A Dog's Life

 

I think I loved a girl I called Big Dog.

She had a Labrador. Then, a Great Dane. We used to look at each other, the dog and I. Pedigree mattered there. Even the dog did not wave goodbye.

I think I also loved a girl I called Small Dog.

She had those small types: Pomeranian, Chihuahua and such. Then, she had six of those. The first one and I used to have the same look. Why not me? Why do the others get everything?

I know I loved my Uncle's dog.

Not that Uncle with the boxer. That dog tried to save my Uncle from a cobra, got bit instead and died. A lot like me. The other Uncle had a lovable mongrel. He knew his good relatives and bad relatives. He used to chase the latter. A lot like me.

I know I did not get along well with my wife's family dog.

The first time I went to her house (to see her for the first time, to propose for the last time), we (the dog and I) came to an understanding (the same I have with kids). We need our space and we don't like dirty talk (koochi-koochi-kute, etc.). We also knew we shared the same fate. A short life. And a big drop in the priority list when old age and new entrants like babies came along.

I think I preferred the Bombay dogs to the Bangalore ones.

Once, near the D-mart at Hiranandani, I was near a bunch. A couple of middle-aged ladies too. They were scared of the dogs (and me). Like a gallant knight, I stood in front of my kind and the ladies walked by. Not even a word of thanks from them. I looked at my lot. Us poor migrant workers just cannot bite a royal ass in Bombay, we thought. Our Bangalore cousins could.

What is that old adage? Ah yes.

It's a dog's life every day.