully touching. It was done only out of compassion and kindness. I'm saddened by the conditions I've just seen, and touched by the acts of kindness.

A few more steps down the road ...

I look to my right. I am now on a busy street, with heavy traffic. I see a beautiful black and white dog running as fast as he can behind an auto rickshaw that is accelerating quickly. This is not just a dog chasing cars. The rickshaw is piled high with luggage on top. Western luggage, backpacks ... This is the time to get to Haridwar, to make the afternoon train to New Delhi, probably to catch the international flight home. It's a common sight, when it's time for the foreigners to leave, and we all recognize the timings, and the look of tourists leaving.

The dog is running at a pace that is now frenzied. His mouth is stretched in distress, and his eyes are starting to bulge. Foreigners often make friends with the street dogs here, but it's a temporary relationship. They eventually have to leave. The dog is running so fast I start to worry ... he knows what's happening, they are leaving him. If he keeps running at this pace, his heart will burst; if he stops running, it will break from pain. He knows he will never see them again. He is running for his life, for the life he has had of love and care, and he is watching them leave him, and he can't stand it; he has to make an attempt to literally run for his life, the life of care and kindness that is running fast and far away from him. He won't catch them of course, and they can't take him with them. It breaks my heart.

The sights of the day are not yet over for me. I walk on with tears in my eyes, with my head low, while a wheelchair is being quickly pushed in my direction. An old style, wooden wheelchair, rattling on the uneven road. I hear it before I actually see it, and I glance upward. It's being pushed by a young boy, no more than eight or nine. I remember seeing a smiling face, a beautiful face, of a woman with green eyes, and a quick nod of the head. But there is only a torso under the head and neck ... there are no arms or legs to support her, but still there is this beautiful face with a perfect smile.

The boy was obviously pushing her as fast as he could to get my attention, hoping for a large donation from what many people here believe are wealthy westerners. I wish I could say I emptied my purse and gave them everything that was inside ... but instead, I recoiled, in shock, and fear, and some form of disbelief . He ran towards me looking for help, and I lowered my head looking for escape. By the time I composed myself and looked back to find them and offer them money, they were not in sight. They disappeared into the busy traffic, sights, and sensations of India.

I still don't know what to do with this multitude of sights from that afternoon. As I made my way back to the retreat of the ashram I could only hope that the evening puja and satsang would help me re-enter the world of bliss ... remind myself this is all an illusion ...

It's said we will keep coming back [in reincarnation] until we have no attachments to the physical. But which is the illusion? The physical, or our need to retreat from what is there right in front of us.

Part of the time in the ashram is spent in the Puja Hall in a ceremony of prayers, chants, and offerings to the Gods. The closing, the climax, is set off by a loud mechanical drum, the blare of conch shells, and the clanging of bells. These reach decibel levels that go through the body challenging and potentially changing every cell's structure, in vibrations of purification. Smoke, lights and sounds fill the senses and blind the eyes. One can't help but be transfixed, and transported under this assault to the senses. This particular ceremony knows how to use the vibration, and volume of sound. Noise.

One member of the retreat calls this ceremony "blood-curdling." He meant it in a good way.

India, ...blood curdling, ... indeed.

I end the night with the feeding of the pups, who hungrily await their night time meal. They are thriving. What fate awaits these little ones, who can say? I hold my breath as I take count this night, ... one, two, three, four, ... five

Elvis of Muni Ki Reti

We stick out. The local population is very aware of Westerners and what we do, where we go, and who we see. My regular feeding and medicating of the dogs brings attention. Some look at me strangely, some quizzically, and others look with smiles, and approval.

As far as the dogs, I've become attached to the regulars. I know I shouldn't.

The one that first drew my attention to the Ram Juhla dogs was a sickly dog that would lie curled up at the entrance to the Sivananda Ashram hospital (Human Hospital, of course). He was miserable. He was lethargic, uncomfortable, and filled with raw open sores. He would try to snap at the flies that would go to bite his wounds, and would then recoil in pain from the crackling and tearing of his raw sore skin. He was badly infested with fleas and mange. He was a small white Spitz. Even in India, these are prized as pet dogs. How did this one make it to the streets? Was he taken in by some family and let out when he lost his puppy cuteness (as it often happens in the West)? Was he dumped the first time he snapped in self-defence at some inappropriate physical mistreatment by unknowing "owners"? Did he simply get lost at a young age, and this was the safest location he had found in which to stay and now call home? Whatever it was, this once beautiful dog, this dog that should still look glorious, looked bad, miserable, and disposable. He was dirty, thin, and covered with fleas, mange and open wounds.

He seemed to have given up, and was deteriorating. Did he go to the Sivananda hospital somehow intuitively hoping to get treatment,[ where none would be given], or did he go to Sivananda himself for a final prayer for comfort and ease? I touched his head, I looked at his eyes. There were no tell tale signs of neurological disorders, distemper, rabies, etc. He just looked wounded and infected from too much struggle with street life, with small predators feasting on him, and getting the better of the match. He put up little struggle as I treated him with antibiotics, mange medications, and cleaned his sores and rid him of fleas. I syringed liquids into his mouth. The antibiotics worked, fast. A remarkable sight in India with the dogs is just how fast antibiotics can work. These dogs have not been over exposed to any of these medications as we and our pets have in the West. The quick results can be amazing, and a visual testament to the power of antibiotics. His skin started to heal and his energy level rose. I gave him further medications and anti-parasites. He improved. It turned out he had a fondness for sweets, and putting the meds into Indian sweets became an easy way to medicate him and he took his medication eagerly once his appetite returned.

His improvement was fast, and he left the stairs to Sivananda Hospital and went back to his usual spot, the auto rickshaw garage next to Omkarananda. He was happy to see me now, as he thought it meant a sure sweet. I couldn't help it. I know they are not "good" for dogs, but he loved them. He had little trouble finding his own food as there are two food stalls near his resting spots ... under the large white Ambassador taxis, shaded from the sun, and close to the food. So when I offered him "real" food, he wasn't even that interested and would often turn his nose up at it. When he could sniff the sweets, he dances, and claps his two front paws together. I've never seen another dog do that. A quick hop up in the air, and a clap of the front paws. This was sometimes followed by a quick spin and then another hop. He was overjoyed to see me, and the possibility of sweets. He was delightful to watch.

One morning I had no sweets, and didn't go looking for him, but I was not too far from his garage spot. He found me. I heard a shrill, squeaking yelp and automatically turned to see who was injured... I held my breath. No injury, but "Elvis" letting out his happy song, and not stopping once he was beside me, but going on and on singing with joy. I looked around, laughing, and the shop keepers and passers by were laughing as well. This boy could sing; hence, the name "Elvis," for Presley of course, the King. He followed me along to the ghats, singing and dancing the whole walk, bringing other dogs along with his cries of joy. Although the food I has was not to his liking, when there is competition from fellow street dogs, he'll eat. Turns out he could catch anything that flew his way. One of the tricks in feeding street dogs is to toss food to one, and have more ready for the next dog so they are not all scrambling for the same scraps, and fighting over them. This usually works, with practice and timing. But not when one so agile as the Spitz Elvis is near. He could effortlessly and agilely catch anything. As quickly as it left my hands, Elvis had it with a snap.

The guy was a natural. I became accustomed to the greeting of the singing, and the joyful dancing. Out of nowhere, Elvis would be by my side, dancing along and singing. Is this an inherent skill, or taught? I don't know, but soon, an all black 6 month old pup showed her musical skills, as well. Not as refined as Elvis'; more coarse perhaps, but then, Elvis has a year or so on the pup, with more time to have honed his talents with the song. But there they were, the two of them, one all white, one black, vocalizing with joy. The Himalayas may have their barking deer, but Muni Ki Reti has their dogs that sing, for joy. Our feeding-singing routine would draw crowds and smiles. A star is born, I couldn't help think. The singing dogs of Muni Ki Reti.

The little black pup was another one of the first dogs I saw at Muni Ki Reti. At my first meeting with her, I found her to be emaciated physically, and frail in spirit. A few of the other dogs were taking food from me on some stairs, and she came by. She stood there, not even trying to come close to the food. I offered her some food and put it down in front of her. Instead of eating she just looked up at me, puzzled, and seemingly defeated. I encouraged her to eat and she did, a little, all the while not sure if she should trust me. I also treated her for mange and parasites, and didn't see her again for some time. When I did see her again, she took food more readily, and definitely looked better. Was she gaining trust in people? It looked like it. Is this good or bad as far as survival? Good if you come upon someone who wants to help you; bad, if you come upon someone who wants to harm you. Sadness, suffering through illness, starvation is unpleasant to say the least, but it is the intentional cruelty inflicted upon animals that we so often see in the west that is unfathomable to me.

Her health improved and her demeanor changed. She was hanging in the same spots as Elvis, and was looking well fed. The greatest change was in her sheer joy at seeing people. This girl wants to connect. She craves connection more than she craved food. She would stay with the other dogs for some play time, but would be the first to greet me, and the last to let me leave. I was soon greeted with kisses, hugs, and doting eyes. I had a lead on a good home that was looking for a puppy. I thought she would be the obvious choice. She's a fine, loving faithful companion. Besides, she can sing. Adorableness, talent, and love and devotion; what more could anyone want? Somehow the information was crossed, and when the family found out she was a "street dog," she was unwelcome. They wanted a "purebred." She's growing fast, and her puppiness is leaving her. This was probably her only chance for a home with a family. She would have been perfect for them. But our prejudices, and our attachments to what our "mind" tells us does not always serve us well, does it? Her life would have been improved, and theirs could have been filled with joy; but a "street dog" was not welcome in their hearts.

I took a quick trip to Rajasthan to visit several successful and highly regarded animal shelters. I went on a days round- up of answering distress calls for sick or injured animals. Maggot wounds are still rampant this time of year, and ghastly. One of the calls was from an "owner" for their sick dog. We came, and the dog was hiding in an opening close to the outside wall. Tucked away, miserable, suffering and looking for rest and perhaps relief. The family forced him out of his hiding spot with a stick. The catcher and I were both horrified with what we saw. The dog was badly eaten by maggots at his throat and the back of his neck. His spinal cord was visible under raw, sore skin. The catcher skillfully and gently placed him in the rescue ambulance. He admonished the family for not calling sooner. It was another white Spitz, much the same size of my "Elvis," I couldn't help but notice. He was filthy, and smelled bad, and you could see the maggots crawling on his open flesh. Somehow, he was moving around, still alert, and non-complaining. One of the shelter workers casually mentioned that he would probably be euthanized. ... I pleaded for his case with a volunteer vet. Maggot wounds are difficult to treat, but after he had endured so much, doesn't he deserve a chance, I pleaded. The next day I found he had been treated rather than immediately put down, and so far, was doing well. These dogs ask so little of us, I was grateful he had been given at least a chance to heal. Then what, I'm not sure, but still, it somehow seemed "fair" to me that he had a chance.

