Dog-Eat-Dog World

Puppy season is the best of times and the worst of times, a spring of hope and a winter of despair. In a recent post, VA highlighted the best, the spring. I now present to you the worst, the winter.

Mike first met the white puppy on walks with Lalu while VA and I were trekking in Nepal. It was a roly-poly little pudge-ball that would growl it's puppy growl while wagging it's puppy tail as Lalu pranced by. Mike called it "the cutest puppy this side of the Ganga."

Earlier this week, as VA, Donn and I drove up to our apartment building, we saw the white puppy lying in the street. VA thought it was taking a afternoon sun-nap. But as we approached closer, we saw that it was dead. It had been hit by a car, and it's little mouth was open in shock and outrage at the injustice of youth cut short. Why? said the puppy's voiceless cry. Or more likely, since it was a Bihari street dog,

क्यों?

We spoke with Mike and it was as though his best friend had passed away. We wondered what would become of the white puppy's corpse. Who would perform the sacred Hindu funeral rites of cremating the white puppy and throwing his ashes into the river? Who would ensure that the white puppy would have a safe passage to the next life?

At first we thought the white puppy's canine companions would take care of this important responsibility. But it quickly became apparent that they had other plans. Later that evening, as VA and I were out walking with Lalu, we saw a street dog standing over the white puppy's corpse. From afar it was a touching scene: the white puppy's mother was licking his face, trying in vain to wake him from his everlasting slumber. But as we approached, we saw that the "mother" was not licking but biting, biting the white puppy's face off. Soon other dogs surrounded the corpse and began to feed as well. When they espied Lalu they gave a hungry growl, now well aware of the fleshy succulence of dead puppy. What could be more fun than eating dead puppy? Hunting it first. We decided to go the other way down the street for the rest of the week.

But it was unavoidable passing that spot eventually. Now the white puppy is half of a white puppy, with the tail sticking up out of a trash pile on the side of the road. Without knowing it's grisly past a passerby might mistake it for a live puppy with it's head hidden in the trash heap, rummaging for some grub. And the white puppy isn't alone. A few days ago on our walk to the office we saw two tiny brown puppies, each the size of Lalu's head, playing with a  burlap sack. The next day there was only one brown puppy playing with the burlap sack; his brother's corpse was on the nearby trash pile, roasting in the sun. The next day after that the second brown puppy had disappeared. Did his mother return for him, with food and a promise to protect him until he is healthy and strong? Was he adopted by a family with children who fawn over him and feed him treats all day? Or did he meet with unspeakable tragedy? Wherever the brown puppy is and wherever he goes, to a mansion with three dinnertimes or to a trash heap where he is the dinnertime, an eternal truth will mercilessly and tirelessly dog him: it's a dog-eat-dog world.