Story for Dog Lovers – A Dog’s Life

A DOG’S LIFE 

Short Fiction

A Story for Dog Lovers

By

VIKRAM KARVE

From my Creative Writing Archives:

Here is one of my poignant dog stories. 

I wrote this story almost 12 years ago, in early 2004, at the height of the “real estate boom” in Pune.

Do tell me if you like this story.

A DOG’S LIFE – short story by Vikram Karve

TENSION

There is tension brewing in my house.

My brother, my sister, even my mother – all are trying to convince my father to sell off our lovely spacious bungalow with a huge compound surrounded by plenty of greenery on the banks the Mula river near Aundh on the outskirts of Pune.

But my father won’t budge.

I sprawl in the verandah and listen to their conversation.

“Please try to understand, Papa,” my brother pleads, “we can’t stay in this dilapidated place forever. The builder is giving us a fantastic deal – a luxurious 4 BHK premium penthouse flat – and that too near Deccan Gymkhana – plus whatever money you want in exchange for this godforsaken place.”

“Godforsaken place? How dare you say that? I have built this house with my sweat and blood. I like it here – and I am going to live here till my dying day!” my father affirms, “If you want to go – you all can go wherever you like. I am not going anywhere – I am staying here.”

“Please, Papa!” my sister implores, “Deccan Gymkhana! Just imagine living in Deccan Gymkhana! It’s such a posh locality – and so near my college and all the happening places.”

“It will be better for you too,” my mother says, “I have seen the place. Luxurious fully furnished flats in a brand new posh building – right opposite Kamala Nehru Park. It is so near your library – and your club – and you can walk and sit in the beautiful park. You will love it there.”

“Meena!” my father says angrily to my mother, “You have already gone and seen it – without even telling me!”

“Sanjay took me there in the morning,” my mother says sheepishly.

“Over my dead body!” my father shouts furiously.

He gets up from his chair. 

My father looks at me, and he says, “I’m going for a walk. Come Moti – Chain, Chain!”

I jump in delight at the prospect of this unexpected extra outing – and I rush to get my chain from its place under the staircase. 

I bring the chain in my mouth – actually it’s not a metallic chain – but a leather leash – and I hold it in front of my father who ties it to my collar.

Then he picks up his walking stick – and off we go for nice long walk on the jungle path skirting the banks of the Mula river. 

My father becomes playful and sings to me, “Come, come, come, Moti come!” – and I teasingly grab the lead in my mouth – wag my tail – and spring up and down – and my father says, “Drop it! Drop it!” – and I let go off the lead and bounce along.

I love these bubbly walks with my father – there is so much to see – so much to play – so much to sniff – and soon my father will let me off the leash and play chase-chase with me on the sandy ground near the river.

“I don’t know why my father is so stubborn, so adamant,” my brother says to the real estate agent next morning as they talk on the lawn in front of our beloved bungalow, “I think he has gone senile!”

“He’s not gone senile at all,” the wily agent says, “in fact I think your father is a shrewd bargainer.”

“Shrewd bargainer?”

“Had you sold this bungalow last year you wouldn’t have got even half the price you are getting now. Real estate has suddenly skyrocketed – and yours is the only plot left in this entire place – that’s why they are offering you so much. The developer has managed to acquire everything around here – even that finicky old lady’s place. He’s given her a flat in Mumbai and enough money to live her remaining life in luxury. Once he gets your bungalow he can start his project. That’s why he’s offering you so much – the maximum – it’s a fantastic offer – a deluxe exclusive penthouse apartment in the posh elite Deccan Gymkhana locality – plus a hefty sum of money. I am telling you now for the last time – you better make the deal fast – otherwise they will somehow manage to get hold of your place by hook or crook.”

“Hook or crook...?”

“The developer – he’s a big guy – he’s got connections right till the top. Big money is involved. They can even get the DP altered.”

“DP...?”