I was only gone a few days, and as always, happy to be back. I made my rounds, everyone looked good. The local caretakers took good care of those I had asked to be watched over. I didn't see Elvis, but that was no cause for alarm, he had been well, and obviously knew how to find his own food. I made my way to the river, to sit on the stairs and watch the sunset. Watch the dogs, watch the people, give biscuits to the children who work selling flowers for puja; say my hello's and receive my greetings. One elderly woman who makes a living selling bits of food for the fish (chapatti dough rolled into little balls) says hello, and starts to tell me something else in Hindi ...

She is letting me know there has been an accident. More people come to help translate. It's Elvis. Stories vary from hopeful, to very hopeful with a happy ending, to tragic. I spend the next few days trying to track down the dog, and the "Truth." Facts can be difficult to determine in India, and they may have something to do with the Truth, or they may not. I knew in my heart what the Truth was; that I would never see Elvis again.

There are times to question, and times to accept. There are times to witness, and times for detachment. There are times to love, and there are times to grieve. My attachment to him wouldn't let me rest. Somewhere in this tangled mess of fear and hope I came to find that Elvis is dead. The songs of the joyful dog of Mini Ki Reti have briefly stopped on the ghats of the Ganga, and in my heart.

I loved you Elvis; long live the king. He had his "accident" the day before I came back. Had he been left alone, I would have been able to help him. But he was moved, became a burden, and then disposed of, once again, in his short life. He died tragically, painfully, and unnecessarily.

Again the question of balance comes to me. Is it that literal? Did my pleading for the white Spitz of Rajasthan save him, at the cost of the white Spitz of Muni Ki Reti? Does it matter, and is this question too simplistic? I don't know, but I can't help but wonder, and I can't help but miss the songs of my beautiful boy. I spend every morning at the ghats of Muni Ki Reti where Elvis would sing and dance for me. The flower children help me send prayers and blessings in the Ganga every day for him ... "for the White Dog..." they beautifully chant as they nod their heads in respect and offer the flower boats with their lights and blessings for Elvis, to the grace of the Ganga.

Another Story For Another Time, and The Silence Between The OM

India! ... ... ... ... Chennai.

I arrive quite late as our flight was delayed due to the involuntary disembarkment of the six passengers with the improperly (un)checked cargo/baggage. Still, I'm pleased to be in India and see the lovely Indian faces. I forget I have to pass through customs, but as I approach the exits I remember, and see that the lines are short, the airport is clean, and it's nothing like New Delhi airport. I'm happy ... and then the line slows. The customs agent for my line is a young man with an intense expression on his face. As I approach, I get the same intense glare, and then he looks me squarely in the face, eyeball to eyeball. He scowls; "How long will you be in India?" Hmm, "Is this a trick question? It's a six month visa, what's the right answer? "Oh, less than six months, or, so," I answer noncommittally. He stares back. Stamps my visa with an unnecessary fierceness, and hands me my passport. Whew, where did he learn customer care skills, with the KGB? Anyway, India! My heart wants to sing, but I know I have to first find a hotel room, and it's now past midnight. I have a list of phone numbers I got off of what looked like a very helpful website compiled by a traveller. Also, I thought I'd try the tourist bureau. I exit the immigration lines ... and I'm outside the airport. ... Warm, and bustling, with the smell of India! in the air. The tourist bureau is not so clearly in sight, so I keep walking, and walking. The usual lines of taxi drivers holding cards with the names of their clients surrounds me. I momentarily wish I had a card with my name on it, but, well, I had not much time for such planning considering my visa was only hours old.

I keep looking for the tourist bureau. Not finding it, I ask a security guard where it is.

"Where are you going?"

"Chennai. I need a hotel."

"Where did you come from?"

"Sri Lanka."

"That's international, that's all the way back there."

"Yes, I just came from there. Once you go through immigration, you're out the door. (Did he just smirk?) I didn't see a Tourist Bureau. Shall I go back there?"

"No, it's in the National Terminal."

"Oh, do I enter here?"

"No, yours is an international ticket. You can't go in here."

Chennai, I'm starting to think not quite wanting to grind my teeth.

"So, I can't go there, even though I want the Tourist Bureau?"

"No, you have an international ticket."

"I'm a tourist" I try.

"You have an international ticket, you can't enter here. Anyway, it closes at 9:00."

I did see a smirk.

Not wanting to ruin the joy of returning to India!, off I go to find a phone with my helpful phone numbers. More walking. Phones inside the national terminal ... but then, I'd have to go through Checkpoint Charlie again. I try; no go. "Yours is an international ticket ..."

Across a street before a parking lot I find a phone. I make my calls ... not one goes through. Seems the helpful traveller with the website forgot the prefixes for all these hotel numbers. None will go through, and when I ask for help, I get a phhh ... these aren't complete numbers and a wave of the hand. Off you go.

What to do? Hotel New Victoria? I refuse to give in. There were a number of hotels on the same road, so I negotiate a ride from the pre-paid taxi counter. They were not so helpful either, and the driver I got looked like a combination of drunk and sleepy. He drove without swerving, so I'll go for just sleepy.

"Where are you going?"

"Egmore." The name of the area.

"Why are you going there?"

I start bashing my head against the window; the pattern of always giving the wrong answer to drivers, be they Indian or Sri Lanken is starting to wear on my nerves. It's now almost 1:00 a.m., and I need a hotel room.

"Where would you like me to go?"

"No, where are you going? Do you already have a train ticket? Why don't you go to ..."

He names another city and tells me we can go right back to the taxi booth tear up the pre-paid voucher and he can drive me all night to the other city.

Does this guy live there and would he like to go home and just get paid for the ride? Possibly. Or will he just get a lot more money for this? Possibly. Or does he already have a fare from there, back to Chennai? Possibly.

Nevertheless, his motivation is to his advantage, never mind that I need to go to Chennai. "Take me to Egmore." He tries to talk me into his chosen destination a few more times; I just hold my head in my hands and don't reply.

Finally, he leaves for Egmore, complaining. He drives much too fast, and the traffic is actually quite congested from the airport into the city even though it's late. We make it to Egmore, and I explain I don't have a reservation, so could he please wait until I make sure I have a room. Hah! Steam practically starts coming out of his ears. He keeps trying to leave me in the street, but I won't give hm his voucher until we try a couple more hotels (they are all on the same street, just a few meters from one another). They are full, or really looking bad, and it's past 1 a.m. at this point. So, The Hotel New Victoria for one brief moment, looks not so bad. Should I try? No, I really am convinced I'm on their "banned" list, and I don't need another smirk or failed effort at this point. So, even though the driver is hurling insults my way, I refuse to cave in, and keep looking for a room on this street.

Eventually I find a room, still perplexed as to why so many people would want to stay in Chennai, oh well. It's while I'm getting ready for bed that I turn the TV on and see the breaking news about the bombing in Hyderabad .... and six men had to be disembarked from my plane I can't help but remember. I plan to get up very early to get to the train station to make sure I can get a ticket to Delhi. The regular seats will have been sold out, but there's a very good chance that there still will be seats left on the tourist quota.

I'm at the ticket counter early, never mind breakfast, that can wait. I'm the only one there, except for a few joking counter workers, who are taking amongst themselves. No one acknowledges my presence. "Uh, hello ..." Their conversation continues, and finally the conversation breaks up, well, moves into another room, anyway. Now what -- "Hello!"

Someone finally looks at me with complete indifference, and gets up and walks away. Another ten minutes goes by, and a woman walks in just as I'm stuffing my face with the crackers I remember I have in my purse. As I start to spit crackers out with my greeting, she disarms me with her warm smile and sweet tone. "I'm so sorry you had to wait ..." She was lovely, and apologetic, and making faces at the idiots who did not explain her absence to me. I got my ticket quite easily, and my only complaint is that the train leaves at 10:00 p.m., meaning I have a full day to kill in Chennai. She recommended a restaurant near the train station, "Where you won't get sick" and offers all sorts of advice, including "and don't drink before you get on the train - it's not nice." Is she a mind reader, too?

I have my ticket, almost the seat I want (I can always re-negotiate once I'm on the train), and I'm off for breakfast ... with a whole day to spend in Chennai. This is getting exhausting. I wander along, hoping to find the restaurant she's mentioned. I can't find it, but am clearly searching for something. In other words, a sitting duck for scamming rickshaw drivers. One finds me, and I'm too tired from the heat and humidity, not to mention lack of sleep, so I get in, with little struggle at negotiations. We negotiate some, but this guy is trying a soft sell. His scam is to agree to a somewhat reasonable price at the start of the ride, and then go on and on about why it should be higher. As I said, I'm too tired to struggle. He offers me an all morning rate, and although I know there's more involved here, I agree. What's the difference at this point; there will be no honest rickshaw drivers in Chennai. I check out a few quick spots, have some breakfast, and I'm ready to go back to the hotel. He's talking all the time. He offers me an afternoon sightseeing package, and he suggests some spots, and admits to knowing the one spot I do want to go to; something other rickshaw drivers wouldn't do, as it's a bit of a drive. So, we agree he will pick me up at my hotel around 1:30 ... He's there early, already suggesting shopping, places to get water, and alternate locations. We start off. Yelling at each other and the price keeps going up. We go past the beach, and I see the water, the boats, the people, and make him stop. I walk out and he sits back. It's lovely. The fishermen are coming in, a few are heading out, and children jump and squeal with joy at the luck of the catch for the fishermen. This is exciting, and immediate, and real. Not a video game, not MTV, but real people making a living and children rejoicing in the excitement of the success. Women in burkhas in the water with their children, splashing in the waves. Perhaps it should have looked odd to me, but I could see the enjoyment of mothers playing with children; it was beautiful. Men picking up whatever garbage they can use for recycling, and lovers stealing a kiss under beached boats. Vendors preparing their carts for the afternoon crowds, and dogs and goats roaming about, scavenging for food. A peacefulness to the sea, and an embracing warmth to the air.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Regrettably, my driver came looking for me ... "you're taking too long here." Who's hired who, but I'm too tired to object. We go to the next site, and I just want to return to the beach. He's finally silent for a while, the traffic horns seem to have quited for a moment, and there are seconds of stillness, with a sun shining down that is warm and clear. I start to melt. Somewhere in these moments I fell in love with India, and Chennai, all over again. There's a dazzling surrender, a question of "what is it?" that's so special here, and a knowing of "it just is."

It's when the noise stops, even for a moment, that India can work her magic. Something just moves in. It's always there, but the distractions of the car horns, arguing drivers, agitated hotel clerks, and distraught shop keepers can posses our mind, and we remove ourselves from the beauty and peacefulness of that magical presence.

