A PERFECT MATCH

A PERFECT MATCH 

Fiction Short Story – A Romance

By 

VIKRAM KARVE

I am busy working in my office on the morning of the First of April when my cell phone rings.

It is Sudha, my next door neighbour, so I take the call. 

“Vijay, you lucky dog, your life is made,” Sudha says excitedly.

“Lucky Dog? Please, Sudha, I am busy,” I say, a trifle irritated.

“Don’t switch off your cell phone,” Sudha says, “you are going to get a very important phone call.”

“Important call?”

“From the hottest and most eligible woman in town,” Sudha says with exuberance, “She’s fallen head over heels for you, Vijay. She wants to date you.”

“Date me? Who’s this?”

“My boss.”

“Your boss?”

“Come on, Vijay, I told you, didn’t I, about the chic Miss Hoity Toity who joined last week…”

Suddenly it dawns on me and I say to Sudha, “Happy April Fools Day…”

“Hey, seriously, I swear it is not an April Fools’ Day prank. She is really going to ring you up…she desperately wants to meet you…”

“Desperately wants to meet me? I don’t even know her…haven’t even seen her…”

“But she’s seen you…”

“Seen me…where…?”

“Jogging around the Oval Maidan…I think she is stalking you…”

“Stalking me…?”

“She knows everything…your routine…where you stay…that you are my neighbour…so she called me to her office and asked for your mobile number.”

“I’ve told you not to give my number to anyone…”

“I told her…but she said it was very urgent…I think she wants to come over in the evening…”

“This evening…?... I am switching off my mobile…”

“No you don’t…You’ll like her…she is your type…”

“My Type?... What do you mean?...Sudha please…”

“Bye, Vijay…I don’t want to keep your mobile busy…She’ll be calling any time now…Remember, her name is Nisha…All the Best…” Sudha cuts off the phone.

As I wait for the mysterious lady’s call, let me tell you’re a bit about Sudha. 

Ever since she dumped me and married that suave, slimy, effeminate, ingratiating sissy Suhas, Sudha probably felt so guilt ridden that she had taken upon herself the responsibility for getting me married.

Sudha was my neighbour, the girl next door; my childhood friend, playmate, classmate, soul-mate, confidante and constant companion. I assumed we would get married but she suddenly fell for Suhas who she met at a training seminar.

I hated Suhas – he was one of those glib, smooth-talking, street-smart, slick characters that adorn the corporate world – a clean-shaven, soft-spoken, genteel, elegantly groomed metrosexual type with an almost feminine voice and carefully cultivated mannerisms as if he had been trained in a finishing school.

At first, I was devastated and could not understand why Sudha had betrayed me, but when Sudha gently explained to me that she always saw me as a friend and never as a husband, I understood and maintained cordial relations with her, though I loathed her husband who had shamelessly moved into her spacious apartment after relocating from Delhi to Mumbai.

Probably Sudha thought I had remained unmarried because of her (which may have been true to an extent) so in order to allay her guilt conscience she kept on setting up dates for me hoping for the best.

The ring of my cell-phone interrupts my train of thoughts.

“Mr. Vijay…?” asks a sweet mellifluous feminine voice.

“Yes,” I say my heartbeat slightly increasing.

“Nisha here,” she says, “Is it a good time to talk.”

“Of course,” I say.

“I want to meet you…Is it okay if I come over to your place this evening…”

My My My!

She comes to the point pretty fast isn’t it?

“Today evening…?” I blurt out a bit incredulous.

“It’s a bit urgent,” she says.

“Sure. You are most welcome,” I stammer recovering my wits.

“Six-thirty…before you go for your jog…or later after you return…or maybe we can meet up at the Oval…”

I am truly stunned… this Nisha is indeed stalking me…meet up at the Oval…as brazen as that… I have never experienced such blatant propositioning…Tocsins sound in my brain…

“Mr. Vijay…” I hear Nisha’s soft voice in the cell-phone earpiece.

“Yes, Yes, six-thirty is absolutely fine…I’ll wait for you in my house…you know the place…” I stutter recovering my wits.

“Yes, I know your place,” Nisha says, “I’ll be there at six-thirty,” and she disconnects.

I go home early, shower, deodorize, groom, titivate, put on my best shirt and wait in eager anticipation for this mysterious woman who is coming onto me so heavily.

Precisely at six-fifteen the bell rings. 

I open the door.

“Hi, I’m Nisha,” the stunningly attractive woman in front of me says.

Sudha was right…Nisha is certainly very hot… oh yes, Nisha is indeed my type of woman.

“I’m sorry I’m a bit early, but I noticed you were in, saw your car below…”she says.

‘Noticed I was in’… My, My…She knows my car…about my daily jogs on the Oval…my routine…everything…she’s really hot on my trail…isn’t she?