“Yes, DP – it means Development Plan. They’re so desperate to start the project that they’ll get the DP changed and get your land acquired for their project. Then you’ll get a pittance and regret all your life. Better strike while the iron is hot.”

“We will try and convince our father,” my brother says, and then asks the agent, “What’s coming up in this desolate place anyway?”

“It’s a huge 5-star project – IT Park, BPOs, Hotels, Malls, Multiplexes… This whole place is going to be transformed into something so magnificent and futuristic you can’t even imagine – you better make your father see reason, otherwise you’ll be just swept away by the winds of change. Even if you manage to stick on your lone bungalow will be dwarfed between high rise commercial structures all around and it will be difficult to live here.”

The real estate agent pauses – then he puts his arm around my brother’s shoulder and says, “Talk to your father, your mother – convince them. If they don’t like Deccan, they can choose an apartment from any of our projects – Kondhwa, Kalyani Nagar, Baner, Wakad, Aundh, Kothrud – wherever you want – but I am telling you there is nothing to beat the Deccan Gymkhana area – it is impossible to get a place there now-a-days, so just go for the deal.” 

Sitting quietly – unnoticed by anyone – I hear every word carefully and I feel confused, apprehensive and frightened by all this – but I know my father will not succumb. 

And my chest swells with pride as I know the reason why!

At night, curled up on my mat under my father’s and mother’s double-bed – I attentively listen to my mother nagging my father as they lie down to sleep.

My mother says to my father, “Please Shankar. Don’t be so obstinate. Try to understand – at least for the children’s sake.”

“What about Moti?” my father asks.

“Moti?”

“Yes, Moti. Tell me Meena – have you thought about Moti? She can’t live cooped up in a multi-storey flat – she need all this ground and space – there Moti will suffocate,” my father says matter-of-factly.

“What?” my mother suddenly shouts, “I cannot believe this! You are more bothered about that bloody pie-dog than your own children!”

“Pie-dog? How dare you? Moti is not a pie-dog – she is my daughter!” my father says emphatically.

“Daughter? Have you gone mad Shankar? The comfort of that wretched mongrel is more important to you than the future of your own children, your own blood!”

“Listen Meena,” my father says, “The children will grow up and go way, but Moti will remain with us forever.”

My heart swells with affection and tears of happiness well up in my eyes.

Words cannot describe the immense love, adoration and warmth I feel for my father.

MY LIFE

My name is Moti. 

In Marathi – Moti means Pearl – and generally it is a boy’s name.

But – despite me being a girl – my father named me Moti – and I like it. 

I was born in the garbage dump down the street. 

My ‘birth-mother’ was the local street dog – and she died a few days after giving birth to me and my six brothers and sisters. 

My ‘dog-father’ is unknown.

We all lay wallowing in the rubbish – and one day they suddenly came to collect the garbage – and they took away all my brothers and sisters in the garbage truck.

But somehow – they left me behind – and I lay helpless and frightened – wondering what was going to be my destiny – when suddenly – I found a tough-looking bearded man staring at me.

Shivering with fear – I looked back at him in terror as he extended his hands towards me.

But the moment he held me in his large cozy hands and caressed me lovingly – and put his finger tenderly in my mouth – I felt snug, warm, loved, safe and secure.

This was my new father – and he had already decided my name – Moti – the name of his canine ‘son’ who had passed away a few days ago.

“She was destined to come here,” my father said feeding me warm milk when everyone asked him why he had brought such an ugly, weak and sickly pie-dog home.

He made a nice warm bed for me in a basket – and he put it below his own bed. 

And as I drifted into sleep – my father gently fondled me with his hands.

I felt so wonderful, safe, comfortable and happy for the first time in my life.

As I grew up – everyone started liking me – my mother who I follow all around the house – my brother who is a Software Engineer – my sister who studies in Fergusson College – and, of course – my father – who always adored me. 

I am sure my father loves me even more than his “human” children.

I love my family – I love my house – and I love the wonderful life I live.

