REUNITED !

This is one of the most unusual and unlikely scenarios we have witnessed. These two pups are litter mates, and the tiny black and white one started out as the largest of the litter! 

Apparently there were three puppies born to the mother in Ram Juhla. One was said to have been killed by a dominant female in the area. This does happen; alpha females do not want puppies from other litters in “their” territory. Mommie dog then made a very good hiding spot for the remaining two, and guarded them continuously.  We brought her food of course, and worried for the safety of the remaining two pups. Then one day, while they were still just about 4 weeks old, the large, robust black and white pup was gone. People said he had also been carried off and killed by the alpha female of the area. I was crushed.

Although I did not want to do it, in a few days I took the remaining puppy, for his own safety. He was male, handsome, and would be adoptable, if he survived.

So, he came to my home, ate well, thrived and led a happy few weeks.

In the ashram garden where we kept dogs, one morning a new puppy had been placed in the garden. He looked terrible. He was emaciated, full of fleas, and looked the size of a three week old puppy. He was close to death. I quickly took him home, to give him a chance, and 24 hour care. What I saw stunned me. The large brown and white puppy scratched and scratched at the door to get to this puppy; and  new puppy did the same from his side. It was the missing brother! He had not been carried off by another dog, he had been carried off by some children who lived in the ashram 2 kilometers from where the puppies lived. And they could not take care of him properly, and he deteriorated.

The two puppies were overjoyed to see one another, and wrestling, and cuddling, and licking and sleeping together became the norm. I was not sure if little black and white puppy would ever catch up in size, but he almost did. He never grew to what would have been his full stature, but it was close enough, and he regained his health.

The string of miracles continued… both of them were placed together, in a small ashram on the Ganga, where they have since lived together and thrived.  

A LITTLE DOG NAMED PLASTIC

I didn’t know her name, and she most likely did not have a name the first time I saw her.  It has taken me a long time to write this one.

My first encounter with this lovely little toy fox terrier was in monsoon, in Ram Jhula market. She was tinier than most of the street dogs, make that all of the street dogs, and she certainly looked like a small fox terrier. And she most definitely had their characteristic of fixing their mind and their gaze at the target! She would stand in the middle of the road, tail tucked, fixing her eyes on her restaurant and whatever food was frying for the day. 

Apparently, they would sometimes toss her a bit of food, most likely to make her leave, but still, she would stand there, fixed to her spot, her eyes on the food, and wait. She also liked their buns.

The other sad thing was that she was obviously young, and nursing a litter of puppies. Of course she was hungry, and would stand, and stare, in the rain, waiting for her scrap of food. The poor thing was skeletal. Sometimes she would get food, and on a day when the shopkeeper had enough of her, she would get the stick. I did not know where her puppies were, or how to get her to show them to me, but of course I would bring her food and feed her … if she was there.

After a while, she disappeared. Maybe she just got the stick too many times, or maybe she found a better, kinder, source of food. For a dog who is so small compared to the other street dogs, to physically compete for food from garbage piles is not easy. To stake out spots where mice and rats are known to run, is also not so easy for a small dog.  So, I stopped seeing her and did not know where to find her.

Months went by, and I forgot about the little dog and in the back of my mind just assumed her fate had been the same of so many of the street dogs; after you don’t see them for a long time, you just assume they are dead.

A surprise came that winter, when not far from the food shops, I saw her! Looking rather well, recovered from having to nurse the puppies, and on her own closer to the ghats and under some benches by a chai stall.   No puppies with her, so what happened to them, who knows? She had made this her spot, and seemed to do well with begging for biscuits from the chai drinkers. Of course, I now included her in my regular feedings, so she would have something other than sugar biscuits. Although, I have to admit, she had a fondness for her sweets and would sometimes turn up her nose at the offering of actual dog biscuits!  She liked milk, so I saw to it that she had plenty of that.

The winter turned cold, and she developed no relationship with a street person with whom she could share a bed and a blanket at night, so I bought her a winter coat. It was quite stylish, and it suited her well. She tolerated the evenings’ dressing and the mornings’ removal of her coat, and made no fuss. Others started to take notice, and a guest house owner and another shop keeper let me store her coat in their shops in the day time, even dressing her on the occasions I could not come at night.

