2011 The PO Pups

The Post Office Pups

There they were, a new edition to the year of 2011. Six gorgeous golden puppies, each one more healthy looking than the next. Some all gold, and some a chocolate gold with soft black muzzle markings. It was impossible to not pick them up and cuddle these small but hefty beings of innocence and trust. It was their first move. Where they came from I was never told and will never know. They were about six weeks old, and placed in a semi-safe semi-private location, the local Post Office. While this may not sound terribly private, or particularly safe, considering the logistics of the building, it had its advantages. One, it had a couple of enclosures in the outer entrance way, where they could curl up and hide, if need be, and two, it was enclosed, from cold and rain, and three, it was just public enough that they could be seen should some well wisher find them irrisistable and be moved to carry one away, and in the world of wishful thinking, take them and provide a home.
Fourth, it was fairly well known that I would sooner rather than later, take notice of them, and take care of them. Mama was new to the area as far as being an outside\street dog, and was most likely a female family pet, who now that she had become pregnant, was put out on her own to take care of herself and her pups. So far she had done a very good job, the puppies were brilliant in their good health and comfort.
The local postmaster turned out to be a very kindly man, who although would not activey acknowledge them, made no comments of complaints of their presence, and made no efforts to have them removed, So, for now they would be safe. The auto rickshaws park up in front of the Post Office entrance, and the drivers genrally had a good time counting puppies and watching their progress. And yes, it was an auto driver who eventually admitted to placing them there, although admitting no relationship of ownership to the mother dog. Still, it was an effort in a world of limited opportunities to provide care for these beings, even with the not unreasonable hope that someone else (me) would give them care.
So, they came, they played, they ate, and for a time they thrived. Mama could come and go, the local garbage dump was just across the street, and if the food I brought was not to her liking, there was always the opportunity to explore and scavange.
Another unexpected bonus to this location, was the semi-permanent addition of a wandering Baba who made the enclaved entrance to the PO his home as well. He stored his belongings in a corner, unrolled his bed bag in the evening, and slept there until morning, before opening hours. So, a Baba, bed and blankets, and six lovely puppies and one mama to keep each other all warm in the cold nights. Morning feedings were now not just for the pups, but for Baba as well, who let me know just how he liked his morning tea and biscuits. Why not? And oh yes, Baba likes his drink as well, so morning time often included several empty bottles of spirits scattered about, which I trust were for medicinal purposes in the cold of the night. Why not?
The not so good parts. The puppies were all girls, so no one would be taking them, no matter how adorable they were. The road the Post Office is on is busy, full on with trucks, autos and motorbikes. And the garbage dump with its full aroma of inviting delicacies was across this street. No matter how much food they would be given, and it was more than ample, the lure of expanded horizons was only a matter of time as they grew and became more mobile and adventurous.
It did not take long for the first accident. The largest, the heftiest, Bertha. The most beautiful and the most advanced was now lame, and frightened as I approached one afternoon. Instead of running out in front of her smaller sisters to greet me, she was cowering, in a corner shaking and in pain. With medical treatment and some days of rest, she seemed to improve; until one morning I came and she was gone. No one knew anything of her disappearance, and she was not seen again. Then there were five. Shortly after that there were four. This time the shop keepers saw it, instant contact with a passing truck, instant death. Yet they were moved, and touched, and with a trace of a tear in his eye the ususally stoic shopkeeper asked if I could not move them somewhere else. The local children who were part of the family of the shop keepers next door would regularly play with them, and enjoy their company, but they too wanted them moved. People were putting their hopes on their survival, and we all knew it was pretty unlikely.

So, on the lookout for yet another hiding place. It had to have safety, access, and no other dogs who already claimed this as their territory. In the middle of the village stood a seemingly abandoned ashram, up the road a bit. Many people walked pass every day, all day, and dogs did go through, but it did not look like anyone lived there. The layout gave a pleasant surprise, as on the top floor was a huge open courtyard, fully enclosed, and secure. Very secure, once I put them in there. How would I get them out. Well, the obvious. I would have to scale the wall several times a day in and out. SO the puppies were moved. Mama could come in and out by utilizing a ramp I set up for her, and the puppies were enclosed. I would take them out to run in the garden in the morning and afternoon, and put them back in at evening time. It worked well for a while, it was just time consuming. The school children saw all this of course, and one morning there were two new additions, Kali and her daughter Kali, courtesy of the school children. They eventually left on their own, to where I do not know, but they were beautifuland gentle and sweet, and I wished them God's grace.
A change was brewing in the ashram setup ... suddenly I was finding the puppies all put out on the outside, and a security guard sleeping on the ground floor at lunch time. Hm, the word is out, squatters have moved in. They may be the four legged kind, but still, squatters. I kept my cool, and just waited him out each day, and when he left, the puppies would go back in, safely tucked away for the night, and in the mornings, I would find them all back out. They were growing, it was ok, they would have to learn their way on the street sooner rather than later anyway. So in a bit more time, the seemingly inevitable, two more disappeared. One was reportedly hit by a motor bike, and the other unknown. The two remaining now were clearly afraid to enter the ashram grounds, so it appeared they were now being forcibley, and aggressively removed. They relocated across the street, and did well for some time; and then there was one. A family has taken her in, but where and for how long, is hard to say.

