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.