I look at her. She comes closer towards me.

She looks and smells natural. No attempt to camouflage her raw steamy physical self behind a synthetic mask of make-up and artificial deodorants.

Her persona is tantalizingly inviting and temptingly desirable; her tight-fitting pink T-shirt tucked into hip hugging dark blue jeans accentuate the curves of her exquisite body and she radiates a captivating aura, an extraordinary magnetic attraction, I have never experienced before.

I cannot take my eyes off her, her gorgeous face, her beautiful eyes, her lush skin, so I feast my eyes on her, let my eyes travel all over her shapely body.

The frank admiration in my eyes wins a smile. She lets her eyes hold mine.

 “Aren’t you going to ask me to come in?” she smiles as if reading my mind.

“Oh, yes, sorry, please come in,” I say, embarrassed at having eyed her so openly.

I guide her to the sofa and sit as near her as politely possible.

We sit on the sofa. She looks terribly attractive, very very desirable.

Our closeness envelops us in a stimulating kind of intimacy.

Overwhelmed by passion I inch towards her.

She too comes closer.

I sense the beginnings of an experience I have dreamt about in my fantasies.

  

“Actually, I have come for mating,” she says.

“Mating…?” I exclaim instinctively, totally shocked, stunned beyond belief.

I look at her tremendously excited, yet frightened, baffled, perplexed, wondering what to do, how to make my move, as the improbability of the situation makes me slightly incredulous and bewildered

I notice her eyes search the drawing room, then she looks at the bedroom door, and asks, “Where is your daughter?”

“Daughter? I’m not married,” I say, completely taken aback.

“I know,” she says, “I’m talking about your lovely dog…or rather, bitch…” she laughs tongue-in-cheek.

“I’ve locked her inside. She is not very friendly.”

“I know. Hounds do not like strangers…but don’t worry…soon I won’t be a stranger…” Nisha says, gets up and begins walking towards the closed bedroom door.

“Please,” I say anxiously, “Angel is very ferocious and aggressive.”

“Angel…what a lovely name,” Nisha says, “I have been seeing you two jogging and playing at the Oval. That’s why I have come here…to see your beautiful hound Angel…” and then she opens the door.

Angel looks suspiciously as Nisha enters the bedroom and as she extends her hand towards her to pat her on the head, Angel growls at Nisha menacingly, her tail becomes stiff, and the hackles on her back stiffen, since, like most Caravan Hounds, she does not like to be touched or handled by anyone other than me, her master.

“Please…please…” I plead to Nisha, but she moves ahead undaunted and caresses Angel’s neck and suddenly there is a noticeable metamorphosis in the hound’s body language as the dog recognizes the true dog lover. All of a sudden Angel licks Nisha’s hand, wags her tail and jumps lovingly at Nisha who embraces her.

I am really surprised at the way Nisha is hugging and caressing Angel as not even the most ardent of dog lovers would dare to fondle and take liberties with a ferocious Caravan Hound.

“She’s ideal for Bruno. They’ll love each other,” Nisha says cuddling Angel.

“Bruno?”

“My handsome boy… I was desperately looking for a mate for Bruno…and then I saw her…they’re ideally suited…a perfect made for each other couple.”

“You’ve got a hound?”

“A Mudhol.”

“Mudhol?”

“Exactly like her.”

“But Angel is a Caravan Hound.”

“It’s the same…a Caravan Hound is the same as a Mudhol Hound …in fact, the actual name is Mudhol…”

“I don’t think so.”

“Bet?”

“Okay.”

“Dinner at the place of my choice.”

“Done.”

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To my place.”

“To your place?”

“To meet Bruno…doesn’t Angel want to see him?”

“Of course… me too.”

And so, the three of us, Nisha, Angel and I, drove down to Nisha’s home on Malabar Hill. The moment we opened the door Bruno rushed to welcome Nisha…then gave Angel a tentative look…for an instant both the hounds stared menacingly at each other…Bruno gave a low growl…then extended his nose to scent…Angel melted…it was love at first sight.

Nisha won the bet…we surfed the internet…cross checked in libraries…she was right… Mudhol Hound is the same as Caravan Hound…but not the same as a Rampur, Rajapalyam or  Chippiparai Hound.

But that’s another story.

Here is what happened to our “Dating and Mating Story”.

As per our bet, I took Nisha out to dinner – a sumptuous Butter Chicken and Tandoori affair at Gaylord’s. And while we were thoroughly enjoying our food, suddenly, out of the blue, Sudha and her husband landed up there, sat on the neighbouring table, and the way Sudha gave me canny looks, I wonder if it was a “contrived” coincidence.

