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.

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.

Elvis of Muni Ki Reti

We stick out. The local population is very aware of Westerners and what we do, where we go, and who we see. My regular feeding and medicating of the dogs brings attention. Some look at me strangely, some quizzically, and others look with smiles, and approval.

As far as the dogs, I've become attached to the regulars. I know I shouldn't.

The one that first drew my attention to the Ram Juhla dogs was a sickly dog that would lie curled up at the entrance to the Sivananda Ashram hospital (Human Hospital, of course). He was miserable. He was lethargic, uncomfortable, and filled with raw open sores. He would try to snap at the flies that would go to bite his wounds, and would then recoil in pain from the crackling and tearing of his raw sore skin. He was badly infested with fleas and mange. He was a small white Spitz. Even in India, these are prized as pet dogs. How did this one make it to the streets? Was he taken in by some family and let out when he lost his puppy cuteness (as it often happens in the West)? Was he dumped the first time he snapped in self-defence at some inappropriate physical mistreatment by unknowing "owners"? Did he simply get lost at a young age, and this was the safest location he had found in which to stay and now call home? Whatever it was, this once beautiful dog, this dog that should still look glorious, looked bad, miserable, and disposable. He was dirty, thin, and covered with fleas, mange and open wounds.

He seemed to have given up, and was deteriorating. Did he go to the Sivananda hospital somehow intuitively hoping to get treatment,[ where none would be given], or did he go to Sivananda himself for a final prayer for comfort and ease? I touched his head, I looked at his eyes. There were no tell tale signs of neurological disorders, distemper, rabies, etc. He just looked wounded and infected from too much struggle with street life, with small predators feasting on him, and getting the better of the match. He put up little struggle as I treated him with antibiotics, mange medications, and cleaned his sores and rid him of fleas. I syringed liquids into his mouth. The antibiotics worked, fast. A remarkable sight in India with the dogs is just how fast antibiotics can work. These dogs have not been over exposed to any of these medications as we and our pets have in the West. The quick results can be amazing, and a visual testament to the power of antibiotics. His skin started to heal and his energy level rose. I gave him further medications and anti-parasites. He improved. It turned out he had a fondness for sweets, and putting the meds into Indian sweets became an easy way to medicate him and he took his medication eagerly once his appetite returned.

His improvement was fast, and he left the stairs to Sivananda Hospital and went back to his usual spot, the auto rickshaw garage next to Omkarananda. He was happy to see me now, as he thought it meant a sure sweet. I couldn't help it. I know they are not "good" for dogs, but he loved them. He had little trouble finding his own food as there are two food stalls near his resting spots ... under the large white Ambassador taxis, shaded from the sun, and close to the food. So when I offered him "real" food, he wasn't even that interested and would often turn his nose up at it. When he could sniff the sweets, he dances, and claps his two front paws together. I've never seen another dog do that. A quick hop up in the air, and a clap of the front paws. This was sometimes followed by a quick spin and then another hop. He was overjoyed to see me, and the possibility of sweets. He was delightful to watch.

One morning I had no sweets, and didn't go looking for him, but I was not too far from his garage spot. He found me. I heard a shrill, squeaking yelp and automatically turned to see who was injured... I held my breath. No injury, but "Elvis" letting out his happy song, and not stopping once he was beside me, but going on and on singing with joy. I looked around, laughing, and the shop keepers and passers by were laughing as well. This boy could sing; hence, the name "Elvis," for Presley of course, the King. He followed me along to the ghats, singing and dancing the whole walk, bringing other dogs along with his cries of joy. Although the food I has was not to his liking, when there is competition from fellow street dogs, he'll eat. Turns out he could catch anything that flew his way. One of the tricks in feeding street dogs is to toss food to one, and have more ready for the next dog so they are not all scrambling for the same scraps, and fighting over them. This usually works, with practice and timing. But not when one so agile as the Spitz Elvis is near. He could effortlessly and agilely catch anything. As quickly as it left my hands, Elvis had it with a snap.