I wake up early in the morning – get off my cozy mat under my father’s bed – and I rub my cold wet nose against his hand – and I give him a lick.

My father grunts and growls and opens his sleepy eyes – and the moment he sees me – his face lights up – and he lovingly caresses me and says, “Good Morning, Moti.”

He gets up from bed and opens the main door to let me jump out into the garden – do my ‘little job’ at my favorite place near the mango tree – generally dig in the soft morning mud a bit – and sniff around to find out if there are any new morning smells – not forgetting to run and welcome the milkman – the moment he comes on his cycle.  

When I return – I find that my father is back in his bed – and my mother is up and about.

She pats and cuddles me and goes about her business making tea in the kitchen – while I loiter around the house.

My mother surreptitiously sneaks to the bedroom – and she slyly hands over a tidbit to my half-asleep father under the blanket – when she thinks that I am not looking.

I pretend not to notice – as I do not want to spoil their fun. 

Earlier – when I was small and impatient – I used to snuffle out the tidbit from my father’s hand – but this spoilt his fun – and he became grumpy.

Now that I am a mature young girl well experienced in the ways of the human world – I have realized that it is better for us dogs to act dumb – and let these humans think they are smarter than us.

So I go outside – sit down – and put on a look of anticipation towards the gate – and pretend not to notice my mother hiding and peeping through the corner of the window and giggling to herself.

The moment the newspaperman comes on his cycle and shouts ‘paper’ – I rush to the gate and fetch the newspaper in my mouth – gripping it just right between my teeth – and I come running back and hold the newspaper up to my horizontal father lying in bed.

He gets up – takes the paper from me – and gives me the dog-biscuit he’s been hiding in his hand – as my mother – who has rushed behind me – watches me with loving pride in her eyes.

My brother and my sister – who till now were fast asleep in the other room – call out my name – and as I dart between their beds wagging my tail – they both hug and cuddle me all over – and say: “Good Morning, Moti. Moti is a good girl!”   

Everyone is cheerful and happy and my day is made!

Soon my father will be up and about – and he will call me for playing the “bone-game” – but before that let me tell you about my home.

In front of our roomy bungalow there is a huge garden – or rather an orchard – with all types of trees and bushes – and a lush green lawn on which I love to frolic, prance and roll upside down – and lots of flower beds which I love digging up to my mother’s horror.

I love digging up the mud – it’s so tasty – and there is plenty of it in the spacious kitchen garden behind the house where I create havoc digging up to my heart’s content – and the only thing I have spared are the tomatoes and some horrible tasting leaves called Alu, in Marathi, because they itch. 

When I want to go out – I tap the front door with my paws and they let me out.

And when I want to come in – I peep through the windows –and – if no one notices I bang the door from the outside – or I make entreating imploring sounds.

And my father taught me ‘human talk’ and some words – and soon I began to ‘speak’ to him – well – we have a vocabulary of our own.

Of course – our communication styles are different.

He uses words and speaks in human language – while I rely on varied sounds like whines and howls and groans and non-verbal antics like nudging, pawing, begging, tugging, licking – and when I want his attention desperately – giving him a shake-hand.

I am lucky.

My parents don’t tie me up – but leave me free to roam and play around as I please. 

And there is so much to explore and investigate – in the nooks and corners of our verdant garden – which has plenty of trees, bushes and hedges.

There is so much to sniff – so much to dig – and so much to chase – squirrels and mongooses – and birds and butterflies.

The cats have disappeared though – ever since the day I almost caught one.

My father has warned me not to leave the compound – but sometimes I can’t resist the temptation – and I slither under a gap I have discovered under the fence – and I go out to explore the street outside – but take care to quickly return unnoticed.

The only few days he totally restricts my freedom is when I have my chums. He becomes very overprotective, and guards me like a shadow, never taking me off the leash when we go outdoors.

Once – during my chums – I managed to slip away across the fence – and all hell broke loose – and I was located – chased – captured – and – for the first time in my life – I was terribly scolded by my father who was really furious. 