In meditations on the sacred "OM" it is often brought up that it is the space between the Om, where it is that one arrives at the state of Perfect Bliss. It is the space, the silence, that fills us and brings us to fullness, peace, and love. India, always there, between the noise, the agitation, the weather, the challenges, always there; Magical. I fall in love with India, all over again, and of course, now everyone smiles, is at peace, full of love and hope, and absolutely perfect. As it always is, in the stillness waiting to be discovered, over and over again. I had tears in my eyes that evening as I left Chennai, wishing I had more time for the beach, the beauty, and the magic.

Swiss Cheese and Sri Lanka

I had to renew my visa ... and Sri Lanka seemed the way to go. What did I know? I didn't want to travel, but I had no choice. No visa, no India. To get there, I took the train to Chennai, and then flew to Colombo, where I could get a new visa. The train ride was fine. Second-class AC sleeper. I slept much of the way, or relaxed looking out the window, taking in the scenery. I'm one of those people who love trains. You can rest, look at the passing scenery, and meet people. A few men sat across the aisle from me, and seemed to be traveling as a group. Lot's of catching up to do, and lots of conversation and fun for them. They were middle aged, and looked business-like and middle class. Not too interesting for me, and that was just fine. I was tired, and had not been sleeping well. I spent the previous day in a wild goose chase trying to find a temporary placement for one of the puppies I've been feeding. It left me with no time to rest, or pack, or prepare for travelling. So, a group of men with no interesting conversation for me seemed just fine as travelling companions.


At some point, one of them politely said hello and asked what I was doing in India. I told him of my intentions of starting an animal welfare program in Rishikesh ... and he hopped out of his seat and in the blink of an eye he was sitting across from me. "Really?"


"Yes ..." Turns out he is a major animal rights advocate in India and abroad. He's given me lots of names of people in India who may be helpful to this cause, and a place to stay in Delhi. Sounds promising, and a future contact I will certainly pursue. We arrive in Chennai. He goes on to another train and another city, and I must spend the day and night in Chennai, taking my flight to Colombo, Sri Lanka the next morning. Not knowing what to expect in Chennai, and not really in a mood for travelling, I'm quite overwhelmed by Chennai. It's not that hospitable to Westerners, and at first sight, just another large city with traffic, greedy rickshaw drivers, and and few Westerners to get info from. I can't say it was love at first sight. It took a while to find a suitable hotel. It was more than I had hoped to spend, but it was ok, had an available room, AC, and, I was told, a complimentary breakfast. In hindsight, it was actually a good deal, and I would go there again, but I may be on their "banned" list and not have that option. Ah, well. It was supposed to include my complimentary breakfast.


I checked in at 9:30. The hotel clerk told me I could have my breakfast now, until 10:00 a.m., or tomorrow, at 7:00, as I had to leave for the airport at 7:30 per his advice. Breakfast at 7:00, leave by 7:30, arrive at the airport at 8:30 in time to catch your flight. Sounds good. I'll shower now, and start the next day with my complimentary breakfast, and head to the airport. Well, not so fast. I spend a day trying to find something to do in Chennai that doesn't involve the "sightseeing madam?" rickshaw scam. They promise you an afternoon of sightseeing at what seems to be a reasonable rate. They pick the spots; what do I know? Sure, take me sightseeing. First sight ... some museum with a ridiculously exorbitant entrance rate - for foreigners. Next to nothing for locals. No thanks. Sight number one, of the agreed upon three. Sight number two, an elaborate temple which looks interesting as we approach. Hmm, not bad, maybe this isn't a complete scam by my driver ... but before I can fully take in the exterior splendor in the midday heat and sun of a summer's high noon in Chennai, I'm being yelled at and spat on by the fury and outrage of the self-appointed "Temple Man" who's yelling that this is for Hindus only and get my infidel feet off his holy ground. Shit. I suggest he calm down and that this fevered sentiment can't possibly be good for his blood pressure as he is of a certain age ... but he just keeps on spitting and spewing his wrath in my direction. Shit. I look at where I have to check my shoes, and it's really far from the entrance. I don't have the kind of feet that like to walk barefoot for long distances on hot cement pavement with lots of gravel and cracks, or any distances for that matter. Plus, I've had more than one good pair of walking shoes go "missing" at Temple shoe check-ins, so, I decide that I'll just put my shoes in my bag. Well, this really sets off the "Temple Man" who apparently hasn't taken his eyes off me. "No shoes inside, no shoes inside," he screams, the veins on his face really bulging out now. I try to reason with him, but, since reason is not a part of this interaction, I give in and go to check my shoes, wondering what this is going to cost me.



"Don't lose the tag" the shoe check-in man tells me.





"Don't lose my shoes," I reply.



He smiles; I glare.



I try to take broad steps across the hot pavement without cutting my feet. A minor cut in India can mean a scrape today, an amputation, tomorrow. I'm a walker; I like full use of my feet. I make it in. Lots of buildings inside, with lots of people. I follow the crowd thinking I can't go wrong. As the one blond westerner in the crowd, I stick out. I'm suddenly being yelled at, pointed at, and having fingers snapped at me. Oy vey, now what? Is everyone in Chennai in serious need of Xanax? Tempers seem to boil really fast here, and I'd been told that people in the south are easy going. This is easy going? I'd hate to see them when they're really upset.



"This is for Hindus, only." "Eh ... ?" Thinking fast on my feet ... "But I'm a practicing Hindu" I stretch the truth just a little already knowing this will not be good enough. "Get out, get out!" More finger snapping and pointing. I hold firm and ask "why"... "why"... This really gets them going. They're not in a mood for philosophical discourse. One older woman suggests "No photos, no photos." No, no, I'm not taking photos; I think I may have an ally. The priest says something to her in Hindi, and my "ally" starts screaming at me .... "GET OUT - YOU CAN PRAY OUTSIDE! GET OUT - YOU CAN PRAY OUTSIDE!"


Yikes, a crowd is forming. Shit. I remember I have a plane to catch the next day, with the purpose of renewing my India visa. It occurs to me a black mark on my last legal day in India might affect my visa renewal. Shit. I hold my head high, give them my most innocent and holy look, turn my head and walk away with what I pretend is dignity, trying not to burn my feet on the scorching pavement.



My rickshaw driver has been witnessing much of this. He lowers his head and knows not to ask how much I liked this site number two of the agreed upon three.



We pull out, and I'm wondering what wondrous sight he has in store for me next ... Next stop ... "Shopping?"



"No, no shopping."



"Why?"



"I don't like shopping."



"Just a little shopping." We're already in front of a shop.


"No, no shopping." When did "shopping" come into my hard-negotiated plans with this man. Did I say something that sounded like "shopping?"


"Shopping?"


"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, No shopping!" I've gone to a museum I don't know that's too expensive to enter, a Temple where I'm not allowed, and now I'm at the mercy of some crazed shopaholic who won't take the rickshaw another meter unless I "shop."


"NO SHOPPING!"


Now it's his turn,


"Why not?"


I finally get it; they get a kick back from the shops for bringing in westerners. I don't shop. I don't see my third sight, and I go back to the hotel hot, tired, and spat on. Oy; get me out of Chennai and where's the closest bar. I shower again, watch TV, and look forward to getting out of town, with that lovely complimentary breakfast at 7:00. I don't think a single woman in a bar in Chennai is the way to go, as I scout the entrants to the Hotel bar, all men, so I opt for an early night of reading and bed rest. I sleep quite well, actually, and consider sleeping late and skipping my breakfast, but then, as it's "complimentary," I rationalize that I'll be hungry later, and who knows when I'll be able to eat again, in Sri Lanka, another country, after all. So, I shower, repack, and boldly go downstairs for my special breakfast, 7:00 a.m., sharp. Hm, I'm the first one here, still looks dark in the restaurant. I go to check with the desk receptionist.


"Complimentary Breakfast?" I ask the clerk.


"Complimentary breakfast, 7:30."



"7:30? I have to leave at 7:30, to catch my flight ... Sri Lanka." I try.



"Complimentary breakfast, 7:30."


"But the clerk at my check-in told me breakfast at 7:00, finish at 7:30, and leave for the airport." I say in just as happy a tone as the previous days clerk.


"7:30."


I try another tact. But the restaurant is open, "See the sign says 7:00. The room service card says restaurant open, 7:00 a.m."


"Yes, restaurant open, 7:00."


"So, let's see here. I can buy breakfast at 7:00, but I can't have my complimentary breakfast until 7:30."



"Yes."




This goes on for a while, and I'm in no mood to cave in. I got up early to have my complimentary breakfast. I make him call his manager, after being told this is "not possible," (favorite Indian words -- instructions to India neophytes when you hear this phrase, and you will, calmly reply "yes, possible"). I go through the same argument with him. Will I have lost my mind in Chennai, I start to wonder. Who will find me, will I be wandering the streets repeating the words "complimentary breakfast?" What twilight zone have I entered? I won't give in, no time to crumble, now. Finally, I get a complimentary coffee, and toast. I have to remind the waiter about the toast. I'm the only person in the restaurant, and he forgot my hard won toast. Shit. This puts me a few minutes behind my planned departure of 7:30. At 7:35, the clerk comes looking for me, demanding my hotel key and that I check-out, now. I tell him I checked in after 9:30 ... 24 hour check-out time, what's the problem? He shows me the hotel paperwork. Yesterday's clerk had put down "7:30" check-out time ... all this because I asked him what time I should leave to make it to the airport in time. The same clerk who told me "Complimentary breakfast at 7:00, leave for the airport at 7:30, in time to make your flight." Shit.




More arguing, more phone calls, and I'm still waiting for my toast. I finally check out, and discourage two prospective clients from checking in. "Go across the street," I tell them. "Very bad hotel here." "Very bad?" "Very bad." They leave. The clerk stares at me, makes another call, and writes something on my hotel paperwork.




I think I'm banned from future entry into the "Hotel New Victoria." I retaliate; I write "terrible service" on the customer's remarks section; not something I would typically do. Oh well, I can't imagine ever wanting to return, I tell myself.




Well, well, ... maybe..., but then, who knew? But that's another story, for another time.







SRI LANKA




On the one hour flight we were fed twice. So much for my fear of "but when will I eat again?"



The food was great. Were there time on my one hour flight, I would have asked for seconds; Sri Lanka Air, great food. Sri Lanka began with promise. Little did I know this was to be the highlight of my trip to Sri Lanka.




Colombo ... big city, not much character, and no good deals. Expensive, hot and humid. I meet someone at the airport ATM who recommends a hotel she regularly goes to, and as I've done no homework on hotels in Colombo, it sounds fine, and we share a taxi. We get there, and there's a problem I later find out is plumbing related. No rooms. So, he offers us rooms in his house. I'm a little dubious, but I've no idea of where else to go, so I go along to check this out. My new friend who's lived in Sri Lanka in the past tells me this is not uncommon, and even a matter of status in Sri Lanka ... that ones home is suitable enough in standards for a "Westerner." We enter what is probably a Sri Lankan mansion. I'm dressed like an Indian style bum; I like to travel light. I wonder how I could possibly have impressed him; I may need to shop for clothes I'm already thinking, to not embarrass my host.



