Sunday, July 30, 2000		Article

NOT all people like dogs. My dad detests them. When I was very young, I remember having compelled him to keep one. He said he hated it. I loved it. Its eventual death was the first death I had ever witnessed and consequently the biggest shock of my young life. I decided never to

keep a dog again. I slowly convinced myself of the disadvantages of having a pet dog — the care it required especially as a puppy and in sickness, the avoidable expenses, the barking at odd hours and the mess it would make if not trained properly. Over the years I started disliking dogs. And then, Dollar came...

My daughters, aged nine and twelve, had been pestering me for a pet dog. I avoided them, I scolded them and then, at last, gave them the impossible task of keeping their room spick and span for six months if they wanted a dog. Wonder of wonders, they accomplished it! I was left with no alternative but to oblige. Feelers were sent to all friends likely to come across a stray, black and white mongrel — the kids chose the colour and I decided to provide a home for a dog who was unlikely to be cared for by anyone.

A few days later, a close friend from a nearby village rang up. "I’ve got three very small puppies with me. All of them are the colour you want. You can come over and choose one."

We were all very excited but as the car had been sent to the mechanic for repair, my elder daughter and I went to fetch the puppy on my scooter. The pup was not very difficult to choose; in fact, he chose us — he was the only one out of the three who came forward and licked my shoes. We brought him home; the girls were thrilled.

A vet was consulted. He said the puppy was in perfect health and as it appeared to be only about a month old, the vaccinations would be due only in another two months. And now, for the name. We came up with different ones from Spunky and Gritty to Dingo (he was black all over with white feet and a bit of white on his face) and Joker (he looked the part) but my younger daughter, who is a Richie Rich fan, came up with Dollar, which we all liked.

Dollar, our pet mongrel is now just about three months old. We’ve already had the pleasures, the fears, the irritation and the excitement one goes through with a new-born baby till she attains the age of two or three. Dollar is more playful than any three-year-old and, to tell the truth, much more funny and a bit less of a problem, despite his naughtiness. He pulls out plants is left out in the garden; inside, every room is his potty and the bed-sheets, he thinks, look better on the floor. If we tie him, he cries his head off. Don Quixote-like, he attacks everything from a plastic bottle to a ball, growling and barking when he can’t dig his tiny teeth in them. Paper and clothes are his worst enemies but they are easy to ‘kill’. In five minutes flat, the paper is in shreds and the clothes unwearable. His longest battles are with toothbrushes and trees at whom he snarls or barks, depending on his mood. But then, as they say , "In its own home, even a puppy is a lion." The real test comes when we take him out for a walk. Here, as soon as he sees a bigger dog or a stranger coming towards us, Dollar runs back to my feet, his tail between his legs.

He is so much like a little child, this Dollar of ours. He sits in my lap whenever he gets the chance and when he’s even slightly indisposed, he looks at us with such pitiful eyes that we just have to pick him up and hug him. However, unlike children, he rarely cries. If I’m feeling tense, I just have to play with him for a while and I’m relaxed. My sadness turns to happiness in his playful company. Now, my daughters tease me that I love him more than anyone else in the world. My father’s been writing to me lately of his depression. I’ll present him with a puppy when I meet him next month. I know he won’t be able to hate the little one for long.