The guy was a natural. I became accustomed to the greeting of the singing, and the joyful dancing. Out of nowhere, Elvis would be by my side, dancing along and singing. Is this an inherent skill, or taught? I don't know, but soon, an all black 6 month old pup showed her musical skills, as well. Not as refined as Elvis'; more coarse perhaps, but then, Elvis has a year or so on the pup, with more time to have honed his talents with the song. But there they were, the two of them, one all white, one black, vocalizing with joy. The Himalayas may have their barking deer, but Muni Ki Reti has their dogs that sing, for joy. Our feeding-singing routine would draw crowds and smiles. A star is born, I couldn't help think. The singing dogs of Muni Ki Reti.

The little black pup was another one of the first dogs I saw at Muni Ki Reti. At my first meeting with her, I found her to be emaciated physically, and frail in spirit. A few of the other dogs were taking food from me on some stairs, and she came by. She stood there, not even trying to come close to the food. I offered her some food and put it down in front of her. Instead of eating she just looked up at me, puzzled, and seemingly defeated. I encouraged her to eat and she did, a little, all the while not sure if she should trust me. I also treated her for mange and parasites, and didn't see her again for some time. When I did see her again, she took food more readily, and definitely looked better. Was she gaining trust in people? It looked like it. Is this good or bad as far as survival? Good if you come upon someone who wants to help you; bad, if you come upon someone who wants to harm you. Sadness, suffering through illness, starvation is unpleasant to say the least, but it is the intentional cruelty inflicted upon animals that we so often see in the west that is unfathomable to me.

Her health improved and her demeanor changed. She was hanging in the same spots as Elvis, and was looking well fed. The greatest change was in her sheer joy at seeing people. This girl wants to connect. She craves connection more than she craved food. She would stay with the other dogs for some play time, but would be the first to greet me, and the last to let me leave. I was soon greeted with kisses, hugs, and doting eyes. I had a lead on a good home that was looking for a puppy. I thought she would be the obvious choice. She's a fine, loving faithful companion. Besides, she can sing. Adorableness, talent, and love and devotion; what more could anyone want? Somehow the information was crossed, and when the family found out she was a "street dog," she was unwelcome. They wanted a "purebred." She's growing fast, and her puppiness is leaving her. This was probably her only chance for a home with a family. She would have been perfect for them. But our prejudices, and our attachments to what our "mind" tells us does not always serve us well, does it? Her life would have been improved, and theirs could have been filled with joy; but a "street dog" was not welcome in their hearts.

I took a quick trip to Rajasthan to visit several successful and highly regarded animal shelters. I went on a days round- up of answering distress calls for sick or injured animals. Maggot wounds are still rampant this time of year, and ghastly. One of the calls was from an "owner" for their sick dog. We came, and the dog was hiding in an opening close to the outside wall. Tucked away, miserable, suffering and looking for rest and perhaps relief. The family forced him out of his hiding spot with a stick. The catcher and I were both horrified with what we saw. The dog was badly eaten by maggots at his throat and the back of his neck. His spinal cord was visible under raw, sore skin. The catcher skillfully and gently placed him in the rescue ambulance. He admonished the family for not calling sooner. It was another white Spitz, much the same size of my "Elvis," I couldn't help but notice. He was filthy, and smelled bad, and you could see the maggots crawling on his open flesh. Somehow, he was moving around, still alert, and non-complaining. One of the shelter workers casually mentioned that he would probably be euthanized. ... I pleaded for his case with a volunteer vet. Maggot wounds are difficult to treat, but after he had endured so much, doesn't he deserve a chance, I pleaded. The next day I found he had been treated rather than immediately put down, and so far, was doing well. These dogs ask so little of us, I was grateful he had been given at least a chance to heal. Then what, I'm not sure, but still, it somehow seemed "fair" to me that he had a chance.

I was only gone a few days, and as always, happy to be back. I made my rounds, everyone looked good. The local caretakers took good care of those I had asked to be watched over. I didn't see Elvis, but that was no cause for alarm, he had been well, and obviously knew how to find his own food. I made my way to the river, to sit on the stairs and watch the sunset. Watch the dogs, watch the people, give biscuits to the children who work selling flowers for puja; say my hello's and receive my greetings. One elderly woman who makes a living selling bits of food for the fish (chapatti dough rolled into little balls) says hello, and starts to tell me something else in Hindi ...