He's some old style colonial Sri Lankan; English schooled, plantation owner, and an avid hunter. The room I'm offered belongs to his son, who's away at school, hunting, who knows, I forget. It's filled with stuffed dead animals, family photos of sporting kills, and mounted rifles. Have I mentioned I'm a vegetarian? This kind of creeps me out, and yet my "Old English School Boy" host is trying as hard as can be to be hospitable and gracious. A different world. We talk; he learns about my plans, tells me how much he loves animals, and wishes he could do what I'm doing ....



Okay, maybe we should start with "stop killing animals!" I want to politely mention...



As if to anticipate the obvious, he explains, these are different, they were a menace to the people and the plantation. The "trophy" photos of calm, civilized, smiling hunter and family could have been taken at a family outing on the beach. They're relaxed, easy, and routine. The dead animals are posed and propped up for the best angle for the camera. Not the style of family photos I'm accustomed to. I wonder if I need to sleep with the lights on ...



Although this is a mansion, it's still in Sri Lanka in September. It's hot, and oppressively humid. I don't think I've ever sweated so much in my life, while sitting still. Whirring overhead fans just don't cut it. Open gardens in the middle of the house are common, too. Lovely to look at, and the bugs like them, too. Quite a few of them landed on me my first night there, although my host insisted no mossies can touch you when the fans are on. Okay, these weren't mossies; they were much too big and landed with enough of a thud to wake me several times in the night. Shit. One was a slow moving giant cockroach lumbering up the side of the bed. Not as big as the one I had as a roommate in my first hotel in Laxman Jhula, India, but that guy was friendly after we had come to a certain understanding. Upon our first meeting, my giant cockroach roommate in India scared me and I him. He hissed and turned white, and froze in his tracks as I opened my bathroom door and startled him. I froze in my tracks and couldn't believe he was hissing at me. Later I found he could fly, as well. No end to the talents of my giant cockroach roommate in India. We came to an understanding that he was to stay in the bathroom, only the bathroom, and only at night. If I entered the bathroom door during the night, he was to freeze, I would close the door, and he would have enough time to hide in the drain, or wherever. When I opened the door again, he was to have removed himself from sight. It usually worked, except for the night he ventured beyond the bathroom and got caught in my mosquito net. It was that day that I learned he could fly, as I took the mosquito net and him outside and shook him out. I expected him to fall down to the garden below, but insted he flew a good 25 feet onto an opposite courtyard wall. Bye, bye. But I digress. Anyway, the Sri Lanka giant cockroach didn't have nearly the size of my India cockroach roommate, nor the personality. I slept with the lights on after that, as this one seemed to hide when the lights are on, and according to my host, "it's impossible for the mossies to land on you when you have a fan on" ... So, even though he'd already had a few when he said that, I preferred to believe that principle, and I slept with the lights on, to keep the Sri Lankan cockroach at bay. The thought of pinning him to the wall, mounted next to the stuffed "trophy" animals almost never entered my mind. I'm kind.



The humidity takes it's toll on the street dogs, as well. They look pretty well fed in Colombo, at least the ones I saw, but mange was rampant. The moisture and humidity collecting on the skin makes it a good breeding ground for skin infections. In this, they looked miserable. But one very positive sign I did see was donation boxes for the Blue Cross, an animal spay/neuter program, everywhere. Graphic photos of dogs being dragged away, with a caption of avoiding scenes like this by spaying and neutering and controlling the population, and hopefully to better the quality of their lives, covered the boxes. They were big plexiglass boxes, and looked to have decent amounts of money in them. They were found in grocery stores, and upscale department stores, which even had employees wearing hip T-Shirts with spay/neuter slogans. Very cool. An animal awareness program in Sri Lanka; Colombo, anyway. Also as a pleasant surprise, lots of animal care products in the grocery stores. From dog vitamins to shampoo to flea and skin control products.


I was eager to get to the India High Council, to start my visa process. Got there early Monday a.m., and it's already mobbed. Using the unstated privilege of being a westerner, I head to the front of the crowd straight up to the door. I feel more than a bit odd about it, but no one objects, and well, if I don't have to wait in a line for hours and hours ... The guards let me right in. This is a pattern I'm starting to notice in Asia. Western and white ... straight to the head of the line. The guards let me in, but the men at the first desk are not so accommodating; fill out this form and come back Wednesday. Wednesday? But it's Monday; "No, no, no" comes quickly out of my mouth sounding much like a seed mantra. I can only think of more days in the Colombo heat, giant bugs in my Sri Lankan mansion's dead animal trophy bedroom, and a ridiculously high cost of everything, and nothing to do. "No, no, no ..." I plead.



"Okay, come tomorrow." I come tomorrow, they want to take five working days to get my visa, the place is mobbed, lots of lines, and people desperate to get out of Sri Lanka. I angle myself to the front of as many lines as I possible can, and convince them to give me my visa by Friday. I plan my escape from Sri Lanka by Friday night, assuming I have my visa by Friday evening. Close timing.



I leave for Kandy, thinking it can't be any worse than Colombo, and I'm really bored and hot in Colombo. I've seen the Buddha's foot prints, the Old BuddhistTemple with lots of giant Buddhas, and a museum like gallery of Buddha paraphernalia from all over Asia. I'm asked if I've seen the Buddha's tooth; I answer, "... Uh, maybe, ... I think so. I've seen quite a bit of the parts of the Buddha ... or life-like replicas ..." I try to politely answer. The Old Temple has one section of an army of Buddhas. They're lined up in tiered rows and remind me of the terra cotta army in China. It's kind of creepy. It looks more like a warrior army than any kind of spiritual rendering. Strange; I'm also surrounded by armed guards where I'm staying. It's not far from where the President, or Prime Minister lives, and much of Sri Lanka is heavily guarded, especially the main politicians residential area. Then I learn about the politics with the Tamil Tigers, and that there was a bomb in Colombo a few weeks earlier, in the south part of Colombo. "Which part is this?" I ask.



"The southern part."



"Oh."




"You didn't know?"




"No."




"Oh."




"Yup."



Okay then, on to Kandy.





CASH COW IN KANDY


I get to Kandy. It's not far, and the scenery changes favorably along the way. It's in the hills, lush and green. The countryside and the towns look more "authentic" and not "wannabe western" styles. That's the good news. The rest is, hold onto your wallet, get used to exhorbitant rip-off attempts, and oh yes, no one looks you in the eye except to see how much money they can get from you. You are their source if income. You are not an individual, you are of no individual interest. It's your suspected cash flow that is of interest to them, and competition for your western dollars is fierce. Rickshaw drivers and hotel managers compete with one another and offer bad raps against each other. If you'ld already made plans for an event, take a room from someone other than the latest person who is after your cash, well, be prepared to hear how low and degenerate that other person is, and that you've undertaken a deal with the devil and you travel at your own risk. I don't exagerate. So, lovely scenery scarred by ugly sentiments and words. And, are the people with whom you've made arrangements pleasant and polite? No. They are busy telling you how much more you should be paying them than the previously agreed upon price, and how would you like to go shopping. NO SHOPPING!! And yes, I want to go to the Elephant Orphanage, like we said, not your friends elephant farm. Everything is argued, over and over. Frustrated and disgusted, I tell my rickshaw driver I will never come back to Sri Lanka. People are only looking at tourists as money machines. He wholehartedly agrees; ... never admitting to being a part of this.



The economy is bad, and inflation is high. Tourism never picked up from the Tsunami, and government spending on the military to fight the Tamil Tigers has escalated. But instead of treating the few tourists that are there graciously, we seem to be fought over, and never mind that spoiling the spoils will do no good, but only further damage the tourist trade. The general consensus with the five fellow travellers I met in Sri Lanka was, no thanks, no more Sri Lanka and how fast can I get out of here?



I do make it in time for the end of the Perahera!. Elephants get dressed up and people crack whips, dance and play music, all the time passing around the Buddha's tooth. [Another one?] Something to do with a long ago drought that the Buddha's tooth fixed. What the body piercings on the dancers were about, I wasn't sure. Anyway, it gets packed with locals, and usually tourists. This year however, packed with locals, and not so many tourists. Standing room only, I get a good deal on a completely tourist seat on a private balcony. I want to take photos so I figure a birds-eye view on my private terrace will be worth the price. "How many people?" I ask my salesperson as I gently test the security of the tin balcony I'm on. "Only you, maybe 3-4 more." Okay.


Only me, until the parade starts. The family that lived in the apartment politely carried on business as usual before the festivities began, seemingly quite respectful of my paid for space. That is, until the Perihera! actually started. With the first sound of the cracked whip signalling the start of the processin, child after child was hoisted over the window wall onto the tin second floor balcony. Did I mention "tin" enough times? This is not a real balcony, just a tin roof suspension built to hold some advertising signs. Where they hid these children in that tiny one room apartment, I'll never figure out; but they kept coming and coming. This family of Houdini's were a marvel unto themselves. Child after child, magically produced. I was now surrounded by a pack of happy squeeling children.



"Eleephant, eleephant!"





"Eleephant, eleephant!"





"Eleephant, eleephant!"


There were over 100 elephants, and they went around the route 23 times. It was a long night. Not even enough elbow room for photos, and too many bouncing heads in front of my lens. One couldn't leave, there was no space to move on the street. People were packed together, and in for the long haul.






Body piercings; no explanation of what this had to do with drought and the Buddha's Tooth.












The next day I go to the elephant orphanage. The handlers scam you for money for taking photos, and the elephants graze. Bath time is fun to watch; here the elephants look relaxed and free. They are taken to a river and they spend a long time there, and can play and roam about. It was fun to see their personalities and interactions. Pre-historic looking beauties.
















I prepare to leave the next day, back to Colombo in hopes to get my visa, early. I finally meet the two other guests at my hotel, and they are great. They are Swiss "from the French part!", funny, kind, and they know how to party. "Theiry" pronounced "Cherry," and "Harriet."



"Hello Cherry, Hello Harriet, Nice to meet you."



"It's 'Cherry' not 'Cherry,' Everyone thinks I'm saying 'Cherry'."



"You are." I say, silently.