Angel and Bruno had a successful mating and Nisha and Bruno would visit my pregnant girl every day, and then, on D-Day,  Nisha stayed through the night to egg on Angel in her whelping.

Angel gave birth to four cute little puppies, and every day the “doggie” parents and “human” grandparents would spend hours doting on the little ones.

Since Nisha and I could not agree as to who should take which puppy we solved the problem by getting married – strictly a marriage of convenience – but Sudha, her aim achieved, tells me that Nisha and I are the most rocking couple madly in love.

And so now we all live together as one big happy family – ours, theirs, mine and hers.  

A PERFECT MATCH 

Fiction Short Story – A Romance

By 

VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

vikramkarve@sify.com

Good Dog Bad Dog

GOOD DOG BAD DOG
A Dog's Life 

Short Fiction

By 

VIKRAM KARVE

 

Tension

There is tension brewing in my house. My brother, my sister, even my mother, all are trying to convince my father to sell off our lovely spacious bungalow with a huge compound surrounded by plenty of greenery on the banks the Mula river near Aundh on the outskirts of Pune. But he won’t budge.

I sprawl in the verandah and listen to their conversation.

 “Please try to understand, Papa,” my brother pleads, “we can’t stay in this dilapidated place forever. The builder is giving us a fantastic deal – a luxurious 4 BHK premium penthouse flat – and that too near Deccan Gymkhana – plus whatever money you want in exchange for this godforsaken place.”

“Godforsaken place? How dare you say that? I’ve built this house with my sweat and blood. I like it here and I am going to live here till my dying day!” my father affirms, “If you want, you all can go wherever you like. I’m not going anywhere, I am staying here.”

“Please, Papa!” my sister implores, “Deccan Gymkhana! Just imagine living in Deccan Gymkhana! It’s such a posh locality – and so near my college and all the happening places.”

“It’ll be better for you too,” my mother says, “I’ve seen the place. Luxurious fully furnished flats in a brand new posh building, right opposite Kamala Nehru Park. It’s so near your library, and your club, and you can walk and sit in the beautiful park. You’ll love it there.”

“Meena!” my father says angrily to my mother, “You’ve gone and seen it – without even telling me!”

 “Sanjay took me there in the morning,” my mother says sheepishly.

“Over my dead body!” my father shouts furiously and gets up from his chair. He looks at me and says, “I’m going for a walk. Come Moti – Chain, Chain!”

I jump in delight at the prospect of this unexpected extra outing and rush to get my chain from its place under the staircase. I bring the chain in my mouth – actually it’s not a metallic chain but a leather leash – and hold it in front of my father who ties it to my collar, he picks up his walking stick, and off we go for nice long walk on the jungle path skirting the banks of the Mula river. My father becomes playful and sings to me, “Come, come, come…Moti come!” and I teasingly grab the lead in my mouth, wag my tail and spring up and down and my father says,” Drop it! Drop it!” and I let go off the lead and bounce along.

I love these bubbly walks with my father, there is so much to see, so much to play, so much to sniff – and soon my father will let me off the leash and play chase-chase with me on the sandy ground near the river.

“I don’t know why my father is so stubborn, so adamant,” my brother says to the real estate agent next morning as they talk on the lawn in front of our beloved bungalow, “I think he has gone senile!”

“He’s not gone senile at all,” the wily agent says, “in fact I think your father is a shrewd bargainer.”

“Shrewd bargainer?”

“Had you sold this bungalow last year you wouldn’t have got even half the price you’re getting now. Real estate has suddenly skyrocketed, and yours is the only plot left in this entire place – that’s why they are offering you so much. The developer has managed to acquire everything around here – even that finicky old lady’s place. He’s given her a flat in Mumbai and enough money to live her remaining life in luxury. Once he gets your bungalow he can start his project. That’s why he’s offering you so much – the maximum – it’s a fantastic offer – a deluxe exclusive penthouse apartment in Deccan and a hefty sum of money. I’m telling you – You better make the deal fast; otherwise they’ll try and somehow manage to get hold of your place by hook or crook.”

“Hook or crook?”

“The developer – he’s a big guy – he’s got connections right till the top. Big money is involved. They can even get the DP altered.”

“DP?”

“Yes, DP – it means Development Plan. They’re so desperate to start the project that they’ll get the DP changed and get your land acquired for their project. Then you’ll get a pittance and regret all your life. Better strike while the iron is hot.”

“We will try and convince our father,” my brother says, and then asks the agent, “What’s coming up in this desolate place anyway?”

“It’s a huge 5-star project – IT Park, BPOs, Hotels, Malls, Multiplexes… This whole place is going to be transformed into something so magnificent and futuristic you can’t even imagine – you better make your father see reason, otherwise you’ll be just swept away by the winds of change. Even if you manage to stick on your lone bungalow will be dwarfed between high rise commercial structures all around and it will be difficult to live here.”

