I sat on the dining table, pretending to be studying, peering over my books. Sensing my mother's watchful eyes, making sure I was learning every bit of that damn history lesson, I prayed for a miracle. Learning about the ground-breaking events of the 12th century on a Sunday evening in the 20th century wasn't my idea of fun. I needed an escape.And then, it happened. Dollar, our year-old pomeranian, happily bounced into the living room from the kitchen, two long drumstick in his mouth, furiously wagging his tail, eyes with that alluring mischievous glint. He pranced about in front of us, shaking his booty, teasing us in his inimitable way - "come get my drumsticks, you boring humans!" My prayer was answered, and we gave in to his game.
Back in early May 1995, when he first came into our home as a one-month old pup, he was just a tiny furball. How he survived those initial delicate days around two excited kids is a mystery. I sat him on my lap once, his tiny body trembling in fear. Even as he was trying to settle into a comfortable position, I stood up (thinking he would jump down like a cat), dropping him to the floor. Yelping in pain, he scampered about. He wailed on for a few hours, and slowly dozed off under my mother's care. I sat looking at him, tears rolling down my cheeks, fearing he would never wake up, wondering what I would do if he did not.
The next morning, feeling a wet lick on my nose, I opened my eyes to see two soulful ones looking back at me. He was alive. And forgiving too.
I placed my hands over his tiny head, nuzzled into his squirmy neck and whispered into his ears that I would never ever let his gentle soul ache again. Some more licks in return.
We named him Dollar after Richie Rich's famous pet. Dollar eventually became Dolu, but the characteristic fame stuck on. Dolu became the family mascot as he travelled with us everywhere. Public transport was ditched, and we now hired cars to accomodate our furry family member. Road trips to Kerala, our native place, with Dollar sticking his head out of the window, barking at obnoxious truck drivers and nudging us off our seats was secretly enjoyed, but publicly frowned upon. Every stopover we made, Dollar made it his mission to mark his territory. So off he trotted to mark that tree at Kumta, that lampost in Mangalore, that tea shop in Kasargod, that petrol pump in Thrissur. As far as he knew, he would visit these places again, and he didn't want to get lost then. At Ernakulam, grandparents eagerly waited by the verandah, now not just looking forward to grandkids, but also a grand-pet! Visiting relatives enroute, Dollar charmed his way into their hearts, gardens, houses and even ponds. We were gradually becoming Dollar's family.
One time in Hubli, on a friday evening, when the family decided to dine out, Dollar was chosen to stay home. He protested, bolted through the front door and refused to get back in. But, depositing him back inside the house, we knew only too well that a silent protest would greet us later. On opening the door two hours thereafter, nothing prepared us for the scene inside. The living room resembled a paper factory, with shards of paper strewn on every bit of furniture and carpet. A mangled piece of notebook was being meticulously chewn through. On prying open the little devil's mouth, my brother let out a woeful cry. His Sanskrit notebook was being devoured to its last crumble, every vyakarana scrunched down to its last perfect tense. Our Sanskrit teacher in school read out the most unbelievable explanation letter from his pupil's mother to the rest of the staff the next morning. A standing joke at many PTA meetings thereafter.
Over the years, Dollar grew up, but not his antics. Most people we knew loved him, some despite being victims of his outrageoous canine instincts. An uncle had his new Bata slippers covered in poo, a not-so-favourite acquaintance had his leg mistaken for a tree, my grandmother found one of her precious silk sarees turned into a rug, a little cousin found her doll mangled to bits. On a particular social evening, the family's embarassment reached new heights as the dog decided to drag in his family's underwear from the laundry bag, in full view of the roaring audience, as if it were the prize catch of the day! As always, the contented look on his face after such feats made us wonder if there really was a conspiracy division working overtime in his miniscule brain!
But Dollar was Dollar not for his tomfoolery, or his snowball looks. His punch lay in his innocent heart; and his overwhelming love for us, his human family. Am I yet to mention the time when he took on a large alsation dog on the street just to protect my mother from being pounced upon? Or the time when he gently snuggled up to me on days that I found myself bound to the bed with a sniffle and a temperature. It was nice to know he was there, probably listening to my random mumbles, probably even understanding it, whining and sighing at appropriate intervals.
Dollar saw through my college days, my hostel days, my first-job days, and my initial married life. My significant other doted on my furball as much as I did, and Dolu had accepted him as family even before we knew it ourselves. After moving cities, my every visit home was an adventure, in that it saw the grand welcome by Dollar. He made it a point to let me know that he wanted me home, his home.
On the evening of May 4th, 2006, just as hubby prepared to leave for an official visit to another city, the phone rang. He spoke briefly, asked if everything else was okay and hung up. Packing his bags, I looked up to see a tense face. "You wouldn't want to hear this but you have to be strong," he said. And I expected the worst. Dollar was dead. He was murdered. Burglars broke into the house in broad daylight, when no one else was home except for an aging Dollar. As they approached the trunk in the bedroom, metal rod in hand to break open the lock, Dollar stood in between, and barked on as fiercely as he could. They obviously found him threatening, as the next blow struck his small head.
That was the fatal blow, and my Dollar never wailed this time. He was silenced forever.
His blood on the floor, his small body right in front of the trunk, strategically lying between valuables in the house and any intruder.
We never got out of the shock. Every photograph, every memory invoked tears, but it now leads to a smile as well. And a warm feeling deep inside. We knew Dollar was reaching his prime, and that the end would be near. We knew in someway too that Dollar would not go down suffering. He died fighting for his family till the very end, and we know he died without pain. He died a hero. Loving and protecting us till death.
Wasn't it Mark Twain who once said, "The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man's"? I hope for that too, not for anything else, but to meet my Dollar sometime again, hug him and say, thank you for those 11 beautiful years.
