Not every man’s best friend!

Rajnish Wattas

I rang the doorbell of our hosts and waited for the door to open. It did. But before the dear old buddy could extend his welcome hug, darted out a ferocious quadruped that resembled the long lost cousin of the ‘Man-eater of Kumaon’. He jumped on my chest placing his front legs, bared his canines and started barking on a volume that would shame Dolby sound!  I was frozen with fright and the heart raced like what the cardiologists call tachycardia! 

But dear buddy kept watching the scene with amusement, cooing all this while paternal, loving admonishments to a naughty child — ‘No , Sherru, no… that’s uncle you idiot, give him a good hello!’ Which Sherru did, and started licking my face, my arms, rubbing his sweaty nose all over….

But this is not unusual. The world is divided — more than gender, race, caste or creed — between dog-lovers and ‘dog-phobes’ like me.  

Cycling one Sunday morning, just when I was enjoying the thrill of returning to boyhood joys, shows up a huge German Shepherd. I take a deep breath, utter a prayer and chant, ‘I love you doggie... just stay off my leg please!’ But sure enough, as I draw closer, man’s best friend turns foe and starts running along the bike, barking ferociously. I get another panic attack. But there emerges a saviour, shouting, ‘No Leo, no Leo… saheb yeh kuch nahi karega.’ And the fellow stops sniffing at my calf muscles, which he thought were good meat for morning feed. The guardian angel was a help of the dog owner taking the pet for his morning poop, and I got in the way. 

I have given up cycling ever since and taken to walking instead in the  park, where much to my amusement, I would notice a group of senior citizens always carrying big sticks — resembling a regiment of retired Home Guards who refused to let go off their prime weapon of attack, the lathi.

But on a lovely spring morning, my poetic reverie was shattered by barks emanating from what sounded like a distant pack of blood hounds. As there was no fox hunting going on, nor any noble British aristocracy on horses in sight, I tried ignoring the jarring notes as a figment of my  senile imagination. But soon, all hell broke loose, with a pack of street dogs chasing another pack, baring their canines and lung power. One of them headed straight for me, and I wondered if carrying a walking stick was not such a bad idea, after all. Mercifully, the malevolent one just wheezed past my legs without biting, but left me shaken up. 

I thought of immediately taking up the matter with the sector welfare committee president. But as I neared his house, I saw the worthy’s wife feeding milk to the arch villain who had given me the greatest fright. So much for my redress plans.

The world has gone to the dogs.