The real estate agent pauses, puts his arm around my brother’s shoulder and says, “Talk to your father, your mother – convince them. If they don’t like Deccan, they can choose an apartment from any of our projects – Kondhwa, Kalyani Nagar, Baner, Kothrud – wherever you want – but I am telling you there is nothing to beat Deccan – it’s impossible to get a place there now-a-days!” 

Sitting quietly unnoticed by anyone I hear every word carefully and I feel confused, apprehensive and frightened by all this but I know my father will not succumb. And my chest swells with pride as I know the reason why!

At night, curled up on my mat under my father’s and mother’s double-bed, I attentively listen to my mother nagging my father as they lie down to sleep. “Please Shankar. Don’t be so obstinate. Try to understand – at least for the children’s sake.”

“What about Moti?” my father asks.

“Moti?”

“Yes, Moti. Tell me Meena – have you thought about Moti? She can’t live cooped up in a multi-storey flat – she need all this ground and space – there Moti will suffocate,” my father says matter-of-factly.

“What?” my mother suddenly shouts, “I can’t believe this! You’re more bothered about that bloody pie-dog than your own children!”

“Pie-dog? How dare you? Moti is not a pie-dog, she is my daughter!” my father says emphatically.

“Daughter? Have you gone mad Shankar? The comfort of that wretched mongrel is more important to you than the future of your own children, your own blood!”

“Listen Meena,” my father says, “The children will grow up and go way, but Moti will remain with us forever.”

My heart swells with affection and tears of happiness well up in my eyes; words cannot describe the immense love, adoration and warmth I feel for my father.

My Life

My name is Moti. In Marathi, Moti means Pearl, and generally it is a boy’s name, but my father named me Moti and I like it. 

I was born in the garbage dump down the street.  My ‘birth-mother’ was the local street dog, and she died a few days after giving birth to me and my six brothers and sisters, and my ‘dog-father’ is unknown.

We all lay wallowing in the rubbish, and one day they suddenly came and took away all my brothers and sisters in the garbage truck and somehow they left me behind, and I lay helpless and frightened, wondering what was going to be my destiny, when suddenly I found a tough-looking bearded man staring at me.

Shivering with fear I looked back at him in terror as he extended his hands towards me.

But the moment he held me in his large cozy hands, caressed me lovingly, and put his finger tenderly in my mouth, I felt snug, warm, loved, safe and secure.

This was my new father and he had already decided my name – Moti – the name of his canine ‘son’ who had passed away a few days ago.

“She was destined to come here,” my father said feeding me warm milk when everyone asked him why he had brought such an ugly, weak and sickly pie-dog home.

He made a nice warm bed for me in a basket and put it below his own bed. And as I drifted into sleep, he gently fondled me with his hands.

I felt so wonderful, safe, comfortable and happy for the first time in my life.

As I grew up, everyone started liking me, my mother who I follow all around the house, my brother who is a Software Engineer, my sister who studies in Fergusson College, and, of course, my father who always adored me. I am sure my father loves me even more than his "human" children.

I love my family; I love my house, and I love the wonderful life I live.

I wake up early in the morning, get off my cozy mat under my father’s bed, rub my cold wet nose against his hand and give him a lick.

He grunts and growls and opens his sleepy eyes, and the moment he sees me his face lights up and he lovingly caresses me and says, “Good Morning, Moti,” gets up from bed and opens the main door to let me jump out into the garden, do my ‘little job’ at my favorite place near the mango tree, generally dig in the soft morning mud a bit and sniff around to find out if there are any new morning smells, not forgetting to run and welcome the milkman the moment he comes on his cycle.  

When I return I find that my father is back in his bed and my mother is up and about.

She pats and cuddles me and goes about her business making tea in the kitchen while I loiter around the house.

She surreptitiously sneaks to the bedroom and slyly hands over a tidbit to my half-asleep father under the blanket when she thinks I am not looking.

I pretend not to notice, as I do not want to spoil their fun. Earlier, when I was small and impatient, I used to snuffle out the tidbit from my father’s hand, but this spoilt his fun and he became grumpy, and now that I am a mature young girl well experienced in the ways of the human world I have realized that it is better for us dogs to act dumb and let these humans think they are smarter than us.

So I go outside, sit down and put on a look of anticipation towards the gate and pretend not to notice my mother hiding and peeping through the corner of the window and giggling to herself.

The moment the newspaperman comes on his cycle and shouts ‘paper’, I rush to the gate and fetch the newspaper in my mouth, gripping it just right between my teeth, and hold it up to my horizontal father, who gets up, takes the paper from me and gives me the dog-biscuit he’s been hiding in his hand, as my mother, who has rushed behind me, watches me with loving pride in her eyes.