The life of a street dog.

BACK IN INDIA ...

Meanwhile, before my time in exile, here are a few of the street dogs in India, and their conditions and stories before I left ...







This is Mama, also called Grandma, as she is the mother and grandmother of many of the dogs of Beach Baba. Surprising all of us, including the local vet, Grandma had another litter of pups. We did not think it was possible, but then, there you are; Incredible India.

The pups were not born at a good time, they were born at the end of the monsoon, and we had seen the greatest rain since nearly 50 years. The beaches, the ghats, the roads were flooded. The pups and Mama had to moved up land several times. When they were returned to Babas cave on the Beach, the sand was dirty, and filled with mud and sand flies. The puppies had to endure very difficult conditions, and skin and parasite problems took their toll.

Still, a few survived, and looked like they would be ok. Baba is ever grateful, and calls these dogs his "children."







Here's a photo taken during a feed and clean. The pups were dewormed, treated for skin eruptions, fed, and happily sent on their way for a day of more play.

All looked good, as good as it can be, and they had a care-taker while I was away.
Soon, the sad news came. Mama/Grandma was gone. She had been ill for one day, with howling and hiding, and the next day she was dead. Three of the pups were also sick, with burns around their muzzles. As I write this, I don't know how many, if any have survived.

Baba was doing his best to care for them, and their loss would be greatly felt by him.

As I write these stories, I realize they are not all full of what we would call happiness. It's not that I go looking for the sad stories or sad endings, it's that this is the reality of the life of a street dog. It is short, it is unpredictable, and it is full of peril.

The few that experience moments of comfort, companionship, and love, are the rarities.

And perhaps we must each do our part to bring a bit of kindness into the world.

THE ONES WHO NEED A MIRACLE


Or, as I also wanted to call it: The Ones Who Won’t Make It

This will be short, and hopefully not too disturbing, but in meeting them, even though their outcomes are unlikely to be good, I wanted to acknowledge that they where met, recognized, and cared for, for at least a brief moment in their lives. Many others like them exist, and their stories will never be told. Let these few offer a small representation of the many whose lives pass on, unnoticed.

SURYA

I didn’t know what to call him, and their names usually come easily to me. But he appeared one day, out of the blue, as so many do. It was not far from where I stay, where another white dog lived, same size and same age. The first dog had the unusual characteristic of one brown eye, and one blue eye. His face was pure white, and the icy blue eye gave him a startling, ghostly quality. He was stunning. Although he belonged to someone and had a family, he was painfully thin, and painfully shy. I couldn’t get close to him, to try to start a relationship, and start deworming treatments, and whatever else he needed. Every time I approached, he would dart away, in complete fear. This was a high traffic area; the danger of his jumping into an oncoming vehicle was very real. So, I had to leave it, and if he was one of the ones I could not touch, so be it.

“Ghost” continued this way, shy, and darting, recoiling at even the slightest eye contact. He always looked scared and somewhat lost. Physically he was painfully thin and malnourished, and I didn’t know how long he could go on this way. When Surya showed up, the pups were close to six months at this time. Surya was full of confidence, physical strength, with an ease of character and friendliness. He had all the desirable traits Ghost seemed to lack; he was one of the finest dogs I had ever met. He roamed the neighborhood, not quarrelling with any other dog, one of those dogs who is accepted by the others, and poses no threat. And the first dog, Ghost, now took on a new role and soon a new form, as his companion, and shadow.

They had to be brothers, and somehow Surya had managed to find him. The change in Ghost’s character at the inclusion of Surya in his life was dramatic. He became more confident, friendly, started to put on weight, and blossomed. The two were inseparable. It was clear to me that Ghost’s problem had been at least partly emotional; he had been at a loss without his connection to this other dog. We often fail to recognize the strength of the bonds these creatures share, but this could not be missed. Ghost transformed and thrived, immediately, at the inclusion of Surya in his life.

Where there was one, now there were two; Surya always in the lead, and Ghost following close by, finally leaving the self imposed confines of his limited turf. Tails up, tongues lolling from their mouths, they were no nuisance to anyone; just two happy dogs that greeted the neighborhood and their world with their joy.