She is letting me know there has been an accident. More people come to help translate. It's Elvis. Stories vary from hopeful, to very hopeful with a happy ending, to tragic. I spend the next few days trying to track down the dog, and the "Truth." Facts can be difficult to determine in India, and they may have something to do with the Truth, or they may not. I knew in my heart what the Truth was; that I would never see Elvis again.

There are times to question, and times to accept. There are times to witness, and times for detachment. There are times to love, and there are times to grieve. My attachment to him wouldn't let me rest. Somewhere in this tangled mess of fear and hope I came to find that Elvis is dead. The songs of the joyful dog of Mini Ki Reti have briefly stopped on the ghats of the Ganga, and in my heart.

I loved you Elvis; long live the king. He had his "accident" the day before I came back. Had he been left alone, I would have been able to help him. But he was moved, became a burden, and then disposed of, once again, in his short life. He died tragically, painfully, and unnecessarily.

Again the question of balance comes to me. Is it that literal? Did my pleading for the white Spitz of Rajasthan save him, at the cost of the white Spitz of Muni Ki Reti? Does it matter, and is this question too simplistic? I don't know, but I can't help but wonder, and I can't help but miss the songs of my beautiful boy. I spend every morning at the ghats of Muni Ki Reti where Elvis would sing and dance for me. The flower children help me send prayers and blessings in the Ganga every day for him ... "for the White Dog..." they beautifully chant as they nod their heads in respect and offer the flower boats with their lights and blessings for Elvis, to the grace of the Ganga.

BY THE RIVER

Along one part of the river Ganga between Ram Jhula and Laxman Jhula there is an older dirt path, and below the Ganga and some beach area. Many of the Sadhus stay near this path.

One evening while walking along here to feed the dogs, some beautiful prayer music was coming out of some makeshift loud- speakers at the beach. Something was in the air, people had gathered, the atmosphere was charged, and even the sadhus were coming to listen. I was invited to sit on one of the rocks, and I noticed even the dogs and the cows were lying down, ready for something.

A small, frail looking man was helped down the path until he took his seat by the river. People lined up to pay their respects and receive his blessings, and then he began. Although the language was Hindi, and I couldn't understand a word, the message was loud and clear. This was a holy man, Swami Hamsa-ananda-ji [sic]. He was over a hundred years old, highly revered, and he gives satsang on the beach at night. Beautiful, moving, and sacred.

I meet two women who have traveled all the way from from Calcutta to receive darshan from this Saint.

The sadhus are starting to notice that I come regularly to feed the dogs. This has amused some, and some have chosen to engage in conversation with me. A few have suggested I go on pilgrimage to Gangotri, the source of the Ganga. Undertaking the Chardham (the four sacred spots) Gangotri, Yamunotri, Badrinath, and Kedarnath, are the most sacred of all pilgrimages in the Hindu traditions. Undertaking a journey to these places will not just wash away one's karma, but will ensure release from the cycle of birth and death. It is said that heaven and earth converge in these spots. Gangotri has called to me for some time, but this is not the right time for me to go.

Of Kedarnath it is said "the unholy become holy, and the holy, holier." Kedar is also another name for Shiva, the preserver and the destroyer. It lies close to Rishikesh in a valley ringed by lofty snow-capped peaks. The views are breathtaking, and the climb to the shrine is steep. One is meant to walk the path, it is steep and long. But for those who can't, ponies and mules are made to carry the heavy, and physically unfit. The mules wobble, struggle, and are covered with sores, beaten with sticks to keep them going up the pilgrimage road carrying the holy aspirants in their journey for release and redemption.