After some time of what seemed to be a good, and permanent routine, I started to notice a change in her behavior. She was more reserved, and spending more time under the benches, and not out and about. A bit too reserved for such a young, healthy, and clever dog.  And then I saw it – she was under attack by one of the large, make that very large, females in the area. We called her Big Mama. She was a big golden beast, who had obviously given birth to many litters, and she knew how to find her food. With people she was lovely, but with competitors for food, (even her own pups I later discovered) she was on the attack. The little terrier had become her new target. Having sniffed out a good source of food, Big Mama now saw this as good potential for more food for herself. She would viciously go after the little dog, even if she would see her from a far distance. She was doing her best to make this hers, and little terrier didn’t stand a chance. Even the chai wallahs were not happy about this, they had come to enjoy the little dogs’ company and her engaging ways, but there was nothing we could do.  Big Mama won, and this was now her chai stall.

The little terrier moved on … to the next chai stall! It was not very far, and she was still easy to spot, and this chai keeper was fond of dogs. She stayed for some time, always under the benches, coming out for her bits of sugary biscuits.

One day he asked me, why does this dog not move? Why is she like Plastic Dog?

Plastic dog?

Yes, we call her Plastic. She never moves.

Hmm. Not a name I was particularly fond of, but it stuck. We called her Plastic. My reply to the question of why she never moved was, because you give her too many sweets and she is in a diabetic coma. I got a blank stare. Not that I thought that was really the case, but I had hoped to discourage them from giving her so many sweets.

But she likes them.

But they are not good for her.

Another blank stare.

Then why does she eat them?

She’s addicted to sugar.

Another blank stare.

Little Plastic lived like this for some time, and then it was time for me to make another trip out of India. I wanted to have her sterilized before leaving, but once again, she was gone. Big Mama had moved in on her new turf and chased her out, again. I searched high and low. Everyone knew her by now, and many had their stories of where she was, but none panned out. I had to leave and hope she would be found upon my return, and not pregnant!   Sterilizations have been difficult here, as there is no veterinarian here who is trained to do it. I must rely on volunteer vets, and the odd trip to a larger city, which is extremely costly, and highly impractical, and often unsafe for the dog, health-wise. But we do as many as we can, as we can. Plans are currently in the works to increase the numbers.

I came back after my two months out, and she was still nowhere to be seen. Finally, a word came that she was seen living in the backside of a prominent ashram in the area. I tried to get in, but it was a restricted area, not open to the public, only for paying guests, and a resident boys school. I’d camp out at the entrance as long as I could, but no sign of her, and eventually I would get shooed away, often with a stick waved in front of me. Subtleties are not very common here.

I just want to find a small dog and help her …

No dog! GET OUT! Raising the large stick over my head.

Ashram hospitality?

I would repeat this routine, daily. Perhaps the little terriers tenacity had rubbed off on me. I just had a feeling she may be there.

Then one day, I saw her! I rushed past the guard, who did not look particularly spry to me, plus he was seated, so I thought I’d have a few feet on him, and gave it a go. Little Plastic saw me. It was a reunion Walt Disney would have loved to have on film; kisses, tail wags, and doggie spins and cart wheels. Even the guard with the stick was moved. He did not wave his large stick at either one of us this time. I asked him how long she had been here, and it turned out it had been for some time. Some of the boys in the school had taken a liking to her, and her presence, although “illegal” was unofficially overlooked.

Only problem, she was pregnant.

I went to the office to try to get permission to enter the sacred, unwelcome, grounds, and it worked. Two Americans (yay!) had started working/volunteering there, and they were living in the ashram and were fond of dogs.  They assured me she was welcome, and safe, and would be cared for.

Even the puppies?

Even the puppies.

Okay … I said hesitantly.

The grounds were perfect. She had her own inside room, and beautiful large, unused manicured lawns. Idyllic, really.  She could not have found a better spot for herself, … were it true that she and her pups were welcome …

Delivery

The blessed day arrived, and Plastic delivered four gorgeous, tiny pups! Two males, and two females. They were a beautiful creamy buff color, with white markings. Perfectly divine. The boys adored them, more foreigners were staying there as paying guests who helped with their care, and these were the most beautiful, healthy, well socialized puppies in Rishikesh. Plastic adored being a mother, and took beautiful care of them, and thoroughly enjoyed their company. The entire grounds were theirs, and Plastic proudly pranced down the lanes with her pups in tow; more like a mother duck with her ducklings following behind; it was adorable, and they were clearly happy and care-free.

