AS a child, I grew up thinking that domesticated dogs understood just one language — English. It never occurred to me to question this fact. I spoke to my first dog, Tubby, in whatever English I knew (which, for quite some time, wasn’t much as it was not the language spoken at home). I spent long hours confiding in Tubby, discussing my problems with him. In return, Tubby only offered soulful eyes and a wagging tail. Today, I’m grateful for my misconception — the last thing any distraught 8-10-year-old would want is a correction of the grammar in her (perceived) tale of woe.
Tubby, I’m told, came into the household when I was a toddler. I was 12 when he died, having lived a dog life of a hundred and something years. Heartbroken as I was at the time, some unexpected benefits of his death did not escape me. I discovered many ‘secret’ places in the house where I could sit in peace and cry my eyes out. After a few days, the tears and sorrow subsided, but the newly discovered places came in handy when finishing off the last few pages of the book I was reading at the time, without being disturbed by the world at large.
Our next dog was Napoleon. I might add here that my dogs have reflected my favourite characters of the time. Napoleon grew into this big, burly Alsatian. Unfortunately, he was like the lion in The Wizard of Oz. He was as timid as he was big. His tendency to run into his kennel when confronted was only matched by his very loud and aggressive bark. In the 1971 war, I had to put him on Coramine (which I was told had a calming affect on the heart) and Librium (anti-depressant) was given at night. December 1971 was depressing; a dog as sensitive as Napoleon could not talk, so other measures had to be resorted to, I reasoned. The dog slept soundly through air raids and sirens.
Once other people also eventually discovered Napoleon’s secret (his drug habit and immense cowardice), he was stolen. Once again, I was traumatized. This time, however, I did not go into corners to cry. I did the most sensible thing I could think of. I went to the family Sufi Sahib and asked him to tell me what to pray. I had, after all, lost one of my most treasured possessions. The look on the elderly gentleman’s face made me quickly realize the error of my ways. Secretly though, I continued to pray; but the prayers and the police report that I had forcibly filed did not work. Napoleon never returned.
He was replaced by Shaggy, who found us. She walked into the open gate one day and literally took over Napoleon’s place. Nobody could get her out of the kennel. She was a full-grown dog with a lot of Golden Retriever in her. I felt God had answered my prayers. Here was another dog! She was washed, vaccinated and adopted. The name Shaggy came from her coat on which I had to practise my hitherto non-existent hair-trimming skills. She, I can still swear, understood every word I said to her. She would look me in the eye and we’d communicate. Shaggy seemed to understand and analyze everything said to her. Our relationship got off to a wonderful start. It might have stayed that way if Shaggy’s strong aversion to tube roses had not gotten the better of her thinking self.
My grandfather had had all his roses dug out to be replaced by the then very new idea of tube roses. Shaggy obviously did not like change and one night she systematically and laboriously dug out every single planted bulb. I faced a court martial very early the next morning. Grandfather had gone into his lawn to see if any of his treasured bulbs had sprouted tender green shoots overnight. He was confronted with the sight of rows upon rows of just-about-to-sprout bulbs lying prostrate in wild disorder all over the place. I begged, pleaded, even grovelled. A deal was reached. Shaggy would never ever be allowed to come near the lawn again.
The bulbs were replanted, gates and barriers were erected and Shaggy was cordoned off. Once again — yes, you’ve guessed it — when the bulbs were about to sprout, the coveted shoots that would blossom into sweet-smelling tube roses, Shaggy somehow got into the lawn again. The performance on both sides was repeated, except this time my lawyer grandfather had already passed judgment; he announced his verdict the moment he saw me. I had to send Shaggy away to a servant’s village after he’d promised on his life that she would be looked after and well fed. Each time this man returned from his village, we’d have a five minute ‘Shaggy’ conversation.
Schroeder came next — I don’t remember from where. He was a small mongrel, named after a character from the Peanuts cartoon strip. Schroeder had a special liking for people’s elbows. Quite amiable otherwise, he’d every now and then try his luck with elbows. Tall people were his particular favourites. The challenge interested the German element in him, I suppose. All family and friends were mad at me for the violent elbow twitches the sight of Schroeder caused (at one stage everyone in the house took to walking around with arms as high as they could manage — visible surrender to a superior force). Nobody appreciated the fact that Schroeder was original. He could have gone for ankles, I argued — the options for which would have been: a) walk on your hands or b) wear high boots....far more inconvenient than the twitching syndrome. The family gave me a third — get rid of the dog. He went to another village with just as many faithful promises.
Jinky, a pure black Cocker Spaniel, came when my own children were young. She was a beauty; pure cocker with habits to match. Her food bowl had to be washed everyday, her water bowl filled with fresh water each time she wanted to drink, and someone had to sit near her when she ate. A great believer in good table conversation, Jinky would not eat if left alone. Our younger daughter took on this responsibility. The little girl sitting on the front doorsteps, keeping up an animated conversation while the dog went leisurely through her meal, is one of my favourite memories. This daughter today has a successful career: not surprising when you think she’d figured out, at the age of 5, exactly the kind of conversation a dog liked when eating!
Jinky died and I know my girls cried just as I had cried for Tubby earlier. Snoopy and Lucy (more Charles Shultz), magnificent German Shepherds, came into the family. They were handsome dogs. Snoppy’s intelligence, like Napoleon’s before him, was non-existent. Lucy was smart. Most of the time she sat comfortably while Snoopy chased away people, cats and birds through the shut gate. It was only when he was dared that Snoopy’s bark would loose its ferocity and take on a panic note. Such times, Lucy would come to his defence. Her bark and teeth meant business. Nobody challenged her.
Today, there is Billo. The first to carry a desi name and the first to be spoken to in Urdu. She’s broken new grounds in our house. Named after Abrar ul Haq’s famous song, she initially carried the appendage ‘Begum’ before her name. My husband, however, reacted so violently that the word was dropped. Why Begum? Well, she’s a fine example of a Golden Retriever. Like all beautiful creatures, her value is mostly ornamental. She’s scared of crows, the dark, people, cats, lizards, almost everything really. Her favourite occupation is to sit on the parapet, view the world, bark from a safe distance to be noticed, and generally be admired. She’s short of hearing, has bad eyesight and a chronic sinus problem. This conclusion has been reached because Billo will neither see nor hear nor smell anyone till they more or less trip over her. Maybe she’s just a firm believer in, ‘see no evil, hear no evil, smell no evil’...who knows? I’m convinced it’s the price we pay for her being purebred.
Billo is named in Urdu, is spoken to in Urdu, but she remains ‘English medium’. She will bark her head off if someone approaches the gate in a shalwar kameez. If the stranger is wearing trousers, her bark is more of a polite ‘excuse-me-have-to-do-my-bit-and-warn-the-inmates-you-know’. Which brings me to my first point...perhaps domestic dogs (in our house at any rate) are meant to be spoken to in English?
AS a child, I grew up thinking that domesticated dogs understood just one language — English. It never occurred to me to question this fact. I spoke to my first dog, Tubby, in whatever English I knew (which, for quite some time, wasn’t much as it was not the language spoken at home). I spent long hours confiding in Tubby, discussing my problems with him. In return, Tubby only offered soulful eyes and a wagging tail. Today, I’m grateful for my misconception — the last thing any distraught 8-10-year-old would want is a correction of the grammar in her (perceived) tale of woe.