Things went on this way for months. Surya, in addition to finding his brother, had found the chicken shop not so far away, and the two could feast on leftover chicken parts, and thrive.

As for me, it was time for a visa run, and I had to leave India until I could get a new visa.

A few days before leaving, I found Surya, in the chai shop he and his brother had adopted, a painfully thin shadow of his former self, wasting away, the cause unknown. Even while I was there, little could be done. He was in great pain, with little appetite, and losing his ability to walk. No labs, no hospitals, no caretakers …. What could be done? I was watching him disintegrate in front of me. This was more the outcome I had anticipated for his brother, Ghost. I have seen many pups like Ghost, who cannot thrive, waste away, until one day they are simply no longer seen. But Surya? I was shocked to see him like this. The dogs were fully-grown now, and in beautiful health. What had happened? Had the beautiful Surya, somehow traded places, and perhaps fate, with his brother? I doubt he will be alive when I return.

The bonds of brotherhood between them were amazing. Surya had clearly been doing well wherever he had come from, but still had the longing to find his brother and companion. He found him, and his presence changed Ghost from a weak, scared and malnourished dog into a mirror image of himself. Ghost had become a dog of health, confidence, and happiness. Surya gave him strength, and life. Was there a price? Was it now it was Surya’s turn to decline? Had he given his brother a chance to work out his time in this life, and had he willingly sacrificed himself? We don’t know. But Ghost continues to thrive, now roaming the streets on his own, not as friendly and confident as his brother, but close. Surya lies in pain, barely able to walk, deteriorating in his physical body.

This dog was a beauty, unlike most that I have seen. In the Buddhist beliefs, one can make a choice at the point of full enlightenment to stop the final merge into nirvana, making a choice to remain as a Bodhisattva; one who will delay full enlightenment until every sentient being is relieved of their sorrows and their sufferings.

Is this the case with Surya? Had he come to rescue his brother from a fate which he had now taken on in his place? We will never fully know; it remains a part of our not understanding the world and the mystery of how and why it works. Mystery rules much of our daily lives. Can a Bodhisatva return in the form of a dog? I think there are many Buddhists who would say “NO.” Well, why not? It is the ego, which makes us feel so unique, and so superior. A certain degree of ego is necessary to physical survival, but when it separates us from the rest of creation and being, does it perhaps serve only as a distortion of the mirror of totality and unity that is around us.

Surya, I finally had a name for you, as I write this, Surya, the Sun. Bodhisattva or mere Beautiful Being of Light and Love, shine on Surya, in your new form, whatever and wherever that may be.

Prem.











HARIDWAR DOG


Mange seems to be a real issue in Haridwar these days for the dogs.

I had started going to Haridwar for the Kumbh Mela once or twice a week. The Kumbh Mela is called the world’s largest spiritual gathering. Yogis, Babas, holy men and women come from all parts of India and Nepal for this auspicious occasion and gathering which occurs every twelve years… except that there are four locations, so it’s actually every three years, but never mind, this is India, and what’s a few years?

Having just missed the last Kumbh that was three years ago, I was quite keen on experiencing this one. This one, after all, was a “Maha” Kumbh, the Big One, that occurs only in twelve years time … since time immemorial, they [like to] say. So, start-up date, January 14th, I went. Days of planning were required; after all, his was the “Maha” Kumbh … maybe as many as 200 million people to prepare for [so they like to say]. Roads were blocked between Rishikesh, and Haridwar, and one had to position oneself logistically, and prepare oneself mentally and physically for the trip, and the gathering. It is said the crowds are so massive, that people lose family members in these crowds. Ailing parents and grandparents, impoverished “extra” girl children, “lost”, never to be seen again, the crowds so massive.

For months, we had seen the pitching of miles of tents to hold the pilgrims, the police, and the “holy ones” and their followers. Special bridges had been built in Haridwar and Rishikesh to help the masses cross the Ganges, and wooden corrals were constructed to direct the crowds and keep them from forming a mad rush and crush into the holy town of Haridwar.

Early in the morning, pre-dawn, I went. Prepared for the walk, the crowds, and the emanation of so much “sahkti” that one could be bowelled over from the sheer intensity of the energy and power of the vibration, I set out with great determination and preparation for the state of awe.

I arrived, just as the sun was about to rise. Perfect … and there I was, pretty much alone, except for a few other foreigners, foreign reporters, and lots of military police. And there we were, looking at one another, a bit puzzled and bemused. “Uh, any Baba’s?”




Not so many. This is India, after all, and things are not always what they seem. I made my way around, and made it back to Rishikesh after giving it a reasonable search, pretty early in the day. Sat down for a cup of chai, and read that morning’s newspaper. Page two, with even a photo, a full story on how the crowds had gathered to watch the town of Haridwar fill with the saffron colors of the sadhus’ robes …. “Huh?”

