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.