My brother and my sister, who till now were fast asleep in the other room, call out my name, and as I dart between their beds wagging my tail, they both hug and cuddle me all over saying, “Good Morning, Moti. Moti is a good girl!”   Everyone is cheerful and happy and my day is made!

Soon my father will be up and about and call me for playing the “bone-game” – but before that let me tell you about my home.

In front of our roomy bungalow there is a huge garden, or rather an orchard, with all types of trees and bushes, and a lush green lawn on which I love to frolic, prance and roll upside down, and lots of flower beds which I love digging up to my mother’s horror.

I love digging up the mud – it’s so tasty – and there is plenty of it in the spacious kitchen garden behind the house where I create havoc digging up to my heart’s content, and the only thing I’ve spared are the tomatoes and some horrible tasting leaves called Alu, in Marathi, because they itch. 

When I want to go out, I tap the front door with my paws and they let me out, and when I want to come in I peep through the windows, and, if no one notices I bang the door from the outside or make entreating imploring sounds.

And my father taught me ‘human talk’ and some words, and soon I began to ‘speak’ to him – well, we have a vocabulary of our own.

Of course, our communication styles are different – he uses words, speaks in human language, while I rely on varied sounds like whines and howls and groans and non-verbal antics like nudging, pawing, begging, tugging, licking, and when I want his attention desperately, giving him a shake-hand.

I’m lucky – they don’t tie me up but leave me free to roam and play around as I please. And there is so much to explore and investigate, in the nooks and corners of our verdant garden with plenty of trees, bushes and hedges.

There is so much to sniff, so much to dig, and so much to chase - squirrels, mongooses and birds and butterflies.

The cats have disappeared though; ever since the day I almost caught one.

My father has warned me not to leave the compound, but sometimes I can’t resist the temptation, and slither under a gap I’ve discovered under the fence and go out to explore the street outside but take care to quickly return unnoticed.

The only few days he totally restricts my freedom is when I have my chums. He becomes very overprotective, and guards me like a shadow, never taking me off the leash when we go outdoors.

Once, during my chums, I managed to slip away across the fence, and all hell broke loose, and I was located, chased, captured and, for the first time in my life, I was  soundly scolded by my father who was really furious. I felt miserable, and sulked, but then my father caressed and baby-talked me and I knew how much he loved and cared for me, and it was all okay.

And during those sensitive days he specially pampers me and takes me for long leisurely walks, on a tight leash, keeping an eagle eye and stick ready in his hand for those desperate rowdy rascal mongrels who suddenly appear from nowhere and frantically hang around and try to follow me, their tongues drooling, looking at me in a lewd restless manner.

Once they even had the gumption to sneak into the compound at night, and beseechingly whine outside, till my father chased them away. 

When I was small, and my gums itched, and my milk teeth began to break through, I could not resist chewing up anything I could lay my teeth upon – like shoes, slippers, clothes, toothbrushes, furniture . I especially loved chewing up my father’s favourite Kolhapuri ‘Kapshi’ chappals which were so silky-soft and yummy.

So my father bought me a chewy bone which, it said on the wrapper, was guaranteed to save everything else.

I don’t know why, but I secretly buried the bone in a hole I dug below the Mango tree, and I used to dig it out when I thought no one was looking, chew it a bit, and bury it in some other secret place. 

One day my inquisitive mother found out, and she dug up the bone when I was sleeping and hid in under the pomegranate tree. When I didn’t find it, at first I was confused, then I tracked the bone down with my nose, and when I spied my mother giggling and grinning like a Cheshire cat, I knew who the culprit was.

This started the “bone-game”.

First they (the humans – my mother and father) would give me the bone, and after I hid it they would rush out into the garden and dig it out – then they would hide the bone (after locking me in the house so I could not see) and make me find it, which I did using my nose. 

I wondered how they found the bone so fast, and one day I caught them spying crouching behind the hedge when they thought I wasn’t looking and the mystery was solved.

So now I first let them see where I’m hiding the bone, and when they complacently and confidently go inside thinking they know everything, I dig out the bone and hide it some other place which they do not know and then watch the fun as they search in vain.

Then when they go inside and my father asks me to get the bone, I run out and get it, for which I earn a tidbit.

The way these humans act sometimes, I really wonder who is more intelligent – they or I?

Dog Days

One day my brother, my sister, and even my mother, they all gang up on my poor hapless father, apply all kinds of pressure – emotional blackmail, threats, cajoling – and soon he wilts, his defenses broken down – and it is not long before we leave our beloved bungalow and move, lock stock and barrel, to the ‘luxurious’ flat in Deccan Gymkhana.