But I was there … how could I miss that? Which city of Haridwar were they talking about? Upon closer examination, the photo was not actually from Haridwar, but from Allahabad, the site of the last Kumbh (three years ago). And to make it in time for that mornings press, the story would have had to been written the previous night …. India; things are not always what they seem, never mind a little distortion. A good story is a good story, after all.

Anyway, I digress. What I did find was lots of dogs with serious cases of mange, and it was rampant. The dogs looked well fed enough, on the whole, but the miseries of the skin condition were running wild. Usually prepared with a small stock of medicines ever in my bag, I was able to medicate at least twenty or so, while looking for the Holy Ones and receive their blessings with darshan.

The Kumbh was to continue for the next few months, with many auspicious bathing days, and opportunities to see the saints. The next big day was the 26th, when thousands of Naga Babas were to descend upon the town of Haridwar. Nagas, the naked ones, who never left the Himalayas, who never left their caves, their seclusion, their meditation, their tapas and their austerities, except to take a dip in the holy Ganges on these astrologically auspicious days, and add their shakti to the purifying power of the Ganges. Not only would the karma of the one taking the bath in the Ganges be cleansed on these special days, but also the karmas of generations of past and future family members. If you know anything about my family … this was a “must.” It was worth a second try.

I went this time with my friend Kosta, a Rishikesh regular for many years, and a man who had the assurance of his own Naga Baba in Rishikesh, that this was “it.” The really Big Day, and the “real” start of the Kumbh Mela; forget that nonsense of the 14th as the start date. So we went, again, early morning, half asleep, ready to march the long road, blocked to all vehicular traffic. We arrived pre-dawn. A few more people this time, some of the same foreign photographers as before, and there we were, with all the military police. Lights were now strung over Harki Puri, and the site was beautiful. The Ganges ran strong and swift, … and quite empty.

We walked the town of Haridwar, the streets deserted, and the trafficked blocked. To prepare for the masses, Haridwar officials had closed the streets to all traffic, except pedestrian. We walked the streets of Old Haridwar, enchanted by the sights and the silence. Even the dogs were still asleep. I saw temples, shrines, ashrams and dharamshalas I could never notice before, with the crowds usually being so deep one can only walk the streets with safety in mind. One normally walks Haridwar as one does most Indian cities, as an obstacle course, focusing only on avoiding a collision with the frenetic flow of motorbikes, rickshaws, autos, and bicycles; all on their own path. Sightseeing is usually out of the question; but this was magic, and a darshan of its own.

Later in the day, a parade went on, but the beauty that day was in the stillness of the morning, and in the darshan of the Ganga, and in the rest of the sleeping dogs, at peace with the world and in their own dreams.

Unhurriedly, at a pace all its own, the Kumbh eventually came into full swing, with many saying when asked why the tents were all empty, “Why would they be filled? The Kumbh Mela starts after March 15.” And after march 15th passed, the date then became one in April …
Yeah, Ok … So why did Haridwar, the newspapers, the web sites say it started in mid-January?

Never, mind, this is India; and what’s a few months in time?






There were more parades, more bathing days, and slowly, slowly, more people coming. I would go, not so often, at first, and always prepared with lots of medication for the dogs. The regular Babas around Maya Devi Ashram started calling me “Dog Woman.” Some would be a bit more polite and say Dog Walli, or Dog Doctor. The Babas from Rishikesh already recognized me, and would nod their heads and say, yes, that’s the Dog Woman, not sure if they should acknowledge an acquaintance with me or not.






One of the first dogs I treated for a mild case of mange was a Babas dog in the Juna Akhara camp. He was a young, and minor Baba, but a delight, and my entre into many tents and camps that I would never had gotten into without his guidance and invitation. Now at least some of the Babas of Juna Akhara know the power of ivermectin, and its efficacy over mange. Some of them praise me, some shrug their shoulders, and some laugh … and it’s all good.






The camps can be intense, with a world and a vocabulary, and energy all its own. One does not have to go far to get a break. The shops and restaurants outside of Maya Devi ashram are largely unaffected by the Kumbh, and it’s business as usual. A few hundred meters outside the camp looking for some respite, I saw him, and gasped. I had come from Naga Babas with no clothes, ashes covering their bare skin, dread locks flowing four feet on the ground, pierced penises, endless chillum pipes passed around, drums, horns, and mantras, but I was not prepared for this.