I felt miserable – and I sulked – but then my father caressed and baby-talked me – and I knew how much he loved and cared for me – and it was all okay.

And during those sensitive days he specially pampers me and takes me for long leisurely walks – on a tight leash – keeping an eagle eye – and a stick ready in his hand for those desperate rowdy rascal mongrels – who suddenly appear from nowhere – and frantically hang around and try to follow me – their tongues drooling – as they look at me in a lewd restless manner.

Once they even had the gumption to sneak into the compound at night – and beseechingly whine outside – till my father chased them away. 

When I was small – and my gums itched – and my milk teeth began to break through – I could not resist chewing up anything I could lay my teeth upon – like shoes, slippers, clothes, toothbrushes, furniture. 

I especially loved chewing up my father’s favourite Kolhapuri ‘Kapshi’ chappals which were so silky-soft and yummy.

So my father bought me a chewy bone which – it said on the wrapper – was guaranteed to save everything else.

I don’t know why – but I secretly buried the bone in a hole I dug below the Mango tree – and I used to dig it out when I thought no one was looking – chew it a bit – and then bury it in some other secret place. 

One day my inquisitive mother found out – and she dug up the bone when I was sleeping – and hid in under the pomegranate tree. 

When I didn’t find the bone – at first – I was confused.

Then – I tracked the bone down with my nose – and when I spied my mother giggling and grinning like a Cheshire cat – I knew who the culprit was.

This started the “bone-game”.

First they (the humans – my mother and father) would give me the bone – and after I hid it they would rush out into the garden and dig it out – then they would hide the bone (after locking me in the house so I could not see) – and then make me find the bone – which I did using my nose. 

I wondered how they found the bone so fast – till one day I caught them spying crouching behind the hedge when they thought I wasn’t looking – and the mystery was solved.

So now I first let them see where I am hiding the bone – and when they complacently and confidently go inside thinking they know everything – I dig out the bone and hide it some other place which they do not know – and then I watch the fun – as they search for the bone in vain.

Then when they go inside and my father asks me to get the bone – I run out and get it – for which I earn a tidbit.

The way these humans act sometimes – I really wonder who is more intelligent – they or I?

DOG DAYS 

One day my brother – my sister – and even my mother – they all gang up on my poor hapless father – apply all kinds of pressure – emotional blackmail – threats – cajoling – and soon he wilts – his defenses broken down – and it is not long before we leave our beloved bungalow – and we move – lock stock and barrel – to the ‘luxurious’ flat in Deccan Gymkhana.

And with the huge sum of money the builder has given him – my father has suddenly transformed overnight from a simple frugal pensioner to a rich prosperous millionaire – a crorepati...  

For me, life turns horrible - my new life is worse than hell...

The marble floors are so hard – so smooth and slippery – that my nails break – and my paws get sore.

The fancy ‘luxurious’ fittings are so fragile – and the decorative adornments are so delicate – that my mother is always on the edge when I prance around – scolding me – and ordering me to sit down quietly.

There is no earth to dig – no bushes and trees to smell – no grass for a carefree loll – and – worst of all – there are no cats and rats – mongooses and squirrels – and birds – for me to chase.

The society over here is so elitist – that even their so-called “high breed” dogs are snobbish – and all these snooty dogs sneer at me – and they loudly speculate about my pedigree. 

I can’t even pee where I please after sniffing around and selecting a bush, or a tree – as in the good old days.

Here – in the “luxurious” flat – there is a stipulated sand-pit in the corner of the terrace earmarked for my ablutions – my “big job” and my “small job”.

They don’t allow me in the lift – so my poor old father has to walk me down 10 floors – and then walk up 10 floors again after our daily walk.

Even that – I don’t enjoy any more.

 

The streets outside are so crowded that we have to squeeze ourselves in the dense crowd – and the hustle bustle – and the din of chaotic traffic drives me and my father crazy.