And with the huge sum of money the builder has given him, my father has transformed overnight from a simple frugal pensioner to a rich prosperous crorepati.  

For me, life is horrible - just like hell.

The marble floors are so hard, smooth and slippery that my nails break and paws get sore.

The fancy ‘luxurious’ fittings are so fragile, and decorative adornments are so delicate, that my mother is always on the edge when I prance around, scolding me to sit down quietly.

There is no earth to dig, no bushes and trees to smell, no grass for a carefree loll, and, worst of all, no cats and rats, mongooses and squirrels, and birds to chase.

The society over here is so elitist that even their dogs are snobbish, and they sneer at me and loudly speculate about my pedigree. 

I can’t even pee where I please after sniffing around and selecting a bush, or a tree, as in the good old days.

Here, in the "luxurious" flat, there is a stipulated sand-pit in the corner of the terrace earmarked for my ablutions.

They don’t allow me in the lift, so my poor old father has to walk me down ten floors, and then up again after our daily walk.

Even that I don’t enjoy any more, as we have to squeeze ourselves on the crowded streets in the hustle bustle and din of traffic, since on the first day he took me out, we were to stopped at the entrance of the verdant Kamala Nehru Park and my father was rudely shown the sign – DOGS NOT ALLOWED.

In short, my life is hell!

My father too has a guilt conscience and is more and more affectionate towards me, and I too feel sorry for him and snuggle up to him whenever I can and tell him it’s okay and I’m happy.

My loving father and I have become closer to each other than ever before and endure our misery together in silence, while the rest of my family, celebrating their newfound affluence, are becoming more and more distant.

One evening while huffing and puffing up the stairs my father suddenly cries out my name, “Moti! Moti!” and then he drops my leash, clutches his heart and collapses in a heap.

I bark and bark desperately, but no one comes for quite some time, and then suddenly they all appear, carry my father to the lift and take him away. I follow them to the gate and watch them put my father in a car. I want to go with him but they shoo me away.

Everyday I eagerly wait for my father to come back.

I wait and wait, but my father never comes back.

Never – he never comes back – and I never see my father again.

Things change, my brother gets married, his newly wedded wife hates dogs, so they tie me up in a dirty corner of the terrace whole day, and for the first time in my life I realize that I, Moti, once the apple of their eyes, have now become a terrible burden.

Days pass, a baby is born, and I am further banished from the house lest the delicate baby get allergic. One day, the baby crawls towards me.

I wag my tail welcoming my adorable little nephew.

The baby catches my tail, pulls my tail with his full weight and tries to stand up.

The pain is terrible, but I grit my teeth and stoically suffer the excruciating agony.

The baby innocently pulls my tail even harder, and now, unable to bear the terrible excruciating pain I squeal, howl and yelp in unimaginable agony, desperately crying for help.

My brother’s wife comes running out and starts shouting, “The dog, the dog, it’s killing my baby!” and my mother comes out and runs towards me.

The baby releases my tail, I try to lovingly lick the baby, but my mother takes him away, comes back and glares at me, while I look at her trying to convince her of my innocence.

Tell me, how can I ever think of even slightly harming my little baby nephew who I love so much?

But it’s no use. In the evening, my brother comes home, and he and his wife have a heated argument about me. “Either I stay in this house or the dog stays,” she warns my brother threateningly, “I can’t leave my baby with this dangerous dog. If the dog stays, I’ll go to my mother’s place. You make your choice.”

Later, in the evening, after taking me for my customary walk, my brother stops by at the vet doctor’s clinic and I overhear snippets of their conversation, “unprovoked…aggressive…behaviour…put to sleep…”

Shivers of fear drill my insides.

Alarmed, I tug violently with all my strength, break the hook holding the collar to the leash and run for my dear life.

My brother chases me so I turn swiftly into an alley; see a garbage dump, jump inside and hide.

No one comes for some time.

Wallowing miserably in the filth I smile to myself at the irony of it all. Born in a rubbish dump, and now it looks like I am destined to die in a rubbish dump.

That’s the tragedy of a dog’s life, isn’t it?

Well that's my story. A Dog's Story. My Life Story.

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. 

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

  

vikramkarve@sify.com

How to Play Tug of War with your Dog

HOW TO PLAY WITH YOUR DOG

TUG OF WAR

By

VIKRAM KARVE


There is no better stress buster, health tonic and joyful activity than playing with your dog.

Here are a few games I play with my pet girl Sherry. [Her mother is pure Doberman and father the Caravan Hound, who prowled next door]

Sherry is not a cute cuddly indoor lapdog, nor is she merely an excitable watch dog who only barks at intruders – she is a superb guard dog, strong, fast, active and ferocious, ready to attack in order to protect what she considers her territory, which includes our house and family, especially her Master – woe betide anyone who comes menacingly to close to me for her comfort, particularly approaching joggers, cyclists et al.