I saw a rather large size dog, with dark grey leathery skin but no hair, and a horrible red jaw and lips, exposing where he should have had teeth, but now only had a bleeding, angry ravaged open wound instead of a proper jaw. An accident? I don’t know. A stick to the face, knocking out his teeth? I don’t know. A medical condition; again, I don’t know. Just an awful sight, with flies landing on his open sores. I didn’t know what to do. I ended up giving him antibiotics, and mange medication. He could eat, and seemed not to be too troubled by his condition. Strangely accepting it, or just numbed by his own condition, I don’t know.

I didn’t see him again for some days. But when I did see him again, somehow, he looked a bit better. The jaw looked better, the bleeding had stopped, and it seemed to be finding its own way to mend. And his hair was actually growing back a bit. I repeated the mange medication, and gave him some more food. In buying his food, the shopkeeper started advising me on what he likes to eat! A small miracle, I thought. I had found the one shopkeeper who had taken an interest in him. I asked him if he would continue antibiotics for him on a regular basis, showed him how to administer the pills, and he said “yes.”

I thought the dog had a chance. I had felt guilty at first about feeding him, and medicating him, and then having to leave him. Is it fair to give him hope, when I can’t follow up with anything? Are these the times it is better to leave it, and let this pain and this path take its course?

So again, I would not see him for some days, and my time for leaving for the visa was just around the corner. Then I saw him, and I was sickened. He had a bit of hair, but the jaw was worse, and something I had not noticed earlier, had fully erupted. He had a horrible testicular tumor, and it was huge; it had grown very quickly. It is called TVT and it is a transmissible sexual disease, and I see it a lot in the street dogs. It is highly treatable, and I have had many Rishikesh dogs treated for this. One uses a chemotherapy drug called vincrystine, available, and very inexpensive here. It is administered intravenously, for several weeks. But there was no time for my Naga Dog. I was to leave the next day. The tumor was big, starting to open, and the flies were gathering on his sores. I made frantic phone calls for help, but in the end, had to leave him. So my guilt came back, because as he looked me in the face now, he recognized me, of course, and now there was Hope. I could not fulfill that Hope, and have let him down. It will be a miracle if he is still alive when I come back. What is more likely is that I will never see him again.

So the Kumbh Mela continues, with the bathers coming for their absolution of negative karmas, for the blessings from the holy saints, for the gathering of spiritual enlightenment, and a few hundred meters away, a lonely dog, my Naga Dog, passes on, unnoticed and uncared for. My intervention had been enough to give him a degree of hope, and it was a hope I could not fulfill. I let him down, and have no good explanation for him. My Naga Dog does not understand the fabricated reality of visas and borders. It will be some sort of strange reality if he is alive when I come back. What is more likely is that I will never see him alive again; I will only see him in my memory and mind’s eye. My Naga Dog, so close to he borders of salvation, in a life of tapas and austerities all his own.










Julie


Julie dog, where do I begin? I first met Julie post-surgery. Her botched amputation had already taken place, and all the foreigners who were helping in her care were leaving one by one. The last of them, two lovely women from Finland, sought me out, hoping I could take on her post-op care. It wasn’t that Julie did not have a family, she did, and they did quite well by her and her condition that roused the sympathies of touring animal lovers. As for their actual care of Julie, in this they could not manage so very well.



Julie is a sensitive dog, and she did not take the condition of her new body very well, and the family could not manage the proper administration of medicines, enough food, or even a lead, to tie her on their veranda, rather than let her stumble onto the street where the jeeps and taxis rushed by. Her home is on this busy path, and one of the vehicles had struck her, and the injured leg required amputation. It was not done well.

I put her on a neighbor’s rooftop, as mine was as it usually is, already engaged. We gave her her medications, helped her with her walks, and gave her good food, and plenty of love and care. She came to a reasonable stage of recovery, and her family said they wanted her back. Although this surprised me, I was somewhat relieved, for taking on another dog in my somewhat precarious circumstances, was not the most practical thing to do.

I checked on her, hoping things would be all right, but they were not. Julie was losing weight, losing luster, and looking unhappy. The Finnish girls came back, and they too saw Julie somewhat temperamental, and unhappy. The family just seemed to be negligent in their care. Always friendly, always engaged with conversation about her care, and yet, she was clearly not thriving. Julie was always voracious when I came, the family complained she would eat too quickly and then up-chuck the food later on. Well, yes, feed her enough food throughout the day, and maybe she won’t have to inhale it when I come, I could not help but comment to myself.

I was sensing a bit of irritation on my part as the visits increased.

They sensed this as well, and now the reports were that Julie was eating well. She did improve, and I felt I did not have to come everyday to see her. Other visitors’ reports were that she was doing well.

A bit of time went on, I did a check on Julie, and she was horrible. Not eating, hairless, emitting an offensive odor, and depressed. The doctor had not been called, I had not been called. But the family came out, with great concern, “Mmm, Julie, not so good.”