Change of Plan

The inevitable. Her room would now no longer be available, due to remodeling, and she and the pups had to be forced to live outside. They were no longer allowed even on the terrace of “their” building. So now the daily shooing with the sticks came out. Puppies who were loved and caressed were now threatened and attacked. They learned to stay off the terrace and out of the building for the most part, and they learned fear.

Change of Heart

And one day one of the puppies developed a fever, and became sick. The Dr. was immediately called, and care began, but soon all the puppies were sick. Parvovirus. They were just too young. Weeks of care went on, and the first male died. Then the second, and the girls hung on. Parvovirus is a nasty disease that attacks the lining of the GI track, with bloody diarrhea, high fever, loss of appetite. A complaint came from an ashram resident that the dogs were dirty. Plastic remained well, and cried when the babies were separated from her so they could receive more intensive care. She even found them when they had been moved to a private guest room, far from their original spot.

A guard came one day with a sack, and orders. A plastic sack, with the demand that the dogs, Mom and her two remaining pups, be placed inside. The then volunteer caretaker of the dogs complied. And the dogs have never been seen since. It is unlikely the puppies would have survived, but Plastic was not sick. I can only imagine her terror as she was shoved into a sack, the sack twisted and tied, struggling for air and crushed on top of her two daughters. Her heart must have raced, pounding, and her limbs, struggling, twisting, for as long as they could. Terror.

The story from the ashram was that they were to have been moved, to another ashram compound some 7 kilometers away. They never made it, and little Plastic has never been seen since.  It’s 7 kilometers of highway, jungle, and Ganga.

She is not alive, I knew this in my heart. I hope she was not tossed in the Ganga. I hope she was not tossed in a garbage heap, unable to escape her plastic bag. I hope she was not tossed on a roadway, out of a vehicle, like a bag of garbage down the side of a mountain. And I hope she was not beaten, in her sack, until she could breath no more.

No living being deserves an ending like this.

I cannot say for a fact that any of these scenarios is the one that happened to Plastic in the end, but I can say, for a fact, that they do happen everyday, somewhere, to blessed little souls who do not deserve any of this.

Kali Yuga, the age of Darkness. Kali Yuga, the age of Injustice.


...


What do we do ...


It's hard to take this all in, and feel helpless. We cannot view it as hopeless. For those of us who react, respond with sadness, shed a tear, our reaction can be seen as a blessing in disguise. We are blessed that we have that side of us that is hurt and outraged at these kinds of outcomes and behaviors. This is our gift, these are our moments of divinity; our understanding of "wholeness" and "connectedness". We can use these feelings as motivators;  to give love, and to take action that moves the force of the heart outward and into expansion of love and kindness towards all life.


I had asked one of the boys in the school who had been caring for her if they had named her. One of them shyly replied, "Champa. It means flower." Champa is a kind of flower in India, a beautiful delicate small flower, and it is a beautiful name for her. It was her name in her time of peace, and love.


In her troubled, short life, she touched, and expanded the hearts of many.

                                               CHAMPA

MANGE AND TVT !

Having settled Yashoda into Rani Park in Kathmandu, I would visit her every other day or so. She was in good hands now in the care of DREAMS, as were the other cows and calves who had come to settle there. Walking the streets in these cities, overcrowded with people, dogs and cows, one is going to come across problems. And I did not have to go very far to find the next set of “problems…”.

Just outside the newly formed cow sanctuary, were a group of the saddest looking dogs I had ever seen. Hairless, depressed, itchy, run down, and full of TVT’s. What’s a TVT? You may ask. It is a transmittable venereal tumor. In other words, a sexually transmitted disease, that leaves a giant tumor looking growth on the dogs’ organs. The females look as though the uterus has fallen out, and the dogs just look like they have a horribly enlarged, mangled, gnarly penis. It can do all sorts of horrible things inside the body as well as outside, but, the good news is, it is highly treatable.

