10 episodes from the life of a dog lover

the life of a dog lover

In the humdrum of life, we often lapse and push what we truly hold dear, to the periphery. We look, but we do not see. We hear, but we do not listen. We think, but we do not speak or vice versa.

Before you resign this as a self-help post, this isn’t one. As the drunken genius Charles Bukowski  said— ‘If you‘re losing your soul and you know it, then you’ve still got a soul left to lose‘, this guest post by devout dog lover (and entrepreneur) Sid Soni, explores the little tales that brew around us, but often go unnoticed, waiting for us to observe them.

Not always cute and aww-worthy, these little true tales aren’t what you’d find on Buzzfeed, but in life.

The 10 episodes from the life of a dog lover.


Early Monday morning. Neighborhood run. I am at the end of my first length of 1 km. This juvenile native Indian dog feels I am running towards him. To play with him, he thinks. He shakes and twists his head. Fresh, he canters towards me.
He stands up on two hind legs. His rain-soaked muddy paws smudging my white wicking tee. I keep uttering ‘No! No! No!’ A bit scared, a bit cautious. Then he notices my Vibram’s FiveFingers. Sniffs me. Wagging tail, lets me go.


This little temple at the end of an upward slope ending in a T. I see the dogs in that patch of land with red tilaks on their foreheads.


Perhaps this pup must’ve been hit by a speeding vehicle sometime deep in the night. Lies dead now. Mother sits beside the dead kid. Not yet the time to let the crows fly in.


The silken furry creamy dog watches me from his first-floor gallery. Intently. Left to right, until I am out of sight. Every other morning.

See Also: Why Dogs are Better?


Here this majestic native Indian blacky chills under the shade of a vegetablewala’s mobile cart. Every day. He finds the cart, he just sneaks under. Looks like a tacit pact.


Her brother died of poisoning. I heard he was killed by the chowkidar-family gate-keeping this newly constructed building in the neighbourhood. This girl, right outside our society-compound, has taken in a handsome boyfriend. She’s got a sharp lean face. He’s well-built and follows her lead. The two make one sprightly couple.


Brother and Sister, juvenile, both with twisted tails. Both handsome, the guy more so. One’s tail twists one way, the other’s the other way.


A handsome native, yet again juvenile, sleeping in a corner where the staircase bends. His white body’s got an attractive near-symmetrical splatter of black and brown. I crush and grind some biscuits for him. He sniffs. Gets up. Licks up the snack. Doesn’t like potato chips surely.


I search for the visual rendition of ‘No TV’ on Google Images. Among the numerous pics, I land on one that stands out. A pic leading to a video where a native dog is burnt alive with a fire-hose. One eye almost smashed, the dog’s got life. Limbs move, shot with pain. Signs of life. The other eye doesn’t have the energy to blink though. Someone hits the head twice with a heavy log. The sounds wiggle into me. The camera moves to another dog completely fired, black and dead, and torn in two pieces. Mouth wide open, baring all the teeth. Not sure what to do, what to say, I post the video on my FB timeline. I get no like. There’s no ‘suffering acknowledged’ button.


Bruno, my neighbor’s German Shepherd and Golden Retriever cross, cheek-licks me out of my afternoon nap.

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