 

My father tried to take me to play in the verdant Kamala Nehru Park near our house.

But one day we were rudely stopped at the entrance of the park – and my father was shown the sign:

DOGS NOT ALLOWED.

In short – my life is hell ever since we came here to this flat in Deccan Gymkhana.

My father too has a guilty conscience.

He tries to make up by being more and more affectionate towards me – and I too feel sorry for him – so I snuggle up to him whenever I can – and I tell him it’s okay – and I am happy.

My loving father and I have become closer to each other than ever before and we endure our misery together in silence – while the rest of my family – celebrating their newly-found affluence – are becoming more and more distant.

One evening while huffing and puffing up the stairs – my father suddenly cries out my name, “Moti...Moti...!!!”

And then my father drops my leash – he clutches his heart – and he collapses in a heap.

I bark and bark desperately – but no one comes for quite some time.

And then – suddenly they all appear.

They carry my father to the lift – and take him away. 

I follow them to the gate – and I watch them put my father in a car. 

I want to go with my father – so I rush towards the car – but they shoo me away.

Everyday I eagerly wait for my father to come back.

I wait and wait – but my father never comes back.

Yes – my father never comes back. 

They all say he is dead – and I never see my father again.

Things change.

My brother gets married.

His newly wedded wife hates dogs – so they tie me up in a dirty corner of the terrace for the whole day.

For the first time in my life I realize that I – Moti – once the apple of their eyes – have now become a terrible burden.

Days pass.

A baby is born – a boy.

And I am further banished from the house – lest the delicate baby get allergic. 

One day – the baby crawls towards me.

I wag my tail – welcoming my adorable little nephew.

The baby catches my tail – and he pulls my tail with his full weight and tries to stand up.

The pain is terrible – but I grit my teeth – and I stoically suffer the excruciating agony.

The baby innocently pulls my tail even harder – and now, unable to bear the terrible excruciating pain – I squeal – I howl – and I yelp in unimaginable agony – I am desperately crying for help.

My brother’s wife comes running out and starts shouting, “The dog – the dog – The dog is killing my baby!”

And my mother comes out – and she runs towards me.

The baby releases my tail.

I try to lovingly lick the baby.

But my mother takes the baby away.

Then my mother comes back – and she glares at me – while I look at her trying to convince her of my innocence.

Tell me – how can I ever think of even slightly harming my little baby nephew who I love so much?

But it’s of no use.

Everyone thinks that I have harmed the baby. 

In the evening – my brother comes home – and he and his wife have a heated argument about me. 

“Either I stay in this house – or the dog stays,” she warns my brother threateningly, “I can’t leave my baby with this dangerous dog. If the dog stays – I’ll go to my mother’s place. You make your choice.”

Later – in the evening – after taking me for my customary walk – my brother stops by at the vet doctor’s clinic – and I overhear snippets of their conversation:

“...dangerous dog ...attacked baby... unprovoked aggressive behaviour… put to sleep…”

“put to sleep”...

Alarm Bells ring in my mind.

Are they are planning to kill me?

As I see the face of death – a terrible fear drills into my insides.

Totally terrified and alarmed – I tug violently with all my strength – and I break the hook holding the collar to the leash and run for my dear life.

My brother chases me.

So I turn swiftly into an alley.

I see a garbage dump – and I quickly jump inside the rubbish dump and hide myself in the filth.

No one comes for some time.

Wallowing miserably in the filth – I smile to myself at the irony of it all.

I was born in a rubbish dump.

Now it looks like I am destined to die in a rubbish dump.

A Tragedy – isn’t it?

Well that’s my story – a Dog’s Life Story.

VIKRAM KARVE

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Disclaimer:

This story is a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

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© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

  

This story was written by me almost 12 years ago, in the early part of the year 2004, and this story was first posted online by me on my creative writing blog at url: http://creative.sulekha.com/a-dog-s-life_56823_blog and posted online a number of times later including in this blog at url: http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2014/07/a-dogs-life-story.html etc