They go back to Switzerland the next day, and have planned to prepare a Swiss Fondue for the Sri Lankan hotel staff, and me, as it turns out. I'd never seen more than two members of a hotel staff, and neither had they, but at the Fondue Table, there were seven. The owner/manager, the cook/cleaning woman, and five more ... Our Swiss hosts had all the fixings from Swiss Cheese, garlic and wine to a follow up with hard pear liquor. A couple of unintentional fires, lots of liquor, and tiny squares of bread that you dip in melted cheese perplexed the Sri Lankan guests. They politely indulged in the dipping of soft white bread into bland melted cheese. When more bread was needed, "Uncle" went into the kitchen to re-stock. Why waste time dipping and re-dipping? "Uncle" (no one seemed to be sure as to just who he was) came back with four slices of bread folded in quarters, all stuck on his fork, and proceded to dip. We all had a good laugh, and "Uncle" seemed to be pleased with his cleverness of economy and efficiency in showing us how to eat Swiss Fondue in Sri Lanka. I got up very early the next morning to catch my train back to Colombo. "Uncle" was there, asking if he could have a lift. "Sure," I said. We rode off together, he exchanges some words in Sri Lankan with the rickshaw driver, and he hops out, just before the train station, and says "Thank-you." "You're welcome, Uncle." I have no idea who he was, but he was adorable.



Back in Colombo, I make it in time to finish my visa proceedings. This did require some careful slithering to the head of more than one line. No Sri Lankan objections, but not so from a tall, weary Spaniard who admonishes me under his breath. "You know what you did."


"Yeah, I made it possible to get the hell out of Sri Lanka and onto tonight's flight ... " I silently reply. This is wartime. Every good woman for herself. I was pleased at the prospect of leaving, and happily made it to the airport express bus; or so I thought ...



"Express Bus?"


"Express Bus."


"Airport?"



"Airport."



I jump in and get the last seat. The heavens open, and monsoon returns. A quick thought of, "will I be spending the night in the airport due to heavy rainfall?" is quickly dismissed. We take off, a little delayed, but I still think I have plenty of time to make it to the airport. One hour later, we're still in Colombo. I'm getting a little impatient, but still, it's Friday, rush hour traffic, and we are in quite a downpour ... and ... I start to notice, we are stopping every few minutes to pick up more passengers! EXPRESS? This is no express! They're standing on top of one another! I decide to stay calm, I am after all leaving Sri Lanka; this thought alone is enough to keep me happy, for a while. I'm on the way to the airport. Finally, really close to my departure time, we stop and everyone gets off. I look around, a little deja vu ... uh oh, where's the airport? He points to a rickshaw. "Trolley." "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" I scream. "You take me to the airport, now." The radio is blaring, I'm incensed and this guy wants to throw me off. He heads back towards Colombo. He is stopped at a security check point where the guard speaks some English, and I tell him I'm being kidnapped. Words are exchanged in Sri Lankan, and the bus is turned around. He's driving furiously on the shoulder of the road in the rain. I make it to the airport. Lines are not long, as most people I assume have checked in already. I get on the plane. Finally. We sit a while, and a bit longer, and then still a bit longer. I'm happy to be getting out of Sri Lanka, I keep reminding myself. Although this will put me later into Chennai, past midnight, and I don't have a hotel room reserved ... still, I'm getting out of SriLanka and I'm going back to India!



Finally an announcement comes on. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we had to remove six passengers from the plane ..." They had gotten excess, unchecked cargo onto the plane, and the captain wanted us to know what a good job security was doing in getting these six people off the plane. [Hyderbad had been bombed that day.] "They got unchecked cargo from six people onto the plane?" I couldn't help but immediately think ... Oh well, what will be will be, certainly at this point.


We take off without further incident, and arrive in Chennai. Again, the food was good, and I'm back in India. Make that Chennai.

Hey, Krishna

Krishna is at it again; this guy doesn't know when to stop. He invites himself in to any and all gatherings that interest him. I'm walking down the hill to the ashram this morning, and I have to walk through the market square. Off in a corner, having some sort of serious pow-wow are about seven sadhus, deep in conversation. The tone is grave, with deep engagement. They are in a circle, some seated on a bench and few chairs, some standing. A gathering of orange and white, heads nodding, and who's there amongst them, head going back and forth attentively following the conversation? Why, Krishna, of course. His orange and white coloring so closely matches the colors of the sadhus that it takes a moment to take note that that's a dog standing amongst them. Yup, there he is, engaged, holding his own, and completely a part of the discourse. His backside faces the square, and all onlookers.

I make it down to the ashram without his seeing me. Relieved, I take my seat on the veranda for morning meditation. I'm glad he doesn't see me as he would follow, take a spot next to me, and then severely get his butt kicked when he's spotted by a certain ashram regular we'll just call "Him." I breath a sigh of relief when I get there, as no "Him" in sight, and it's only a matter of time before the morning Sadhu/Krishna meeting breaks up and Krishna will pick up my sent. Sure enough, a few peaceful minutes go by and in saunters Krishna. He sees me, and yes, there's a smile on his face, a jump for joy and he comes running over; never mind how many crossed legs and laps he's got to leap over! Happy day; he hasn't seen me for at least twelve hours, must be time to celebrate. I try to tell him to cool it, he pretends he doesn't understand. Keep in mind this is a very intelligent dog. "Playing dumb" is not beneath him.

Although "Him" is nowhere to be found, a new meditation-hanger-on spots Krishna and summarily begins to bash him. I have to intervene.
"He's not allowed here."
"Says who?"
"Him."
Before a few choice words can leave my mouth, none other than Maharajhi himself steps out of his room. As he is frail and elderly, this is extremely rare. No time for conversations or conversions, we all respectfully pranam and Krishna lays low. More amazing as this is not a direct walk to the hall, and a bit of time transpires. It's raining, and Maharaji's escort thinks it would be a good idea to get something to cover his head. He leaves Maharaji standing alone at the doorway while he runs back inside, and comes back with a towel for his head. I thought he was going for a pair of shoes, as Maharaji is in his stocking feet. The caretaker looks down, but they decide to proceed. I've never seen a living saint tiptoe through water puddles to the next building. You really would have thought shoes might have been a good idea. Well, who knows? Maharajhi continues on to the bhajan hall, and we follow. Ladies sit on the right and gentlemen on the left. Maharahji not only stops to visit, but sits down and joins the singing. This is really extraordinary, and a great honor to be in such company. I take my seat ... and so does Krishna. He literally walks in with me and makes it to the floor before I do. I can't help but think, you're making me look bad, and I do have some thoughts of asking for a bit of space on occasion for the animal welfare program I am starting ....
"Shove off ... !" Won't budge. The best I can do is take a few steps back and sit outside the room. He follows. It's a wide open space, so it's almost like I'm right there; but still, I'm outside. Thanks, Krishna. Who decides to join us, but "Boon," the black and white dog, who doesn't want to be left out of this auspicious occasion.
There I am sitting on the floor outside the hall on this rare occasion with two dogs next to/on top of me. "What next?" I can't help but think, not really thinking there would be a "next."
Well, Krishna decides this would be a good time to dry himself off from the morning drizzle, using my back. There he is toweling himself off on the back of my shirt, with vigor and gusto. "Don't hold back Krishna", and "why did I wear white today" I can't but help thinking, still trying to pretend I fit in with the crowd. Looked like so much fun, that Boonie decides it must be playtime ... I try my best to "shush" them and they decide to really give me their all. Bhajans are sacred chants, words put to music, often very spirited, sometimes hypnotic.
The dogs decide to wrestle and vocalize next to/on top of me ... I stare ahead, innocently. Heads turn, look at me, and all I can do is lower my head and slink away, hoping to not be associated as an instigator in this most "un-reverential" behavior. Shame.
Will have to hold off on asking for that ashram favor. Still. I can only admire this dog's tenacity, his spirit, and his happy confidence in that wherever he is, he belongs, and now is now and now is the time to time to enjoy life. Never mind that he will always get bashed, or kicked out of the same places all the time. Never mind that he's got old scars from old habits. He approaches life with joy and an unquestioning sense of belonging. A lesson we can all learn from and appreciate, and nod our heads to.

Hari Om, Krishna.

CHOICE?

Is choice an illusion? How much choice do we really have?

One of the pups I was worried about was the little brindled dog that hung around the taxi stand. He was young, a typical puppy, with puppy manners, and not accepted by the existing dog pack of that area. Shortly before I left for McLeod Ganj I saw a sadhu feeding a group of dogs in the area; I approached him, and he didn't want too much to do with me, until he realized I was appreciative of his treatment of the dogs. The little dog saw me and approached. I asked the sadhu to watch over him, and feed him while I was gone; he understood and I felt as confident as I could that the pup would have someone looking out for him. I also asked one of the westerners who walked down that path to keep an eye out for him. When I came back, I was happily surprised to see him looking well, and now a member of the pack. He was happy to see me, and I him.
One sad piece of news I did get, was that another pup, in the same area had been hit by a car, and died along the side of the road. He looked like "my" pup, and concern was that it was him. It wasn't, but a still smaller version I had never seen. Is it a trade-off? Had only one of those two had been destined to survive? Did it matter which of the two? Had I found the other pup first and started feeding him, would he have been the survivor? If he had been the focus of attention, would he have been the survivor? Is there some kind of balance that needs to be kept that's already pre-determined? I don't know. Did I have any choice in meeting the one dog and not the other? In the grand scheme of things, is it even important? But to that one dog, or individual, does it matter?

Have we all signed on to these particular roles of our lives, with the script already done, and we keep repeating scenes, until we "get it right." A kind of spiritual cinema, where we are the players. Some events seem too familiar, already acted out and now being revisited. Far too long and detailed for a simple deja vu. Revisited for what? Getting the part right, trying different endings? Who knows. Coincidences that are beyond imagination; this is what India has been offering me. Do I really just sit back and let it unfold?


I met another pup on the walk to Ram Juhla today, on my evening round of feeding a group of dogs by the Sivananda ashram. It's my first time seeing him, and maybe my last. This one is just too young to be on his own. He's no more than 10 weeks old, a shepherd mix, black and tan with half folded ears. His distinctive markings are a set of brindled stripes that curve along each side of his nose. His face is filled with a sweet determination and innocence as he walks along the road, coming out of one of the hidden trails on the hill-side. His tail half-curls, not quite in a complete cork-screw. I feed him, of course, and he eats it up. He looks to see if he'll get more, and as it's enough for one meal, I continue walking. Not surprisingly, he follows behind, and I expect he will stay behind, until he asks for more food, or turns off somewhere. But no, he walks along and then ahead of me, seemingly with purpose. Although tiny, this guy struts his stuff with his broad chest and strong gait. He walks like a "Champ."
I make it to the outer gates of Sivananda where one of the regulars can be found, lately in deep sleep, as he has not felt very well. He's suffering from mange, open wounds from flea-bite allergies, and internal parasites, at the least. He's miserable with his open sores and the fleas and flies that attack his skin. I've been treating him and feeding him, and he's improving. Today's been the first day that he recognized my step, and he sat up to greet me. In the first few days I've found him he's been so miserable, I've had to stir him from his rest, so I could feed and medicate him. One day when he would not get up and all I saw was a tightly curled body, I thought he might be dead. He seemed resigned to die, and was not very responsive. Today was a good sign, and a great improvement. It's these small victories that keep one going, hopeful.







