His mother was basking in the sun in the lawn on a fine winter afternoon. And that was a problem. It was through that lawn that we (me and my younger brother) had to take him with us. He was her son and we did not want her to know that we were taking him away. So we hid him in a gunny bag and moved stealthily across the lawn. But she knew. And she wailed. It was the cry of someone who knew that she won’t be seeing a loved one again in her life. It would take me 15 years and a few days to realize the pain.

He was just a month old and didn’t look too attractive. Actually he looked as good as one can when one is a mixed breed of a German Shepherd and a Lhasa Apso. But his then looks didn’t giveaway the dark golden hue and a robust, if short, built dog he would develop into. We named him Sam. His namesake was the clever detective of a DD National soap opera, a series that we loved to watch (we weren’t even teens and that was a series whose contents could be fathomed completely by our minds).

The first day was difficult. He still seemed to remember his mother and would not play as we wanted him to. I wouldn’t turn into a teen for another two years and for me a puppy meant a toy, one of many that we had. Only this one had life in it. But this toy was to teach us another dimension of love, of affection, of care and of those pangs of separation.

We grew and he grew with us. As we turned teen, he came of age. But he still had that mischievous streak in him. That he never lost. Even during his last days. He would run away with a shoe the moment we started putting our socks on. It was his way of telling us not to leave him alone, even if for a few hours. He would run through the battle formations of G.I.Joe soldiers, like a rogue T-Rex of Jurassic Park, and take one into his den just as we would commence a game. ‘You don’t include me? This is what you get.’

We called him the king of our locality – king of all canines. At least he thought so. What a racket he made when he saw another dog passing through his ‘territory’. And he would never eat a thing which had fallen to ground. He preferred catching it in the mid-air as we threw it to him. Whatever fell or he couldn’t catch wouldn’t be touched again (let him not hear this; from the look of his eyes it was not his mistake that the thing fell on ground). Next best would be serving in his bowl – which he would eat grudgingly. And mangoes were his favourite. He was – in fact – a mango thief. Only a lock and key arrangement would save the king of fruits from being devoured by this king. And he was regal even as he posed for photographs.

Will Always Remember that Regal Look

It was my father who loved him the most. And cared for him the most. And Sam loved him the most of all. He would complain to my father in case others were not treating him properly. Literally. That complaining bark was very different from touch-me-not bark, take-me-for-a-walk bark, I-am-hungry bark, I-am-bored bark and simply-wanted-to-let-it-out bark.

For 15 years he lived with us as a family member. It didn’t matter to him that for most of the time of the latter half of his life I was not at home. Whenever I went home I would find the same brown wagging tail and those brown eyes conveying several emotions all at once: ‘Ah! There you are. C’mon, let’s play’, ‘Oh! So you finally found time to remember me’, ‘I hope you are staying for long this time’ or simply ‘I remember you. And I would remember you even if you come after many years’. And then it was all the same routine. First I would catch hold of him and play with him like a toy (just as I did when he was a year old) – caressing, pushing, teasing, punching, rolling etc. Then would come the resting time and I would lie down on the bed with my arm outstretched and he would come and, using his snout, place my hand over his head, asking me to caress it. He would do it again and again if I stopped. And then after some days I would go away. At first he always used to come to the terrace to see me off. And I do not have words here to describe what his eyes looked like then. But for some years now, he simply knew that I was leaving when I used to get my bags out and would retire to his corner and won’t come out, however hard you tried.

Sam (21-Oct-1994 ~ 18-Dec-2009)

I went home during Deepawali last year. And I found him in great pain. He had developed a wound which would not heal. He was already 15 years, an above average age for his species. He had been in ill health for a couple of years now but had bounced back soon after. This time it seemed to be different. This time his eyes seemed to be tired. Somehow I knew it was the last I was seeing of him. And this time, when I was leaving, he came to see me off to the terrace, even if limping and full of pain. I remember those eyes which kept looking at me through his lookout (a hole in the terrace railing) as I receded into distance.

I wasn’t told that he had passed away peacefully in his afternoon nap for about a month. My parents thought that this would make me very upset and planned to tell me when I went home. But then some 2-3 days ago, while talking to my father on phone, I casually asked about Sam. Then came the sudden silence and then the quivering voice which tried to tell me something. And I understood. I won’t be seeing my Sam again. And the feeling was strange. Actually I didn’t feel a thing. No shock, no sadness, the feelings were not even neutral either. There weren’t any feelings at all. May be the reality hadn’t sunk in. May be it would when I would go home and won’t find those brown eyes looking up at me in recognition. Those eyes full of pure happiness. May be I would know the pain when I won’t find him lifting my hand with his snout, asking me to caress him on his head. May be I would miss him when I would find no one ready to catch that bit of cheese in mid-air. May be I would simply miss his not being there.

I don’t know. May be I miss him already.



Advertisement