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.


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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