So, by now, my remaining time was running short in Nepal and I was anxious to return to Mother India …I can only stay away so long. What to do? I had met a lovely woman on previous visits who was doing local work in her village. It was worth a call to get information from her as to which vets might I be close to, and get at least started on this. Well, the rain of miracles continued. Kate came out to meet me at the site, and, shocked as I was to see all these dogs, quietly commented … “Wait a minute, I took a dog from this area some weeks ago with the same problem.”

We now had an actual case of “Before” and “After.”

She turned out to be so lovely Kate did not have the heart to bring her back, and was not aware of the extent of the problem in the area. We did a quick survey, took photos, and quickly got one male I had been searching for into the vet’s office. Kate agreed to keep him for follow up care.

I knew this wasn’t enough, and knew it was not fair to burden one person with such an enormous project, and who would pay for all this…?  So, I contacted some lovely people I had met in Pokhara on a previous visit who had an organization called HART; Himalayan Animal Rescue Trust. They do amazing work in Pokhara and the outlying villages, and I thought it was worth a shot to bring this to their attention.

One email got a quick reply, of sure, we can help with the funding. Kate Clendon, of Kopan Community Animal Care, then agreed to continue the treatments of these dogs.

“My” work had never been so easy!

There were local people who had shown great interest in seeing these dogs improve. They were incredulous when we showed them “before and after” photos, and wanted to see success in the condition of their community dogs. And there was, and so it is!

To see the transformations in these dogs health, lives, and spirit is a joy to behold.   

                                   Next

YASHODA, Nepal Revisited

Yashoda

Time in Nepal used to be an obligatory period of drudgery and dislike. I could stay in that state of mind, and react to all the frenzy of the tourist scene, the rudeness of the locals who have seen too many rude tourists passing through, or I could try to escape this mindset and replace it with one of productivity and ease.

I ended up staying in some lovely Tibetan Buddhist monasteries, and an Anni gompa (nunnery) with great joy and satisfaction. The Anni gompa was close enough to Kathmandu that I could make visits to the city as often as I liked, and make good use of my time there.

Kathmandu is full of bedbugs and mange! The dogs suffer terribly from the mange, while the tourists silently accept the bedbugs. It is painful to watch pained, pink skinned hairless dogs scratching and scratching. With all this scratching, they often create secondary infections by tearing the skin, and bacteria quickly settles in. Ivermectin for the mange, and an appropriate antibiotic for the secondary skin infection. With at least two months there, I could easily follow a specific group and have them treated thoroughly. And it was done.

In these travels, I came to have my heart touched by an old sad cow. Old, no longer able to produce milk, she had been turned out, onto the streets to fend for herself. I first noticed her in Durbar square, close to the old hippie scene, Freak street. She caught my eye as she was quite large, clearly old, and seemingly pregnant??? She had a huge swollen belly … but not. I saw her from her left side, she was impossible to miss, and as I walked around her, and saw the right side, I could only gasp. She was skeletal. It was the strangest sight I had seen in a cow; half bloated, and half skeletal.

I called all the animal rescue groups in Kathmandu, there are many, and none wanted to help her. So, daily, I started to feed her, and tried to get a medical opinion as to what was going on here. My concerns were ingestion of too many plastic bags, which the cows cannot pass. Plastic bags that still have a bit of food in them, become part of the daily diet. These street cows eat everything, there is not enough proper food available for them.  Cardboard boxes, licking posters glued onto walls, plastic bags, and the odd bit of rotting vegetables in the swept up garbage is the daily diet for the street cow. It’s all they can find. They are forced to become scavengers for food, and do not do well. Occasionally a kind soul will offer a few scraps of food, but it is not enough to sustain them.

So, what to do? Finally a veterinary doctor came out, and determined it was not ingestion of plastic bags that caused this, but more likely overproduction of milk, causing a collapse of the internal lining of the stomach, or all four stomachs as in the case of cows. So basically, the stomach has nothing to hold it up, and kind of shifts like a giant hernia. What causes this, is very possibly hormone injections which will increase the production of milk to an unhealthy level to the cow, but a financially profitable level for the farmer. Prognosis is not good. He suggested surgery at an exorbitant, foreigners rate, but no place to keep her for recovery, and no guarantee that she would survive the surgery. NOT an option.