I feed him, and the puppy "Champ" politely asks for more food. I give him a bit more, and both dogs eat side by side, no aggression or food possessiveness on either side. It would be nice if these two could buddy up, I can't help but think. The other dogs at the Sivananda gate pick on the white dog. But I can't stay too long, and I can't promise these dogs an attachment I can never fulfill, or promise of a future that I can't give them. Best I can do for now is feed, medicate them, and ask for a prayer for divine grace and comfort to look over them. Besides, I have other dogs to feed further down the road, and in the market.

I don't know if I'll ever see Champ again. He's too young and too little to be on his own. If none of the sadhus along the road takes a liking to him and gives him help and companionship, this dog won't have a chance. I'll only have the memory of this determined little dog walking along the road to Ram Juhla, between the hills, with the sun setting. The path shines golden this particular time of day, and Champ walks along, innocently alone, to meet his destiny. Confident and dazzling, unaware of what hardships lie ahead for him. Maybe that's all any of us get. Moments of glory, innocent of what may lie ahead. Choice; where is it for this little dog?

The next three days saw heavy downpours of rain, not at all good for such a tiny pup, out on his own; but for one golden moment, he was dazzling.

KRISHNA AND I ARE ONE

I miss India, and although weather reports are still bad, I leave McLeod for Rishikesh. It makes no sense, but it's easier for me to take the bus to Delhi, and then take an overnight train, than to go more directly to Rishikesh ... same amount of time, but more comfort to go further; go figure, it's India.

The platform at the Old Delhi Railway station is way more crowded than usual. I've taken this train before, and it was never like this. Men are squatting at the platforms edge, waiting for something, and the people keep coming. The platform is becoming packed, the air is becoming more frantic, and I'm getting pushed around. I'm also seeing these large makeshift tinseled ornamental structures being carried by lots of men. The trains pulls in, and people go nuts. The train has bunches of these assemblages hanging from the outside of the train. People are frantically shoving around and yelling to get on the train. What's the hurry, I wonder, we'll all get our seats. Anyway, after some one's trying to grab my backpack off my back, I shove back and hop on board. That burden of a bag I haul around has powerful wheels, and I don't care who's feet I roll over at this point. I've got a good seat on an overnight sleeper, so good that I have to ask a travel mate in my compartment if this is Car A1 ... He glares at me, "Yes, it is." We take an instant dislike to one another. Funny how that happens.

Well ... so much to learn and so little time. All those people did not have seats. This explains the frenzy at the station. They were fighting for standing space, and roof space. At one station the train was stopped for over two hours as police tried to get people off the roofs of the train cars. Sticks flying, head-bashing, and people climbing back on the train tops as quickly as they were thrown off ... so I was told, by my disagreeable compartment mate. I slept through it. It really was a good sleeper/seat. "Hah, I missed all that? I slept right through it." "Yes, you did," Did I hear a hiss? Must need his eight hours.

We get to Haridwar, where I get off for Rishikesh, as does my disagreeable train mate, and almost everyone else. It's BAM BAM BOLBAM; a local Shiva festival. Tinsel, men in orange, more men in orange, and they all yell BAM BAM BOLBAM.

Madness and masses; not enough buses, rickshaws are full, how to get out and on to Rishikesh? My disagreeable train mate asks if I want to share a taxi ... Uh, no. Nothing to do but join the party. BAM BAM BOLBAM! By the time I leave Haridwar, it's late, I've taken way more photos than I wanted, and I'm still not sure what the fuss is all about. It's lots of young men doing some kind of Shiva pilgrimage, but it has more the look of a frat party, in orange, by the river. Men who don't really swim dive off bridges and priests pray. I'm the only western woman I see, and they see me, too. They ask me to take their photos once they've spotted the camera, and it would be rude to say no ... so, snap, snap.

In my car on the way to Rishikesh, I repeat BAM BAM BOLBAM; uproarious laughter in the car. "Madam, you made a good joke." I thought I was merely repeating the slogan. BAM BAM BOLBAM, I repeat; more laughter and heads turning. Like a child with a new skill, I try once more. BAM BAM BOLBAM! Laughter, this time a little forced. I know when to stop.

Turns out this is the Shiva festival I was hoping to avoid by leaving Rishikesh for McLeod Ganj. Rishi was already crazy with people and heat, and I was told it would get worse with the Shiva festival. I was told it begins the 15th and ends after a week or so. When I asked what it was about, the holy man cryptically replied "If one is meant to be there, one will be there." I tried to miss it, but there I was, and here I am. BAM BAM BOLBAM (pronounced more like bomb-bomb, but with a little of the Flintstone's Bam-Bam).

Also going on that night in Rishikesh, and the next day, is Guru Purnima. Party time in Rishikesh. This party honors one's Guru, and their Guru, and their Guru's guru ... Exhausted, I skip the night's festivities and rest up for the "Bandera" of the next day. Food, singing, chanting, more food, Guru speak, and more food. The dogs and the cows love Bandera! Lot's of leftover food, if only they can get through the Temple Gates. This is Rishikesh, not McLeod.
The ashram I go to in the morning has two official ashram dogs "Boon", and "Holy", so named by the westerners who go there. Boon is for "Spiritual Boon" as she likes to spend a lot of time on a meditation veranda by the head maharahji. She's very sweet. "Holy", is more like "Holy Terror" if you ask me, but no one does.







There are three unofficial ashram bulls who come in during breakfast and lunch, and they have to time it just right so the gatekeeper doesn't shoo them away before the end of the meals, when all the left-overs are dumped in one corner for them.
The breakfast/lunch bells rings, and the bulls line up and face, but do not pass through the gate. They wait until the gatekeeper has stared them down, and then turns and leaves for his meal. Then, they walk right through. It's a ritual they go through every day, two times a day.

Also unofficial, but ever hopeful, is an adorable orange and white dog whom I've met in the springtime. He doesn't look that bad, and it turns out he is the dog of a sadhu. He just likes to come in, get some food, and lie down on the veranda. Well, for whatever reason, he is not well liked by the ashram regulars. He gets his butt kicked every time he 's found by one particular ashram regular, and he goes running out, yelping. He keeps trying. He's taken a special liking to me, although I don't feed him (he's always looked good, and doesn't need food from me).

But for whatever reason. when he sees me he comes running, tail wagging and smiling.

Turns out his name is Krishna.

This particular day of Guru Purnima, and extra food, I walk towards the ashram gate and Krishna has been waiting. He's no fool. He wastes no time with playful greetings this day but moves straight to my left side, with his head respectfully bowed down, and we walk, side by side, step for step, shoulder-to-knee, past the gate keepers. They have no reason to deny me entrance, and like this, Krishna and I move as One. He's in. He sticks to me for a few more feet, and I go towards the temple, and with a skip and a wag, he heads for the food. I don't know how long he was there as I didn't see him later that day, but when I saw him on the road the next day, he looked just a bit fatter than usual. The day of Shiva, and Guru Purnima were good to Krishna.

BUT BUDDHA, WE HARDLY KNEW YA'

Yes, rain equals power outage.

Anyway, I arrive in McLeod Ganj, it's raining, and there are no available guest house/hotel rooms. I've gone to six places already, I'm drenched, I've just gotten off the train from hell, and I'm hauling my bags. One gentle young man notes, "That bag has become a burden to you."

"Yes," ... apparently I like to bring my burdens with me, I take time to reflect.

What's a woman to do? UPSCALE, and there's one room available. I take it. The whole experience of McLeod Ganj is surreal. My hotel room has cable, the dogs look good, and the Tibetan people are kind. Where's India?

The Dalai Lama is still giving public teachings, and I head down Temple Road, to the Temple. I'm not allowed to go in to the actual Temple where he is speaking as I have my camera with me, although I am allowed to enter through the Golden Gates. It is after this hopeful entrance that one is turned away, should one have cameras, cell phones, guns, etc.. The Temple is beautiful, tasteful, and quite modest. Dogs, everywhere. As I leave, somehow I strike up a conversation with a young man, turns out he heads "Tibetan Volunteers For Animals." I help him sell T-shirts on Temple road to raise funds for his group. My first day in McLeod, participating in a Noble Cause. His appears to be mainly an awareness campaign promoting kindness, compassion towards animals, animal rights and vegetarianism; the website is: www.semchen.org. I had a great time, with more stares from the Buddhist monks than the Westerners, and I sold three T-Shirts.

But Buddha We Hardly Knew Ya

McLeod Ganj is sometimes called "Little Tibet." The Dalai Lama lives here, The Tibetan government in exile resides here, and the refugees from Tibet come here. The stories are amazing. The stories of struggle, escape and capture by the Chinese, imprisonment, torture, with somehow a nature of hope and hard work that pervades the psychological climate here. His Holiness the Dalai Lama is referred to with the utmost respect. He has asked the Tibetan people to learn English and focus on education. They approach their studies with an earnestness and dedication that is admirable. There are many opportunities for Westerners to volunteer with the Tibetans, especially in teaching English. In one conversation I am surprised to hear how little the younger people know of the Buddhist teachings before they come here. Well, makes sense. The Chinese haven't allowed this for quite some time. I speak with a young woman who came here at 15, from a remote area where she and her family were shepherds. There she had no schooling of any kind, and no teachings of Tibetan Buddhism. I ask her if she's been going to the Dalai Lama's teachings, and she says yes, as much as she can, but this is new for her and difficult to understand. I come to realize this is common for the younger generation, and the Temple is typically filled with elderly Tibetans, and visitors, both Western and Indian.

Although the public teachings were coming to an end when I arrived, these were followed by a beautiful "Long Life" ceremony including elaborate Tantric ceremonies, prayers and offerings. Exquisite.

[I assume "Long Life' infers a happy long life ... a long life of misery ... makes one pause]



Along with monasteries, politics are prevalent. Posters, slogans, peace marches, and Olympic protests. These people are involved. A town of Tantrics and Politics; side by side.





The Tibetans know something about the power of sound, and I watch and listen to trumpets and horns stretch out over the valleys below the Temple, sending cosmic vibrations out to the universe. Lots of spitting involved, too. The dogs come to listen from the rooftops and take in the vibrations ... or are they sending them out, as well?

One of these days is the day of the Buddha's enlightenment. No, the day the Buddha gave his first teachings, no, it's a different day, but it's some kind of Tibetan Day, as the library is closed and it's a Wednesday. In a somewhat peaceful cafe on this day of enlightenment, or first teachings, or whatever important day it was, tensions break out in the early a.m., while I sit quietly over a cup of morning chai.