“Julie, not so good”, I verified; “she’s going to die if nothing is done.”

IV fluids, treatment for amoebas, vitamin injections, treatment for mange and fungus, and she slowly recovered. There was never a water dish to be found for her, and she obviously had to drink the only water that was available, and that was the sewage water that runs along side their home and street.

There was only frustration in dealing with the family, but they assured me they now understood the importance of fresh water. Another tourist, who was staying nearby, took on her daily care, and again Julie recovered, and thrived.

When she left, another took her place. All seemed under control, until I did another, recent check in. Again, hairless, thin, foul smelling, and depressed. I “lost it” with the family, and vented my anger. Poor Julie curled up into a little ball, trying not to be a part of this explosion on my part.

This was all happening at the same time as my Haridwar, Naga Dog, Sparky, and countless other problems before I had to leave.

Another small miracle happened, in that on my final day in Rishikesh, I went to see Julie, feed her, medicate, and someone I had recently met came by. He took great interest in Julie, and will take on her care while he is still in town. Julie, the dog of how many lives? She seems to come to the brink of death, always to be saved, temporarily. I will check on her again, when I return, and see what the future has in store for Julie’s, and my fate.

LONG TIME NO TALK TO …

Although new word entries have not been made, living and staying in India have gone on, and the care of the street animals continues, in its ever evolving, and varied forms.

At times the stories start to sound the same, and one has to make sense of it. Why the repetition, why the commonality, and what’s the point being made? But most of the time, one is so enveloped in the Now, that a re-writing of what has already passed, seems unnecessary. A new story, or a remake of an old story acted out in the present, have taken precedence over reflections of the world of past time and reactivity.

Some stories however, stick out.

Shivani, Bhavani, and Shirdi Sai Baba

June/July sees the oncoming of he Kanwarias; The orange men, as they are commonly called. They come by the thousands, each day. They clog the streets and jam the traffic with their numbers and their rambling. The summer heat is oppressive, and the body heat of an extra 100 to as much as 500,000 a day mixed with the smell of sweat, excrement, and exhaustion can be daunting. They march shoed, barefoot, and in full prostrations. In other towns I was told, they are revered as demi-gods. Men on pilgrimage from the small towns to the holy hills and temples, walking all the way. Never mind the altercations that can leave highways blocked, trains stopped, and busses overturned. Demi-gods of the lesser towns they may be, but not necessarily so in the holy city of Rishikesh, where saints outnumber commoners, but on most days, the merchants rule. Here they are seen for the most part as a nuisance. The flow of spiritual intent mixed with the juices of suppressed testosterone stop the business of the day. Shops are closed, shutters are drawn, sewers are blocked, and sales plummet for a full month and a half. Unless one sells nylon orange shorts and T-shirts, the unofficial uniform of the Kanwarias, sales are absent. Crates of 50 rs orange cloth, the color of the fire of renunciation, made in China, have made their deliveries months in advance, to satisfy the needs of the unofficial dress code of the Kanwarias.

This past year saw something else strange: the beautification of the ghats along the pilgrims path. It was too early for this window dressing to be for the Kumbh Mela that was to come later. This was clearly tied to the timing of the Shaivites march. Ghats which had been unfinished, raw, or neglected were remade, with new marble steps that were polished, decorated, and finely done. There were changing rooms, railings, and even small lawn and garden areas. Completion came just in time for the march, and the shiny new ghats were soon covered with sweat, soil, litter and the overflow of the blocked sewers. The exhausted Kanwarias would take rest here, and the street vendors would set up chai stalls, souvenir shops, flower offerings for the Ganga, and the endless bottles of plastic to be filled with Ganga jal (water). The water is carried along the path to the next holy destination (Neelkanth in this case) and offered to the deities. As with any large gathering, the full effect of the remains of human onslaught is not witnessed until after the crowds have left. But, fresh marble cleans easily, and a bit of water and full sweeping bring the new ghats back to a near pristine state. Beloved Gangaji is asked to absorb the deposits of refuse as the sweepers automatically empty the trash into her flow.

It was in one of these new ghats that I noticed an unintended consequence. The roofed changing rooms that provide shade from the sun and shelter from the rains also became a new location for a housing camp for the Babas. Bedrolls and pots and pans deliberately placed quickly claimed ownership of space, and a small group of the homeless now had a very new and very “upscale” community home. With fresh shelter, human companionship and the prospect of food and relationship, along came the dogs. The young ones, who were too weak and unimpressive to join the established packs that surrounded the new ghat, could start their own community of turf, and relationship.