I continued daily feedings, and although I was growing to love her, she repeatedly showed me her bit of an anti-social side, with turning her head away, and her “why are you bothering me while I am napping”, glances. I loved her all the more for her independence, her strong character, and her clear displays of like and dislikes.   The locals started to take notice, and started to help in her care and feedings. It was nice, and she seemed to settle in comfortably and she found her favorite spots for resting throughout the day and night.

And one day the local police came up to me…

“What are you doing? We have seen you here daily.”

“I come to feed her.”

“Do you work for an NGO (non-for-profit)”

“No.”

“How long are you here?”

“Two months.”

“Let’s come inside and talk.”

I get more questioning from more than one officer,  with repeated notice that tourists are supposed to be tourists.

“I’m touring the streets and dogs and cows are on the streets… How can I not see them…?”

I leave, thinking, good god, they want to harass me for doing something kind…? And am I about to be deported ... Thailand here I come?

I’m followed by one of the officers, he comes up to me and says lets go in here, the Kumari house, courtyard, and we can talk. Shit, now what, I can’t help but think. Another officer follows him.

“We are simple farmers, we come from the villages, and we also care for this cow.”

“We think what you are doing is wonderful, and we want to help.”


I was in shock. Happy shock, but shock. 

The bottom line was that the superiors, local officials would not let her stay in Durbar Square, and after I would leave, there would not be enough food for her anyway. So she had to be moved, but they would personally help me with her transport if needed, and they would give me time to place her elsewhere.

The search for a new location began in earnest …. It took me to the Hare Krishna Temple close to Budhanilkanta, [Krishna -  cows -  I tried to convince them of their duty to take care of abandoned cows - ],  to a self styled orphanage in a small village run by a French monk I met at a Farmer’s Market, and to any and every grazing space I could find between Kathmandu and her outer rings….! The Hare Krishna’s came close, after much negotiation, with yes, and no, and yes, but … It was just taking too long to get a definitive answer. We left that as a possibility to be explored in my next visit, to be continued later.

Then I found it! The perfect spot appeared to me. Pashupatinath is the largest Hindi temple, complex in Kathmandu. As foreigners, we are allowed to enter only certain areas of the complex, and only we pay the exorbitant entry fee to maintain the holy separatists. [A side note, there is easy open, FREE access from the back side. Watch the school children, they cut through this way everyday, follow them and, you’re in!] Next to Pashupatinath is a tourist bus park, and next to the tourist bus park, is a HUGE, fully enclosed forested park, and I mean huge, and totally unused. The tourists, in their acts of accruing good karma, regularly bring boxes of food, for the monkeys. Why not for the cows as well, I could not help but think.

Next step in the chain of miracles, I finally got a call from an organization, called DREAMS. They did not yet have a space, but were new, with high hopes and big plans. We talked. Why not move Yashoda in the Rani park area, next to Pashupatinath; who would even notice one more cow wandering in the forest. Food was bountiful, and fruits could be easily supplemented by the “holy pilgrims” with their pre-determined acts of kindness on their way to the holy temples. We all agreed it was a good plan.

The move took place, and it was simple. In the early hours we hired a truck and moved her in. She would follow me anywhere at this point, even up a ramp into the truck, and down the ramp into her new home. Yashoda being Yashoda, she had her own mind set, and made a couple of attempts at exploring the outer roads. She escaped from the one and only gate. She would quickly be found, brought back, and in few days settled in to the realization that this was her new home, and it was good. Dreams had daily volunteers coming, spending much of the day there, and added several sick and injured cows and calves. We built several shelter style tents, to protect them from the sun, and rain, and give them a nice bed to sleep in at night. In the day, they were free to wander and graze in this vast open secure, and bountiful forest.

Life being what it is, we cannot stay in one place. The shelter saw its good times and bad. Cows and calves that looked like they were recovering, only to suddenly become very sick and die, to others who continue to thrive. Yashoda had a good six months. She was well fed, free, formed friendships and experienced love. The winter, although they had blankets and shelter, was too hard on her aging body. She did not survive the cold, and left the body in January.

It was difficult for me to hear this. 

I had since been long back in India, and all reports were that Yashodha was doing well. My own health had been challenged at this time, and there would have been nothing I could do anyway as far as going to her and helping her myself.