The owner of the cafe becomes visibly upset with a few men who quietly walked in, and are somewhat casually "in his face". "He said he was going to punch me, He said he was going to punch me," we hear repeatedly. I guess they do things differently in the Peace Cafe; one peacefully enters and announces their intentions of violence. Very strange. We hear words of "Kashmiri",
"No, Hindi ... Kashmiri?? Hindi!"
Kashmiri got the most votes. Tempers flare and broomsticks become weapons. Things really escalate. The western guests sit quietly and we pretend as best we can that we are not there.

OM-TARA-TU-TARA-TO-RE-SO-HA

The recitation of the mantra of Green Tara protects us. Wish I'd thought of it while I sat there. Apparently, ethnic conflicts and dramas exist in Little Tibet. This is not the only incident I encounter that crosses ethnic tensions.

They say the Buddha summarized 84,000 defilements ... the cure for which is the eightfold path,

through the threefold path, ... or more ... to cure greed, desires, lust, ... or more, following the Four Noble truths, that have five conditions, and at least a Triple Jewel, and a Wheel of Life and six paths of re-birth .....

But Buddha, there are those of us that hardly knew ya. How about the Direct Path? I'm American, and impatient.

DOGS EVERYWHERE!

As I've mentioned, there are the Temple dogs, (unofficial), they roam within the gates of the Temple. There are the street dogs of Temple Road, there are the street dogs of Jogibara Road, there are the street dogs of Bhagsu Road ... the Bus Stand square dogs, the Dharamkot Road dogs, you get the picture. They are everywhere, and territory is territory. It's claimed. The Temple dogs, surprisingly, seem the most territorial. Perhaps it's the one ring leader who sets the tone, but he's tough. A handsome black and tan long-coat who has an identical female counterpart, but she's sweet, and sits on some stairs near the entrance gate that lead to some offices and residences. She doesn't move much, just sits there and checks out what food is being passed by her as the monks bring in dinner. Her brother the "Emperor" likes to spring out of nowhere when canine intruders cross the line, with his hair raised and teeth barred; he means business. Perhaps this guy could use a little more time in meditation. One sad victim of the "Emperor's" wrath is a mottled colored, large gangly pup who always manages to look a mess. He's got mange, his legs and tail are too long, and he seems to always sprout fresh wounds, most likely from "Emperor." One whiff of Emperor in the air, and this pup goes running, tail tucked and head down. (OM TARA TU TARA ---) "Motley" wants no trouble.

I've tried to give him mange medication and antibiotics, and he won't touch it, no matter how well I think I've hidden it in his food. Funny thing is, he leaps up at the food I've got for him with complete enthusiasm, as though he's really hungry. Then, once he sees it's not to his liking, he spits it out, or just turns his nose up at it. These dogs are well fed. Anyway, he doesn't hold it against me that I don't bring him food that he likes, he greets me with great enthusiasm each time we meet, as though I've brought him food fit for a King. He's very dear, and just a big enthusiastic puppy. I'll miss him.
... I did eventually get him some mange meds and antibiotics before I left.

THE "EMPEROR"

"MOTLEY"


What's most surprising with all these street dogs is, just how good they look, and how well tolerated they are by the Tibetans.

Not all perfect, of course, but pretty good, and many are kept as pets ... and "designer dogs" have come to India, just like in the west.

I notice one handsome gent, who turns to give me his backside just as I click the camera, and what do I see? Or rather what do I not see? Testicles. This guy is neutered; I'm impressed. I think this must be some kind of anomaly, the one neutered male in all of Northern India! But no, I keep looking, trying to make my lowered sight line not too obvious, and what do I find, but many, altered males! The locals that I speak to don't seem to know too much about that, but they do know of people who feed them. One such person is a Tibetan nun who has been feeding a bunch for the last thirty years. She's known to really love dogs, and I find that a movie has been made about her life and love for the dogs by a former resident of TCV, Tibetan Children's Village. I determine I'd like to meet her ... it will just be one more day in McLeod even though I had planned to leave a few days earlier. So, I walk around, somehow I get the name of a street and it's not too far from where I'm staying. I find the spot, and although she's not there, there sure are a lot of dogs around. The dogs that I do see look good, and again, the males look neutered.
The next day, I'm walking about in the morning on another side of town, and I come across an elderly woman, late seventies maybe early eighties, who is very enthusiastically hugging and squeezing street dogs. One black lab in particular, so much so that he yelps in pain. I've met the nun. Yes, she loves her dogs. Perhaps a little too much, one can't help notice. I recall times of childhood when a friend of Grandma's would come to visit and squeeze us too hard, and my brother and I would run when we saw her coming.

Late seventies, early eighties, ... started thirty years ago ... does history repeat itself? I shudder, just a little, and move on.

"ESPRESSA"

I've developed a favorite .... This bright beauty hangs at the "MoonPeak Espresso" cafe and gallery. The best coffee in town. This dog is delightful, with impeccable manners. She's a medium size with pretty golden brown eyes, and a lovely disposition. She's black and tan, medium coat, and I can't help but think, perfect city-size. Not too big, and not too small, a great apartment size dog. She's not hungry, someone is feeding her, she just really likes to be with people. Of course, people at the cafe will give her bits of food, but she does not beg for food, she is not obnoxious about that in any way, she really likes to just be by some one's side. She wants companionship. I can't help but think of the notion of relationship, and in seeking the company of others we look for unity, for connection. Those who believe that animals only come to us as their source for food, need look no further than this beauty and her gentle nature and the peace she feels in connection. What a waste, that this dog will be forever a street dog, I can't help but think. She asks nothing of me, or of anyone else at the cafe, only that she be allowed to quietly sit in connection. This is a gentle beauty.
Can I pull one more miracle out of the bag of "animal adoption miracles" and find this dog the home she deserves? I don't see how; this is new territory for me, and McLeod Ganj is only a brief stop on my journey. I do determine to have her spayed, inoculated, and hope to perhaps find a somewhat permanent caretaker. Still, what a waste, I can't help but judge. This is what people are looking for when they want a "pet" dog. This is an absolutely perfect companion dog.; I should know, I've done animal adoptions for over 16 years.

Well, with a goal but not a plan, I go about my usual business. I feed her; again, she's not even always hungry, just happy to be with someone, and sometimes we play. She follows me along Temple Road, for only that part of which is her turf, and when I go too far, she retreats to the safety of her spot at Moonpeak Cafe, or the terrace at lookout point. On one of my morning walks with her, I stop in the Pharmacy on this route. She patiently waits outside. I put in my order, and the pharmacist asks me what this is for. For the dogs, I reply. Your dog? No, street dogs, for the mange and parasites. "Uh huh". He makes a phone call while he completes my order. "Someone wants to meet you." I nod, and look around to see who he's talking to ... "me?" "Yes, he's seen you playing with the dogs." "Well, ..." I try to explain I don't play with the dogs, I try to feed and medicate them ... but before I've finished my sentence some one's there to meet me.
Things move fast sometimes in India, and before I know it I'm at the Dalai Lama's residence meeting his dogs. He's out of town, and I also meet his sister's dogs, at her residence, she's also out of town, but I have some chai there. Turns out I've met two very amazing people who are taking care not only of the Dalai Lamas dogs, but the street dogs of McLeod Ganj. In a very short time they have started a sterilization and inoculation program that has made a very visible difference.
I mention my delightful dog "Espressa" and it turns out they know her well. She had been hit by a car and was with them in recovery for a full three weeks. She is fully recovered and now sterilized, but I can't help but fear for her well being. Strange, it is through attachments that we may take actions of compassion, love and care. Yet it is also attachment that can bring us misery, suffering and illusion... but in the mean time ...we carry on.

HILL STATION OR BUST

The heat had become too oppressive. Although I knew it was time for monsoon, it has been mild so far here, and offering little relief from the heat. Oppressive heat and humidity are more than I am physically up for. So, I do what any able resident does this time of year, I head for the hills. The "Hill Stations" offer a somewhat cooler climate and are a common destination for travellers and Indians at this time of year. Even a few days respite feels essential. I'm climbing cliffs, feeding dogs, and feeling dizzy. Plus, I enlisted the aid of a few of the sadhus to continue feeding the dogs, especially the puppies. We'll see how well that works. A few obviously care for them, and already do what they can.

Reports of Dharamsala-McLeod Ganj from fellow travelers are encouraging, and the Dalai Lama may still be there giving public teachings. Plan, done. Actualizing, not so simple. I hear of local buses from Dehra Dun to Dharamsala, totalling about 17 hours of bus rides in oppressive heat on bumpy roads and hard seats; not so appealing. So, I go to a travel agent who tells me there is a train from Rishikesh close to Dharamsala, with a short, convenient bus ride from the train station, with buses waiting at the station. Sounds great.

I arrive at the Rishikesh train station in plenty of time, and ask which platform. Why, the furthest one, of course. I haul my bags up a high flight of stairs to a bridge crossing the train tracks ... (just how high did they think these trains would be I can't help wonder as I keep climbing). I check for my car number and, it's next to the last, all the way down the platform, of course.

I've taken Indian trains before and had quite enjoyable rides. But this one, ... my oh my. The car reeked of urine, among other scents, further enhanced by the heat and humidity. The fan didn't work, and there we were. Me, the only westerner, and one of two women on this car. Finally we take off, close to on time, inching along the tracks, and in two hours we arrive in Haridwar. As Haridwar is about 20 minutes by auto, this gives you an idea of the pace. Lovely sights, including a goat that may have tried his escape along the tracks, and a rescue/ reclamation team in earnest efforts to get him off the tracks. He was happy grazing; he was fine.

At Haridwar, more men board the train. These guys like to stare. It was a long ride, I'm in a sleeper car, with lots of local stops. It only got worse, with one stop for colorfully dressed prostitutes as it soon became obvious, to board for about 10 minutes, a bathroom pit stop for one of my fellow travellers who couldn't make it to the toilet so the floor worked just fine for him, (it did smell like urine, anyway - perhaps in the middle of the night in a dark car he was confused), and an announcement from the conductor that my stop would be at 2:30 a.m., in the middle of nowhere, as it turned out. Huh? Where's my "right by the bus stop, lots of people, buses straight to McLeod Ganj" the travel agent promised me? After a rickshaw ride through dark alleys and bumpy dirt roads the rickshaw driver took me to ... another train station, even smaller than the first. The dark sky was now becoming illuminated by a lightning show. Even the dogs went into hiding. "Bus stop, bus stop" I repeated. "Bus stop, bus stop" he replied. The gentleman that he was, he took my bags out of the rickshaw even though I kept trying to keep them in, and he took off... I looked around, and well, technically, there was one bus, and the guy near it looked Tibetan. My spirits raised -- I must be close!