RADHE, RADHE & SHIVANI

A family of orphaned pups claimed a small corner of the streets not to far away. The most beautiful was a delicate little fur ball of golden brown with a black muzzle, called Radha, the beloved of Krishna. Her beauty was such that many of the locals would pick her up by the scruff, take a quick look to determine her gender, and “Nope,” as a girl, she was immediately dropped back down. Still her beauty was such that I thought she would get enough attention and scraps of food to have as good a chance for survival as one can hope for. She had her human admirers, and they named her Radha. Somewhat overlooked due to the beauty of her sister, was Shivani. A lovely orange colored flat coat cross of a small setter, and humble street dog. Add pale, sea green eyes to a docile gentle manner, and one has a dog of sweet sensitivity, with an ethereal detachment. . But only I seemed to catch that; next to Radha’s good looks, Shivani was somewhat neglected by the local vendors. I named her Shivani, hoping that her illustrious name would open the eyes of the regular vendors, to the special beauty that she was, but it didn’t seem to work. Shivani would continually be called, in a somewhat derogatory tone, “that street dog.”

In just a bit if time, Radha was clearly not doing well, physically. As a somewhat reserved dog temperamentally, she wasn’t the type who would fight for her share of the street scraps that were tossed their way, and she did not thrive. One of the chai vendors asked me why she does not eat fast, ” like the others. This was more than reserve, this was a physical condition, and Radha was declining, fast. I ended up taking her in for treatment, and it took some time, but she became well. Circumstances on the street had changed, and putting her back would bring certain peril and neglect that would again endanger her life. Although it was never my intention to “keep” her, I couldn’t put her back to that location. So for now, she stays with me.

ENTER BHAVANI

I felt guilty about leaving Shivani on the ghats on her own, but she managed to find a new friend, and the two girls bonded and became friends. Enter Bhavani. One day, as is often the case, she just showed up, not fully grown, and not a baby pup, she greeted me as if she had known me all her life. I bent down to give her some food, and she jumped in my half-lap, trying to stay in my lap and not slide down. I could not place her, in my mind or my memory, yet she greeted me as though we were long lost friends. Perhaps I helped her when she was a young pup, and did not recognize her now more grown up. They do remember us, even though help may have been only a simple feeding and a kind word in a random, single encounter. Perhaps another foreigner had helped her, and she now associated foreigners with kindness and help. Or it may be a past life recognition, or a connection of vibration, that she recognized more than I did. Anyway, this little beauty was a fine sheltie cross, with physical and behavioral similarities to a dog I had back in my home country. She was a joy to see and visiting her on what became a daily basis was a pleasure. She was not near by to me, geographically, and she and Shivani required a special trip each day in addition to my regular rounds, of animal care, but they were worth it. Their own ghat, right on the Ganges, with a small lawn area and a new group of Babas; it seemed ideal, and for a few weeks it was. I would come early each morning, as it was too hot after 10:00 to do too much walking. The two dogs, and only a few bathers from the nearby ashram, standing ankle deep in the Ganges, offering their morning prayers would greet my eyes each morning. I was thoroughly pleased, and fully expected to see them thrive.

One morning, however, I came to find Bhavani in obvious pain. This is always a scenario one has to be prepared for. These beings live on the streets, “our” streets; man made and man-ruled. Motorbikes regularly cross these crowded narrow streets at a speed that is convenient for the driver, with no regard for the safety or comfort of who else may share the road. Bike and car accidents are common. This was not an obvious bike accident, however. I tried to give her a simple physical exam as gently as I could, and it soon was obvious it was her back, or spine that was not right. There’s no proper medical facility here for animals. Period. No x-rays, no labs, no hospitals. The Dr. came, prescribed anti-inflammatory medication, the typical injection of B vitamins, and said let’s see.

A small crowd usually gathers when something out of the ordinary occurs, and a dog exam on the street fits that rule. Two young men who knew me by sight, and run a juice stall nearby, immediately offered their explanation … With their fists clenched one atop the other, and swinging their arms up and down, they repeated the word “stick; stick.” I looked at them questioningly, not really wanting to hear the rest, but they nodded their heads, “stick, stickman” and pointed to an unofficial, self-appointed security guard of the ashram. He simply stared, non-pulsed, and walked away. Yes, he had a stick. If someone does not like the presence of a dog, cow, or mule in their vicinity, the “stick” across the back is often the remedy to make their part of the street free from the unwelcome, hapless intruder. Bhavani was tiny, a slim little girl who felt light as a feather when she leapt into your lap. The pain of he stick across such a slender form had to bring shock, and terrible pain.

Confronting this man would have been inappropriate in this situation, and to help the dog, I had to make as little of a scene as possible. My first priority was to see if she could be healed. I would come daily, administer her medication, offer food, and hope a miracle would help her. Walking was difficult for her, and I would carry her from one location to another, in and out of the sun, on and off the grassy areas, and she gently accepted my help. This went on for days, with no signs of improvement. Still she ate, was kept in as minimal pain as possible, and I would continue this for as long as necessary.