Whenever Sherry wants to play, she invites me to play by adopting the “playful pose” – her front legs lowered, her butt raised up in the air, her tail high up in the air wagging friendly, her eyes looking upwards invitingly into mine, her ears up alerts and her mouth is open in a "grin".

Normally I respond immediately, but sometimes if I am preoccupied and inadvertently do not notice her, Sherry will some near me, raise her paws, giving cyclic shake hands, beckon me with friendly entreating sounds, and if even that doesn’t work, she will run and get her ball [to play “fetch-the-ball], her toy bone [for the “ bone game”] or just run round and round at top speed in our garden [for the chase game] – now all these are vigorous outdoor games.

Indoors, our favourite game is “tug of war”, for it too is a spirited, energetic, rough and tough game; robust mental and physical exercise both for Sherry and me.

After a long hiatus, it is raining incessantly out here in Girinagar, so we’ve had to call off our evening walk up the hills, and Sherry is getting restless, so I suddenly command: “Pusa…Pusa…Gheun Ye…” [Now, Sherry is a Maharashtrian Doberman, and in Marathi, Pusa… Pusa means “wipe… wipe” and refers to her towel…when Sherry was a baby I would give her a bath and then say Pusa…Pusa while wiping her vigorously with her Turkish towel so she associates Pusa…Pusa with a towel or any such cloth].

Sherry rushes off delightfully and brings her towel in her mouth and offers it to me to start the tug-of-war game. A thick Turkish towel is the best tug of war toy – it is sturdy yet soft, good for her teeth and easy for me to hold, and even when the going gets rough, Sherry loves the vigorous feel of the towel rubbing against her neck, head and body.

It is a rough and tough game of strength and skill – you just don’t pull – actually it is not a tug of war, but rather a jiggle, wiggle, waggle, jerk, squirm, twist and turn, and shake of war so I do all sorts of manoeuvres, shaking, teasing, loosening and improvising; in fact Sherry thinks up numerous ways to win this tug of war.

We play in a large area without distractions, clutter or dangerous objects. Outdoors is great, but the beauty of tug of war is that it can be safely played indoors if you have a bit of space. Make sure there is room for you both to move about and that there is nothing in the way should one of you back up.

As the game of tug of war hot up, Sherry [and me too] gets highly excited, wags her tail briskly and mock growls, so I rub against her and say in her ear…baba la gurr…baba la gurr – dogs love body contact and speaking in their ears.

With experience I learnt tricks of the trade – you cannot always win by pulling alone – it is like flying kites – you have to give dheel sometimes followed by a jhatka – and then jittery shakes – the possibilities are endless.

Conventional wisdom says that the “owner” must win all the time to assert his dominance in the “pack”. But I let Sherry win sometimes. I don’t need to “establish” my place in the “hierarchy” – do you need to establish your place in the hierarchy with your daughter, or son, or wife?

A tough dog needs to bite. Biting is in a dog’s natural instinct and temperament and it is one of the best natural ways for dogs to release pent up stress and energy. It is better Sherry happily releases her pent up stress and energy on the inanimate tug of war towel than some hapless animate object, isn’t it?

Also I don’t want my Sherry to be a sissy – she must be her natural aggressive self – after all she is a top quality guard dog and I must not curb too much her natural preying instincts. That is why I simulate quite an energetic tug of war game with a lot of growling, grunting and shaking on both sides.

If things get too rough, or I am tired and want to end the game, I just softly say: “Drop it” and Sherry lets go of the towel and then I give her a tit-bit.

I love playing tug-of-war with Sherry – it is a mentally and physically stimulating game for Sherry and me and is a great form of aerobic exercise too. And it is so much fun – playing tug of war with Sherry is a most enjoyable and satisfying pastime.

Tug of War is a rough game so only I [or my son who is also a tough guy]play tug of war with Sherry – I never allow small kids near Sherry, let alone let them play tug of war with her.

As I write this on my laptop, Sherry is calling me to play tug of war, enticing me with her Pusa…Pusa towel in her mouth rubbing against my thigh, so here I go to play a vigorous bout of tug of war with Sherry.

Play a lot with your dog.

You dog will be happy and healthy - and you too!

Bow Wow!


VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/

http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

vikramkarve@sify.com

Art of Living by Sherry Karve

My Friend, Philosopher and Guide Sherry Karve

SHERRY & THE ART OF LIVING

Food for Thought

By

VIKRAM KARVE

If you want to learn the Art of Living just observe the way animals live and react to situations.

For me, my pet Doberman girl Sherry is my best teacher in the Art of Living.

