Kabri

(Ed. Pariah dog: an ownerless, half-wild mongrel common around Asian villages, especially in India.)

After the brisk morning walk, as I turned into my lane, I saw her sitting at her favorite spot. She was wagging her tail, her mouth with a little drool, and half open- as if smiling. Her face had that funny expression: “I mean no harm but won’t let you go till you give me my deal—my bun and milk.”

Everyone calls her Kabri, short for Chitkabri, which means white. She is a white female dog. Where she came from or who her mother was, no one knows. She has been in the street for as long as I can remember. She would be seen in her spot—the corner at the side of the road, next to the electricity pole.

These street dogs fend for themselves, fight group battles for their territory, and for mates when in season. Sometimes they receive grievous injuries; then, they withdraw to some dark corner, under a stair, in a bush in the nearby tea garden, or under a culvert to lick their wounds and self-heal. A few days later, they are back in action. They have a good memory and keep away from the grocer’s wife, for example, who once threw hot water on them; Kabri may loll around everyone but always stays a few inches ahead or away from the nasty boys who love to throw crackers at dogs during Deepawali. You can be as athletic as you want, but your kick or stone is bound to miss. Kabri is a street dog and knows all the tricks.

My deal with Kabri is simple—a little milk and a dry bun in the morning. That’s all. Others toss her whatever they can’t eat—leftovers or bad food. Last winter, she lost all her hair due to a skin infection. The grocer at the corner gave me crystal sulphur. I powdered it and gave it to her with a little milk. In about four to six weeks, her white coat returned in full glory.

***

Lately, I have noticed a change in Kabri. She has begun following me on my morning walks. This is a real nuisance. I like to go for long walks, which invariably take me through territories of other dogs. So, when I am barely in my zone 2 cardio, I hear a yelp and a flurry behind me, and there is Kabri—eyeball to eyeball with another dog. Of course, I could just ignore this canine affair and walk on, but it is difficult to abandon a dog who has walked some steps behind you.

So, I break a stick from the nearest fence and charge the other dog, waving the stick like mad. Kabri can handle her fights quite well—being a young dog with sharp teeth and quick reflexes—but she sometimes needs a little cue from a man: a shout or a wave of a stick. Once the other dog is a little distracted, she can finish the confrontation with a feint and a nip, so to speak.

This is still a nuisance and distraction on a serene morning walk. On several occasions, I tried to wave the stick at her and chase her back to her own street. I was worried: what if a gang of dogs attacked her? But how to get rid of her—that was the problem. She would run away wagging her tail and quickly reappear from some unseen by-lane, a few hundred meters behind me, unnoticed. Eventually, I realized I should stop bothering about her and just focus on my 10,000 steps. You can’t win against a wily dog.

***

Last Tuesday, I left a little early to make the best use of the cool morning hours—and to shake her off. I thought I was successful. But lo and behold! Kabri was there ten minutes later, behind me—with her mouth half open in a mischievous smile and eyes rolling, as if to say: Gotcha!

I tried to shoo her off, soon realized the futility, and began to focus on my walk: the Japanese method—three minutes of brisk walking, followed by three minutes of slow walking, in cycles. Country roads, little villages, tea gardens, the sky changing color by the minute, and the sun rising over the Chakrata mountains… A little Bach symphony couldn’t hurt this magic hour in the green valley, so I put on my Bluetooth headset.

A few minutes later, I heard quick, soft shuffling behind me. Kabri was walking just behind me, almost sticking her nose to my calves. Why? Because we had walked quite some distance from our street and were now in a strange neighborhood: a row of houses fronted by the open tea garden—a rather wild green area full of bushes. Had she noticed something in the bushes? Was she frightened?

There was barking from the tea garden side—more than one dog, I thought. There was a compound with an open gate to our left.

There was sudden rustling in the bushes, and Kabri cowered closer to the compound. She was between me and the compound. Suddenly, a big black dog—must have been hiding in the bushes—charged from behind. Kabri darted into the open gate and entered the compound. The ferocious dog promptly positioned itself at the gate and barked triumphantly. Kabri, now inside the compound, had no escape. To exit the compound she would have to fight off the bigger dog, who perhaps would soon be joined by others. I was outside the gate, shouting at Kabri to come out.

The compound had a house within. My worry was that any moment a door would open and the owner would come out with a stick. Kabri would be caught between the stick and the dog guarding the gate. I, too, would get my share of screaming, as the presumed owner of Kabri!

I took a few steps away, hoping that Kabri would take her chances, jump the wall somehow, and follow me. Nothing happened. She was trapped.

I wrung my hands in frustration and vowed never to let her join me on my morning walks. This was the perfect ruination of the “Walk the Bach” exercise.

Finally, after some tense waiting, I picked up a stick from the side of the road, waved it in the face of the black dog while shouting in Punjabi: “Oye khotte de puttar…”

The dog was distracted for a second (stick or Punjabi?), and Kabri slipped out right under his nose!! We were back on the trail and walking away, much relieved. The dogs fell behind. This was not their beat. Fortunately, we did not run into any more ambushes.

As I approached our street, Kabri shot off barking like mad—she had seen some other intruder in her street. I smiled. A random thought surfaced: why do I feel so concerned about a pariah street dog, after all? Could it be that I too have lived half my life as a pariah—a social pariah, because my partner and I have lived together for more than three decades, despite social disapproval?

Living with stammering was one thing, but living a life at odds with the conventions of society and my own community was a different challenge, day after day, year after year. It can wear you down. And then, when you are totally worn down, your true colors start showing up. Something like that happened to me. I began to see myself in a new light, independent of my social identity and the belief system I had inherited at birth.

Many people on my street have tried to adopt Kabri but failed. She can’t live behind locked gates in beautiful houses.
She loves the mess we call Life!