Some days later, I saw another one of the “regulars,” a few ghats over, stumbling, back arched, legs splayed, and falling over. It was the same sight I had seen with Bhavani. My breath stopped as my stomach twisted; another one. I heard again from the locals that a man with a “stick”, “stick” had struck again. Then I was told there were others. This dog was very well known to me, and had been named Scruffy. Another scrawny pup I had thought would never make it, but with deworming and good food grew into a lovely and lively dog of the ghats. But now Scruffy’s time had come short. In a few days he was no longer to be seen. I said a prayer, and hoped that his life of pain was now finished.

Bhavani, which means Illuminating, imagining, creator, went on as the same. But she seemed to find a way to accept her physical condition, at least making herself accustomed to it in the way that it no longer predominates ones consciousness with the question of “why” … but accepts, and adjusts. So now when I came, she would eat well, give a bit of a stretch when she finished, and enjoy a light belly rub. And she started to put on a bit of weight, which was good, and she was happy to see me.

I was always as discreet as I could be in my actions with her, but of course, a foreigner on Holy Ground, tending to a dog, is a sight that is noticed. Then it came, the morning of the eruption; “You come here every morning and make a mess!” greeted me as I sat down to feed Bhavani. [No mess was ever made or left]

“You are not wanted here; this is an ashram!”

The words went on and on, in a tone of anger and a color of rage. I quietly replied, “I don’t make a mess” and moved Bhavani up the stairs on to the grassy lawn.

Then I was really in for it. Obviously spurred on by the first Mataji, a second woman starts screaming at me at the top of her lungs, and she is shaking her fist, and her stick at me. Now a crowd had formed, and I am asked to explain myself by a more sober resident of the ashram. He quietly tells me I am doing good, continue, but for now better to move on. Obviously, I move on, after having placed Bhavani in a grassy area, not right on the Ganges. Shaken, I sit to rest not too far away, but well out of sight. I wait a few minutes, and “know” I must go back. The sight is what I had been unconsciously prepared for. Bhavani is dead. She is laying only a few steps from where I had placed her, her body completely stretched out as if she had tried to run. No one from the earlier crowd is to be seen. The area is deserted, eerily quiet, with only her little body on the grass, her life force gone, and no sign of the crowd that had formed there only a few minutes earlier.

I had to turn my shock and grief into something that would turn this around. What could I do that could in any way bring relevance and peace to these kinds of situations? I searched for stories about India’s most holy saints and their views and treatment of the so-called “lesser beings”.

The most beautiful I found was the following; There are many versions of this to be found, but this is a paraphrasing of the first version I found, and the most beautiful.

There is a highly revered saint in India called Shirdi Sai Baba. He lived in the body from a date unknown, to October 15 1918. His Hindus followers call him a Hindu, and there are Muslim followers who also call him a saint. His image is seen throughout India, always with his white beard, headscarf, beatific smile, and left hand up in blessing to those who catch his gaze.

In his ashram, during lunch, a devotee sat down for her lunch in the dining hall. Food was served, and as she was about to eat, a starving, mangy dog walked through the door, and without hesitation she shared her food with him. Sated, he left, and she was about to start her meal again, when a pig wandered in, also looking for food. Again, without hesitation, she shared her lunch with him, and satisfied, he wandered out.

Later that day, in satsang, Shirdi Sai Baba called her by name. …

Thank you for the lovely meal. I am so full. Startled, she looked around, confused. She explained, I have not fed you, I have no means to feed you, I come to the ashram for what I can be given here, myself.

He questioned her:

Did you not feed that hungry dog today? Did you not feed that hungry pig?

Why yes, she replied.

When you fed them, you fed Me. The dog to which you gave the bread, is one with me. So also are other creatures; I am roaming in their forms. So abandon the sense of distinction and duality, and serve the One, as you did today.

I am present in all creation.

This had enormous resonance for me. This is my understanding of worship, and honoring the creations and the creatures in all of their manifested forms of the One. In serving, and giving, and offering what we have to those in need, in offering our heart; we are serving the One, in the best way we know how.

I found many beautiful stories of actions of kindness and care by India’s saints towards our fellow beings, and this is the one that gave me the most comfort. I had the story printed in Hindi and in English, and a few days after beautiful Bhavani’s death, it was distributed amongst the ghats, at the location of her death.

I always ask for a sign when one of my fellow beings that has been in my life has passed on. I usually get one, and it’s very clear. In the stunning circumstances of Bhavani’s death, I had forgotten to ask. I ask it now:

Bhavani, my God, are you all right?

Show me a sign.

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.