Undaunted I wheeled my bag over and asked "McLeod Ganj?" "NO! No McLeod!" Ah.
Well, long story short, I eventually made it to Mcleod. The Tibetans are a lovely people, and the dogs here look great compared to Rishikesh. More later, I sense a power outage coming ... as it's started raining. One learns to sense these things...

BY THE RIVER

Along one part of the river Ganga between Ram Jhula and Laxman Jhula there is an older dirt path, and below the Ganga and some beach area. Many of the Sadhus stay near this path.

One evening while walking along here to feed the dogs, some beautiful prayer music was coming out of some makeshift loud- speakers at the beach. Something was in the air, people had gathered, the atmosphere was charged, and even the sadhus were coming to listen. I was invited to sit on one of the rocks, and I noticed even the dogs and the cows were lying down, ready for something.

A small, frail looking man was helped down the path until he took his seat by the river. People lined up to pay their respects and receive his blessings, and then he began. Although the language was Hindi, and I couldn't understand a word, the message was loud and clear. This was a holy man, Swami Hamsa-ananda-ji [sic]. He was over a hundred years old, highly revered, and he gives satsang on the beach at night. Beautiful, moving, and sacred.

I meet two women who have traveled all the way from from Calcutta to receive darshan from this Saint.

The sadhus are starting to notice that I come regularly to feed the dogs. This has amused some, and some have chosen to engage in conversation with me. A few have suggested I go on pilgrimage to Gangotri, the source of the Ganga. Undertaking the Chardham (the four sacred spots) Gangotri, Yamunotri, Badrinath, and Kedarnath, are the most sacred of all pilgrimages in the Hindu traditions. Undertaking a journey to these places will not just wash away one's karma, but will ensure release from the cycle of birth and death. It is said that heaven and earth converge in these spots. Gangotri has called to me for some time, but this is not the right time for me to go.

Of Kedarnath it is said "the unholy become holy, and the holy, holier." Kedar is also another name for Shiva, the preserver and the destroyer. It lies close to Rishikesh in a valley ringed by lofty snow-capped peaks. The views are breathtaking, and the climb to the shrine is steep. One is meant to walk the path, it is steep and long. But for those who can't, ponies and mules are made to carry the heavy, and physically unfit. The mules wobble, struggle, and are covered with sores, beaten with sticks to keep them going up the pilgrimage road carrying the holy aspirants in their journey for release and redemption.

FEEDING BEGINS

Although I expected to give myself time to settle in, maybe see some of the sights I missed previously, it was impossible not to start feeding the dogs along my path. As I mentioned, they did not look so good, and there was a major mange outbreak. The hair will grow back on its own, and most cases will clear up, but the itching and the dogs scratching the itch can lead to quick infections and more misery. So, a simple remedy of appropriate medications works. The actual feeding itself can be tricky. The street cows and the bulls are hungry as well, and very interested in anyone who looks as though they may be carrying food, and even more interested in someone who appears as though they are dispensing food ... and believe me, they are watching! It became a game of find the dogs, look out for hungry bulls, feed fast, don't fall off a cliff, and move on quickly. The puppies were the ones who were having the most difficult time surviving. They need their protein, and Rishikesh is a vegetarian city, so milk, or curd had to be found for the pups. It's dispensed in plastic bags, tied with a rubber band. So, I roamed around looking for the nearest milk stalls, and would have to make a mixture on the road of the milk and bread, rice, oatmeal, etc.

Where to pour the milk?? There's a major problem of excess plastic water bottles in India, the empties are everywhere. Well, cut the bottoms and they become great containers for milk, curd (liquid yogurt), and food.

RISHIKESH REDUX

Late June, 2007, I placed myself back in Rishikesh. Getting here was surprisingly easy; the destination was, well, the surprise. I had been here just two months earlier, fell in love with the city, the people, and India. A series of experiences within the near past which had been profoundly personal all led me to India. It was a call I could not ignore, at least not without always questioning why I chose not to answer it. I tried to go several times, and always something blocked the journey. Finally, out of frustration and a sense of resignation, I pretty much just went with less than one weeks planning ... I went with no expectations, but with a goal of at least having physically gone there. I fell in love with India. The craziness, the combustibility, the spirituality, the noise, the peace, and that presence. The contrasts, the dualities were there, but not in my line of vision. I was in love, and wanted to come right back.


So, I did, and here I am ...



Within less than two months time, my beloved India had transformed herself, or at least, was showing another side to me. This India was unbearably hot, crowded and dirty. Plus, it was Indian tourist season! This meant crowds, and traffic jams in a city which normally held few cars other than auto rickshaws, and no roads for this kind of volume. Intense, hot, few westerners, and closed ashrams. Surprise.



The two months gone had not been kind to the animals. Food was scarce, whether it was because the westerners were gone, who would provide plenty of left-overs for the streets, and thus the animals, or whether the climate just made it a time of less food availability. Anyway, dogs that had looked relatively well fed now looked thin, and were far more territorial with their staked claims for available food. The pups that had been born were having a hard time competing for food with the older, stronger, established dogs. I can't help but wonder at the shock of these youngsters the first few times they were chased off in their attempts to find food. The older dogs when hungry themselves, are not kind to young, potential competitors. The pups that were there were solo, one survivor from a litter, now on their own. They try to join a pack, with usually little chance for success.

The cows too, looked thin. There had been an explosion of births since I was gone, and the majority seem to be males. This is not good news, as they become aggressive as they age and try to position for dominance, mating, and territorial rights. They too roam the streets in search of food. Rishikesh has two beautiful bridges crossing the Ganga; Ram Juhla, and Laxman Juhla. I had my first encounter with an angry young bull while crossing Laxman Juhla. I had seen him from day one, crossing the bridge back and forth, back and forth, seeking food on either side of the bridge ... food being scraps that have fallen from bags, garbage, or tiny food pellets that the tourists toss to the monkeys who stay at the bridge. Rarely do the cows cross the bridge; it's difficult to maneuver with people, motorbikes, and carts vying for limited space. This young brown bulls' hunger was such that he would just frantically search for food all day long, back and forth, back and forth. He was frustrated. I crossed the bridge one morning with my food for the dogs well hidden, I had thought. Well, he figured out that I had food and when straight at me, butting me up against the bridge ... I emptied the food bag and tossed it as far and as quickly I could. He went for the food. This one will be trouble when he's grown!

DIVINE DOWNLOAD?

My earlier trip to Rishikesh brought me delight, awe, and wonder. I came with no expectations, but hoped to regroup, and recharge, after some time of stress and depletion. As I said, I came with no expectations .... only hopes to nurture myself, and no intention of looking at animals. My last day (my first last day) in Rishikesh had me at a final pit stop relaxing over the Ganga with a lemon soda, unhappily resigned to going back on my scheduled return flight. I had taken to feeding and befriending, on a small scale, a few of the stray dogs. What I can only describe in short terms, was a download of information on how to do this on a more formal, larger scale, which would benefit the animals of the streets, and ultimately the local people as well. A program of feeding and befriending the strays, managing health and parasite issues, sterilization, and inoculations against rabies, with eventually employing locals as caretakers.

Divine Download, or a lemon soda that packed some punch?

Short version, Here I am. The support of friends, and my spiritual community that helped me get here, has truly been a blessing. Thank you.

CONTRAST

Back to today. This time in Rishikesh is a lesson in the contrasts of India. The Ganga, so clear and cleansing earlier, was now brown and strong with the glaciers melting, the waters quickly rising, and the mud from the hills pouring in. Ma Ganga claimed two human lives my first week back. The first was a young man. At the cafe we collectively heard he had died the day before, and his mother was now at the Ganga adding her tears to the river. One week later, a young Dutch woman was swallowed by the current. She made the local paper, but I had no translator. Their deaths moved me deeply. Some say the Ganga chooses those that she claims. It is a ritual to dip in the Ganga, a holy dip it is considered, and a cleansing of Karma and sins. What happens when one is swept away from an act of reverence and bliss to be struggling and gasping for air as one's lungs fill with water and your body contorts with the current? I said a silent prayer.

FOUND DOG

A dog I had not previously seen in Rishikesh showed up at the foot of the bridge, again, my last day in Rishikesh. He was a handsome, black and brown dog with a medium length coat and a distinguished face. He had a confident gate and looked straight up at me. He looked good, until he turned and I saw the new gash on his back that was huge, open, and wide with the folds of the skin completely exposed. A knot in my stomach and a belief that this dog would soon be dead made me look away. It was a wound too large for me to even consider cleaning; this would have gotten stitches and antibiotics in the States, and a "hope for the best." It was my only time seeing this dog and I could only look away.

My first day back to Rishikesh in June, I saw what I thought impossible. This same dog crossed the bridge, made his way to the same cafe and came and said hello. He was fine. He now has a permanent rise of fur along his back where the skin sewed itself back together, looking like a permanent "Mohawk" hair-do. He's not a regular on this side of the bridge, and I've only seen him once since, but he gave me great relief and surprise to come and show me he was alright.

MISSING

We all have our favorites, and mine was an undeniably unattractive, hairless, mange ridden plain black dog. She was truly hairless when I first saw her. At first I hoped she was some bizarre mutation/cross of a hairless Chinese Crested that resulted in a large plain dog with no hair and just a funny shade of almost black skin. An exotic creature who although lowly born to the streets would rise to glory with her unique genes. Could a new star have been born? Nope, it was just the worst case of mange I'd ever seen. This dog was hairless, and you couldn't even say she had a pretty face. What she did have was the "Party Girl" gene and all the charm that goes along with it. This dog was a joy to watch as she befriended every dog that crossed her path. She would immediately initiate play with such good nature, that I had to laugh and could only call her "Party Girl." Her approach on unsuspecting dogs as they passed her was to jump with joy in the air, in an exaggerated "play- bow" and keep this up until they would stop and engage in an unplanned wrestling match. She could usually be seen wrestling on the road by the "Ganga View" restaurant with great joy and abandon. She had a fondness for butter cookies, and would lead me to the nearest butter cookie vendor knowing I would always buy her a fresh batch. One hot day I thought I could vary her special treat and I bought her an ice-cream cone. She wanted none of it; not before the now expected Butter Cookies, made fresh. I did have some cause for alarm when I saw her that day, she was sporting some fresh puncture wounds on her back end. This surprised me, as she was such a friendly, non-threatening dog. But a fresh dog bite to the hind-quarters she did have, and the flies were already biting at the wounds. This could be fatal to a dog of the streets. I cleaned the wounds as best I could, but I was leaving the next day.

I haven't seen her since my return. I've been here long enough that had she gone to some safe spot to have a litter of pups, she would have come out by now to her regular grounds, by the center square butter cookie man. I keep hope open to seeing her, but it seems unlikely.

India, a land of contrast. The one that should not have survived, did. The one that was a delightful, happy, non-threatening dog, is gone.