FEEDING BEGINS

Although I expected to give myself time to settle in, maybe see some of the sights I missed previously, it was impossible not to start feeding the dogs along my path. As I mentioned, they did not look so good, and there was a major mange outbreak. The hair will grow back on its own, and most cases will clear up, but the itching and the dogs scratching the itch can lead to quick infections and more misery. So, a simple remedy of appropriate medications works. The actual feeding itself can be tricky. The street cows and the bulls are hungry as well, and very interested in anyone who looks as though they may be carrying food, and even more interested in someone who appears as though they are dispensing food ... and believe me, they are watching! It became a game of find the dogs, look out for hungry bulls, feed fast, don't fall off a cliff, and move on quickly. The puppies were the ones who were having the most difficult time surviving. They need their protein, and Rishikesh is a vegetarian city, so milk, or curd had to be found for the pups. It's dispensed in plastic bags, tied with a rubber band. So, I roamed around looking for the nearest milk stalls, and would have to make a mixture on the road of the milk and bread, rice, oatmeal, etc.

Where to pour the milk?? There's a major problem of excess plastic water bottles in India, the empties are everywhere. Well, cut the bottoms and they become great containers for milk, curd (liquid yogurt), and food.

RISHIKESH REDUX

Late June, 2007, I placed myself back in Rishikesh. Getting here was surprisingly easy; the destination was, well, the surprise. I had been here just two months earlier, fell in love with the city, the people, and India. A series of experiences within the near past which had been profoundly personal all led me to India. It was a call I could not ignore, at least not without always questioning why I chose not to answer it. I tried to go several times, and always something blocked the journey. Finally, out of frustration and a sense of resignation, I pretty much just went with less than one weeks planning ... I went with no expectations, but with a goal of at least having physically gone there. I fell in love with India. The craziness, the combustibility, the spirituality, the noise, the peace, and that presence. The contrasts, the dualities were there, but not in my line of vision. I was in love, and wanted to come right back.


So, I did, and here I am ...



Within less than two months time, my beloved India had transformed herself, or at least, was showing another side to me. This India was unbearably hot, crowded and dirty. Plus, it was Indian tourist season! This meant crowds, and traffic jams in a city which normally held few cars other than auto rickshaws, and no roads for this kind of volume. Intense, hot, few westerners, and closed ashrams. Surprise.



The two months gone had not been kind to the animals. Food was scarce, whether it was because the westerners were gone, who would provide plenty of left-overs for the streets, and thus the animals, or whether the climate just made it a time of less food availability. Anyway, dogs that had looked relatively well fed now looked thin, and were far more territorial with their staked claims for available food. The pups that had been born were having a hard time competing for food with the older, stronger, established dogs. I can't help but wonder at the shock of these youngsters the first few times they were chased off in their attempts to find food. The older dogs when hungry themselves, are not kind to young, potential competitors. The pups that were there were solo, one survivor from a litter, now on their own. They try to join a pack, with usually little chance for success.

The cows too, looked thin. There had been an explosion of births since I was gone, and the majority seem to be males. This is not good news, as they become aggressive as they age and try to position for dominance, mating, and territorial rights. They too roam the streets in search of food. Rishikesh has two beautiful bridges crossing the Ganga; Ram Juhla, and Laxman Juhla. I had my first encounter with an angry young bull while crossing Laxman Juhla. I had seen him from day one, crossing the bridge back and forth, back and forth, seeking food on either side of the bridge ... food being scraps that have fallen from bags, garbage, or tiny food pellets that the tourists toss to the monkeys who stay at the bridge. Rarely do the cows cross the bridge; it's difficult to maneuver with people, motorbikes, and carts vying for limited space. This young brown bulls' hunger was such that he would just frantically search for food all day long, back and forth, back and forth. He was frustrated. I crossed the bridge one morning with my food for the dogs well hidden, I had thought. Well, he figured out that I had food and when straight at me, butting me up against the bridge ... I emptied the food bag and tossed it as far and as quickly I could. He went for the food. This one will be trouble when he's grown!

DIVINE DOWNLOAD?

My earlier trip to Rishikesh brought me delight, awe, and wonder. I came with no expectations, but hoped to regroup, and recharge, after some time of stress and depletion. As I said, I came with no expectations .... only hopes to nurture myself, and no intention of looking at animals. My last day (my first last day) in Rishikesh had me at a final pit stop relaxing over the Ganga with a lemon soda, unhappily resigned to going back on my scheduled return flight. I had taken to feeding and befriending, on a small scale, a few of the stray dogs. What I can only describe in short terms, was a download of information on how to do this on a more formal, larger scale, which would benefit the animals of the streets, and ultimately the local people as well. A program of feeding and befriending the strays, managing health and parasite issues, sterilization, and inoculations against rabies, with eventually employing locals as caretakers.