Spiritually, philosophically, one is reminded over and over of the impermanent state of the universe and our daily lives. Life includes everything, not just the “good” or the “bad”, but all of it. It can be joy, a feeling of bliss, a feeling of success, but it’s also pain and sadness, anger, confusion, and fear. To truly be alive is to admit that we cannot protect ourselves from any of it. So, we can embrace life in its totality, without fear, and make the choice to love, or to numb ourselves from life. Thank you Yashoda, and Dreams, for teaching me this lesson again, and letting me love you, and letting me embrace the sadness of your no longer being here.

                       

                    ... and as Krishna plays his flute, we continue the dance ...

IT TOOK A POKE

I had recently returned from yet another mandatory exile in Nepal, albeit this time it was a fruitful adventure, with the start of a new goshala and a small community dog care program, and the pleasure of teaching English to Tibetan nuns who were new to Nepal. Back home now my priority was to make my usual “checks” on who was still around, and in what condition would I find them. As usual, it was varied. The ones who had ongoing problems, would look battered but ready for new care, others looked marginally well, and others looked perfectly fine. And some of course, would be missing to the ongoing battlefields of the streets.

Mating season had started, it takes time to get them all under “family planning,” and the battle scars of the males were showing. It’s usually a tear to the neck, and often a bite hold on the leg to show the final supremacy of  the “Top Dog”, and alpha male. At the end of a long, first, hot day, I came upon a dog at the far end of Ram Jhula. He was propped against a wall, his breath was shallow, and he had OLD bandages on his neck and head. And he had a horrible, smelly maggotted leg.  I was tired, and not happy to see this so late in the day. I stroked him, tried to give him some water, offered food, but he was pretty unresponsive. Shit, I thought. Someone had started care, but not followed through and now this dog is slowly dying. It looked too late, and it was too late in the day to take him anywhere or to get an IV drip started on him. My own fatigue had set in, and sadly, I walked away.

I stopped in the middle of the road about six feet further down to let some motorbikes pass, and stood there for a moment, exhausted. I got a poke. At the back of my leg, I got a strong jab and looked down. It was him. He had managed to get up, follow me, and give me a sign. He wanted to live. I have to admit I had not recognized him, there are many orange and white street dogs in this area, but he remembered me and wanted help. I picked him up and carried him to a side walkway and had to decide what to do with him. All I could do for that night was change his bandages, marginally disinfect the wounds, and bandage his leg. I got some electrolytes into him, and put him in a safe spot, covered for the night.

The next morning more proper care would begin. He had a “home” on the ghats, and was accepted by the other dogs and people who live there, so this is where we would keep him for his care. Antibiotics, IV drips, vitamins, and two to three checks throughout the day and night were all we could do for him. The Babas watched. Some helped, some remained aloof, and some said I was putting medicines into a dead dog.  But they were used to seeing me here, and accepted.

He may still have looked dead to the world, but in a few days he marginally improved. By day five he was able to lift his head, take a bit of water, and look me in the eye. His leg still looked bad, and we were not sure if he would keep the leg, but we were hopeful and encouraged by his obvious improvements.

Day Six

The Doctor and I stayed the usual hour with him in the morning, and I relaxed a bit, and stayed on, just enjoying his company, offering my love, and enjoying the beauty of the Ganga and her endless flow. Two Babas came and we even laughed a bit at how the word was going around that I was putting medicines into a “dead” dog. We smiled, and relaxed, and Spotty sat up for the first time in days. I patted him, moved on and looked after a few more dogs. It was about 11.00 a.m.

Don’t read the rest if you want a happy ending

Around 1.00 I sat down and had a cup of chai. It was my intention to go see him again later in the day, but I heard a call, in my heart. I walked as quickly as I could, but I was still at least ten minutes away.

He was not there. The Babas were all looking at me afraid to speak, and finally one pointed. There was a man, a sweeper, in the Ganga taking a bath. Not the usual Ganga dip of joy, but a bath of different intentions, a bath one takes to wash away one’s stains. He was a sweeper, and it was his job to keep the ghat clean. He had dragged and tossed my dog into the Ganga. It had all happened maybe ten minutes earlier.  Dog’s are considered “dirty” in India, and as such, generally untouchable. He had to wash himself.

He came to me with folded palms and looked me in the eyes. He tried to claim the dog was dead; … I knew the dog was not dead…  It was his job to keep the ghat clean … A translator came and a scene quickly ensued. Everyone understood the gravity of the act and the man was afraid. He did not want my curse upon him. Somehow I spoke to him calmly and plainly. He kept asking me what I wanted him to do, what can he now do???

