The Hindu Business Line : One last chance

We were great friends three years ago. He used to prance around gleefully as soon as he spotted me, a hundred yards away, at the other end of Ritchie Street (Chennai), as I headed for my early morning cup of coffee.

I was given an ecstatic welcome when I finally reached the spot where he stood. Jumping up and down on his hind legs and wagging his tail ecstatically, he used to leave muddy footprints on my trousers, and even on my shirt, just below the pocket.

These formalities concluded, he used to lead the way triumphantly to the particular shop from which he wanted biscuits that day, his tail erect like a banner.

I saw him again only about six months ago, after a long gap, by which time he had somehow got mange, an infectious skin disease which is very hard to treat and causes untreated dogs to die a very painful and protracted death.

Not knowing how to help, I began avoiding him; turning down some other by-lane whenever I saw him at the end of the street.

To assuage my increasing sense of guilt I kept telling myself that there was nothing I could do to help him. I could have taken him home, but being ill myself, I would not even have been able to feed him regularly, leave alone applying ointment twice a day and taking him to the vet once a week.

Then two weeks ago, after I though I had once again deftly managed to avoid him, he walked slowly, painfully towards me, with his swollen legs (and, unknown to me, a failed kidney).

He ate the four biscuits I gave him without a flicker of recognition in his once joyful eyes.

That was his way of giving me my last chance; was I going to help him, or again just walk away.

This treatment worked, because of the question it left hanging in the air: “How many times can a man turn his head, and pretend that he just doesn’t see?”

I now began urgently, brokenly, looking around for some sort of nursing home for pets, and soon found one thanks to the help of a dear friend of mine.

The man running the show came down to the Ritchie Street slums last Thursday and bundled the dog into his car, explaining to its caregiver that there was no chance of him ever recovering.

All that he could promise was love, care, food, and a relatively painless death.

I followed that car about 20 km along the East Coast Road, and despite the shock of discovering that my friend not only had mange, but was also suffering from an advanced stage of kidney failure, was greatly comforted by the sight of the welcome that the other dogs in the shelter gave, both to their caregiver and to my Ritchie Street dog.

Though, immediately after arrival, he refused even water, after he had had sometime to settle down, he gratefully and gleefully gulped down a full meal.

Tragedy struck soon afterwards.

I received a call yesterday saying that the dog had suffered a serious setback after a vet gave him some injections and tablets to relieve his pain. A few hours later, he was gone.

But only after having done his duty to me that day, when he slowly shuffled the entire length of the street towards me.

He had given me one last chance to remove forever the guilt that I would otherwise have had to live with for the rest of my life.