Divine Download, or a lemon soda that packed some punch?

Short version, Here I am. The support of friends, and my spiritual community that helped me get here, has truly been a blessing. Thank you.

CONTRAST

Back to today. This time in Rishikesh is a lesson in the contrasts of India. The Ganga, so clear and cleansing earlier, was now brown and strong with the glaciers melting, the waters quickly rising, and the mud from the hills pouring in. Ma Ganga claimed two human lives my first week back. The first was a young man. At the cafe we collectively heard he had died the day before, and his mother was now at the Ganga adding her tears to the river. One week later, a young Dutch woman was swallowed by the current. She made the local paper, but I had no translator. Their deaths moved me deeply. Some say the Ganga chooses those that she claims. It is a ritual to dip in the Ganga, a holy dip it is considered, and a cleansing of Karma and sins. What happens when one is swept away from an act of reverence and bliss to be struggling and gasping for air as one's lungs fill with water and your body contorts with the current? I said a silent prayer.

FOUND DOG

A dog I had not previously seen in Rishikesh showed up at the foot of the bridge, again, my last day in Rishikesh. He was a handsome, black and brown dog with a medium length coat and a distinguished face. He had a confident gate and looked straight up at me. He looked good, until he turned and I saw the new gash on his back that was huge, open, and wide with the folds of the skin completely exposed. A knot in my stomach and a belief that this dog would soon be dead made me look away. It was a wound too large for me to even consider cleaning; this would have gotten stitches and antibiotics in the States, and a "hope for the best." It was my only time seeing this dog and I could only look away.

My first day back to Rishikesh in June, I saw what I thought impossible. This same dog crossed the bridge, made his way to the same cafe and came and said hello. He was fine. He now has a permanent rise of fur along his back where the skin sewed itself back together, looking like a permanent "Mohawk" hair-do. He's not a regular on this side of the bridge, and I've only seen him once since, but he gave me great relief and surprise to come and show me he was alright.

MISSING

We all have our favorites, and mine was an undeniably unattractive, hairless, mange ridden plain black dog. She was truly hairless when I first saw her. At first I hoped she was some bizarre mutation/cross of a hairless Chinese Crested that resulted in a large plain dog with no hair and just a funny shade of almost black skin. An exotic creature who although lowly born to the streets would rise to glory with her unique genes. Could a new star have been born? Nope, it was just the worst case of mange I'd ever seen. This dog was hairless, and you couldn't even say she had a pretty face. What she did have was the "Party Girl" gene and all the charm that goes along with it. This dog was a joy to watch as she befriended every dog that crossed her path. She would immediately initiate play with such good nature, that I had to laugh and could only call her "Party Girl." Her approach on unsuspecting dogs as they passed her was to jump with joy in the air, in an exaggerated "play- bow" and keep this up until they would stop and engage in an unplanned wrestling match. She could usually be seen wrestling on the road by the "Ganga View" restaurant with great joy and abandon. She had a fondness for butter cookies, and would lead me to the nearest butter cookie vendor knowing I would always buy her a fresh batch. One hot day I thought I could vary her special treat and I bought her an ice-cream cone. She wanted none of it; not before the now expected Butter Cookies, made fresh. I did have some cause for alarm when I saw her that day, she was sporting some fresh puncture wounds on her back end. This surprised me, as she was such a friendly, non-threatening dog. But a fresh dog bite to the hind-quarters she did have, and the flies were already biting at the wounds. This could be fatal to a dog of the streets. I cleaned the wounds as best I could, but I was leaving the next day.

I haven't seen her since my return. I've been here long enough that had she gone to some safe spot to have a litter of pups, she would have come out by now to her regular grounds, by the center square butter cookie man. I keep hope open to seeing her, but it seems unlikely.

India, a land of contrast. The one that should not have survived, did. The one that was a delightful, happy, non-threatening dog, is gone.