I made it clear I wished to never see him at this ghat again. He is never to defile the dog’s memory with his presence and the reminder of his horrific act.
Part two, he was now, every day for the rest of this life, to feed a dog. A street dog; he was to look him in the eyes and offer him food. Every day, for the rest of this life.

I have never seen him on the ghat since that day. He has kept the first promise it seems. I can only hope he has kept part two, and that somehow his heart has been touched, by looking into the eyes of a dog.

For some days I could not go to the ghat, it was too painful. Sixteen days after his death I offered food and prayers on his behalf to his companions and friends at the ghat. That day the dogs, the Babas and the beggars ate well, and I prayed.

Sister of the Tiger

Billiaria

Sister of Tiger ...What is her name I asked Sitaram Babaji. He pauses, and looks into the air for a moment, comes back to earth, and replies Billiaria. (Billie - r- ia).
I knew Billi was cat, but I asked him the meaning anyway, and he said, "sister of Tiger".

It was a beautiful name for her. She was actually a pastel tiger striped dog, more of the exotic white tiger than the golden and black. She was a pale cocoa color, with intense black and grey stripes across
her entire body and face. Her mother was a red dog, and father, unknown. There are no striped males in the area, and no other striped dogs in her litter, so her unique coloring was a mystery, and we all
knew she was special.

Not only did she have strong physical markings, but she was strong of character, and quickly made herself the alpha female of the pack as she grew. Her mother acceded her the role of dominant female with little struggle. Her two sisters were no match for her, and they also gave her full reign as leader of the pack. It was clear, Billiaria was top dog. There were no challengers.

She lived life with passion, intensity and gusto, and she always smiled. She also loved with gusto. I make it a point to not shower any of the dogs with undue affection, and no special treatment for one over the other. They have their own rules and group dynamics, and one should not interfere or show favoritism. So, although I showed her no special favors over the other pack members, she somehow adored me. It was impossible to not notice. I would be greated with leaping bounds of joy and body slams, followed with wild runs and breathy pants. If I tried to walk down her road unnoticed, she would always come darting out of hiding if she spotted me, overjoyed to see me, and pretend there was no slight on my part.

The greeting consisted of bouncing onto me, tail wags with the velocity of a cracked whip, and smiles from ear to ear. How could I not love her?

Her life was good. Sleeping inside Babajis room at night, sheltered and secure. Running along the sacred Ganges each morning, hurdling the boulders and splashing in the waters waves. Napping on the
sand in the afternoon, exploring the forests terrain at dawn and dusk, and holding enough company of humans and dogs to keep life interesting. There was food, open skies, companionship, and the freedom to run wild, and strong. Her life was untroubled, and she grew and thrived into a powerhouse of existance. Shakti, full on.

The call came as a shock. Billiaria is not well, she has not eaten for a few days. The Dr. could not come immediately, and by the next day she was gone, dead to her physical body. She was found in the rocks at the shore of GangaMa, wedged between two boulders. Cause of death, unknown.

She was admired by many. and noticed by all, with her beauty and the vibrancy of her life force. To imagine that life in that form as extinguished is hard to fathom.

May you reincarnate well, and soon, beloved Billiaria.

Kalu of Tapovan

Kalu


Where's Kalu?
The police officer on duty straightened up, looked left, then right, and with all seriousness replied, Kalu has not reported for duty today!

It was cold, he was not well, and I was concerned.

The story of Kalu .... A black and brown hound cross, he had in his early years been the unnofficial police dog at Tapovan chok. Well liked and cared for, until a combination of a road accident and the main officer taking on his care being relocated, changed his circumstances. Fortune smiled on Kalu at that point in his life, and he was taken in by a local woman living with two foreigners. She passed herself off as a sadhu, and a bit of a witch, and claimed to have great healing powers, which later proved to be rather dubious, but more on that later. Kalu was now somewhat lame, and a few years old, but the sorceress and her foreign supporters took on his care. His new home was only a few hundred meters away fom the police station. In a way, his new life had the best of both worlds. A warm home, with lots of company, good food, and daily outings that allowed him to report, on his own innitiative, for duty. Kalu was a rarity for an Indian dog, in that he preferred the company of men, and there he sat. He took his job seriously, not that his activities were specifically prescribed, but he reported on a daily basis, and gave watch over Badrinath Road. Watching the passersby, the traffic, the activities of his fellow workers the police officers, the drama of Indian village life unfolded before his eyes. Kalu knew everyone, and they knew Kalu.