Please see her picture above, fetching the morning newspaper from the compound gate for me.

As you can see Sherry is Doberman X – the “X” factor is probably a Rampur Hound or a Caravan Mudhol Hound.

Sherry behaves spontaneously, joyfully, based on her inner instinct.

She plays, she barks, she chases, she eats and she sleeps in accordance with her natural instinct.

Sherry doesn’t need to go to gym [for physical fitness] or a therapist [for mental fitness].

Sherry is not a Goal Oriented person. She is an Inner Resource Oriented person – in short, a Source Oriented person.

Conventional wisdom teaches us to become goal-oriented.

From childhood there are goals set for us to achieve, and when we achieve one goal there is always another goal waiting for us – it is an endless pursuit, a chase which never culminates.

We are taught that a goal oriented person is a person who always succeeds in life. But is there a final destination of success? Do you ever reach your final goal?

Goals are always outside you, goals are in the future, far away from you. Your goals are not in your control. If you design your lifestyle in such a way that your happiness depends on things outside you, things in the future and not in your control, then you may find happiness elusive and you may never be truly content and happy.

If you are too result-oriented – you’ll always be chasing horizons.

Remember, if you run after something it runs away from you, and, conversely, if you run away from something it runs after you – so stop running and life a more Source-Oriented life.
Look inwards, discover and harness your inner resources, act instinctively and you will realize your full creative potential.

Like Sherry, you will live spontaneously, unpredictably, act on the spur of the moment and experience the joy of the glorious uncertainties of life rather than get frustrated by them.

You will live a more stress free life too.

Have you seen wild animals suffering from stress?

Maybe some domesticated pet animals are stressed-out because we humans put stress on them by imposing our “goals” and demands on the poor hapless pets.

We have become so preoccupied with achieving success that our lives are always heading towards something in the future.

In the process, we lose touch with the aliveness and delight of the present.

Sherry does not worry about the future, about achieving future goals, but live in the present.

Sherry does not live in the past either.

She is very forgiving – even if I scold her, which I never need to do, she is back to her cheerful self in a jiffy and doesn’t hold any grudges either.

Anger is a reality.

It happens inside us. Goal Oriented behaviour may result in us suppressing our anger creating stress within us.

Here is a lesson I got one morning from Sherry in Anger Management by Source Oriented living.
Our spacious bungalow, located high up on a hill slope, affords a beautiful panoramic view of the verdant wide green expanse of Girinagar all around.

This morning while we strolled on our lawn sipping rejuvenating cups of piping hot amruttulya tea in the lovely mist and slight drizzle, I noticed Sherry standing alert at the bungalow gate looking intently, focussing on something outside, and gradually getting angry, as evident from her focussed eyes, slow growls, heightened breathing, stiff upright tail and vivid line of hair standing taut on the centre of her neck and back, hackles raised.

I walked towards the gate and looked outside – the object of her attention was a huge white cat that was walking nonchalantly towards the gate, almost defiantly.

The moment the cat came close, Sherry suddenly lost her temper, started barking, violently jumping, infuriated with anger, desperately pleading with me to open the gate.

The cat stopped dead in her tracks and crouched, and I knew that if I let Sherry out, she would desperately, frenziedly chase the cat down the hill, and if she caught the cat, there would ensue a violent fight to the finish, and most likely it would be the cat who would be finished.

So I just walked away and Sherry realized that I wasn’t going to open the gate, went so wild with rage, that she ran amok, running wildly all round the spacious compound, taking high speed runs, jumping over hedges, barking, chasing, leaping at birds, running fast at top speed round and round the bungalow, till she was totally exhausted, after which she went to her water bowl, lapped up cold soothing water, and lay down on her rug in a cosy manner, calm, tranquil, totally relaxed, her anger totally dissipated and dissolved into peaceful serenity.

That’s what one must do when angry, isn’t it? Let me tell you it works - the moment you sense anger rising within you start exercising, run, jog, take a brisk walk, dance, move your limbs, sway, do something.

Spontaneously do some physical activity till your anger dissipates and exhausts itself into a state of calm.

So, Dear Reader, the next time you start getting angry, do what Sherry does – just start running till your anger disappears and you collapse into a cosy state of peaceful calm and tranquillity.

There is a lot to learn about the “Art of Living” from our animal friends, isn’t it?

So just behave naturally, spontaneously, doing you’re your inner voice and instinct tells you, observe fauna and flora around you, and most importantly, get a pet dog and make him or her your friend, philosopher and guide.

I’ll end with a quote on dogs from Sigmund Freud:

Dogs love their friends and bite their enemies, quite unlike people, who are incapable of pure love and always have to mix love and hate in their object-relations. -Sigmund Freud

So here is a Bow Wow – and may you live a more doglike life!

VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/