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.