He was well fed in his new home, but the few roti and biscuits that the officers tossed him meant more to him than the Pedigree Pal offered in his house. Evening time he would be rounded up by the sorceress and brought back inside. Another couple of dogs for company, a few cats, and lots of visits from foreigners with their pats and caresses for Kalu, and he had it pretty good.
Life went on like this for some years... But nothing in the world of illusions lasts forever, and the happy home was about to crumble. One foreigner moved out, and the house of relationships based on convenience and need fell apart. Squabbles, recriminations and hurt feelings, and each went their own way. Left in the wake were Kalu, his dog companion Maisy, and more than a few cats. Promises of 'I'll never leave the dogs behind' by the sadhu/sorceress were not kept. All were left behind after living a life of comfort and trust, to fend on their own.
The cats were the first to deteriorate, and the first to go. They were exquisite. Maisy was next, after lasting the better part of the winter, she succumbed, most likely to having injested poison from the streets.

Kalu made his way back to the Police Station, and he made himself happy there. He was not as appreciated as before, but still he was content and had a strong sense of loyalty and satisfaction. This was after all, in his mind and heart, his rightful place. The food was slim, and the bedding was bare; he made his sleeping quarters across the street, in yet another of the unnoficial dumping grounds of India. In the rubble he slept, unmindful of broken glass, stones, garbage, and whatever jetsom made it to the trash that day. He'd bury himself in the pile of whatever, and sleep late into the morning, until the sun had fully emerged.

Quickly losing weight, and being battered by other male dogs his juniors in years but superiors in strength, Kalu didn't look so good. I started feeding him of course, and bandaging his wounds, but it wasn't enough. A temporary respite in a very nearby ashram didn't last long. I found permission for him to stay there, and he did like this spacious home, but he was soon unwelcome, as his condition and beauty deteriorated with age and battle scars of the street. So, once again, he was back on the street, to where else, the Police station.

A new problem now set in, his back legs started to deteriorate. First a bit of dragging, to not being able to hold himself up, and he declined. A few accupunture treatments from a volunteer veterinarian did not help. But still, he peddled himself forward every morning to the front of the Police station, his home, and his place of reporting. When I arrived that winter morning, and Kalu had not 'reported for duty' I knew I had to make a change, and he would not like it. He was independent, strong willed, and did not want to leave his home. But I had to. I put him in my home, and although he cared for me, it was not his home, his work. He was not happy. For many reasons, I had to find him something else.

At this point in time, earlier said ashram (see earlier post) had accumulated a new group of dogs. Once again, dumped by local well wishers who could not keep them, found them, etc., and hoped for the best by placing them in a setting of spiritual bliss ...

maybe

Now fully paraplegic, Kalu had been joined in my home by another paraplegic dog, Lili. Lili was a gorgeous border collie cross, a victim of a road accident, who now scooted about on her two front legs as she effortlessly lifted her back end and walked on her hands, as it were. A very handy makeshift home had been made in a garden of the ashram, and it now seemed to belong to the dogs, literally. Squatters rights! I had been feeding these dogs and arranging for their medical care one by one, and a devoted animal lover within the ashram shared in their care. Life was bliss ...

So I added the new residents, Kalu and Lili. Lili adapted very quickly to her new home, and is an adorable site in the garden. Kalu, although in a much better and healthier environment, bears a bit of a grudge towards me for displacing him from his beloved police station, and forcing what he believed to be an early retirement. Sorry, Kalu, I could not watch you die on the street, unneccessarily. A part of him adjusted to the life of ease, cleanliness, good meals, fresh air, and a view of the Ganga, but he never fully forgot his work, and his job in Tapovan. Had I opened the garden gate, I know he would have dragged himself with every bit of strength he had left in him, to his beloved police station. In his being, Kalu was always prepared to report for duty.


FINAL NOTE ... Kalu passed away, mid January, 2012. He lived in the ashram with its adventures, ease, discord, and love, for one full year.