Ars Longa, Vita Brevis

He thought he had always been a dog lover. It was always he who had asked for a puppy. It was always he who had played with his puppy. It was always he who had taken his puppy to the vet. And, it was always he who had cried when his puppy died.

He was 10 years old when his father brought home a Himalayan sheepdog, and they called him Bhote. One day, when he came home from school, the home felt quieter than usual. He left his school bag in his room and went upstairs looking for Bhote. Not finding him in his usual hideouts, he went downstairs and out in the courtyard, calling his name. The ensuing silence worried him. Had he gone out in the street and got lost or, worse, killed? He went inside the house and ran to his mom. She came towards him, and he didn’t like what he saw in her gloomy eyes.

“Your uncle needs him more than us,” she said. “He will be guarding his farm animals and the house. You can meet him when you visit your uncle’s house in your winter vacation.”

He ran to the toilet and locked the door from inside. Tears flowed from his eyes. How would Bhote feel when he can’t find him? Who would he play with? Who would take him to the vet when he gets sick? Would Bhote remember him when he visits his uncle?

Later, he would ask everyone who had been to his uncle’s farmhouse about Bhote and just like any proud parents, listen to Bhote’s stories and how he hadn’t allowed anyone to enter his uncle’s house. He would imagine Bhote, standing at the gate, defiantly, barking at the entire village and chasing every wild animal away. He would never see his Bhote; one morning outside his uncle’s house, he was found dead.

Fast forward 25 years. When his mother told him over the phone, with a sob in her voice, that their dog Hanuman had died, his reaction was a mere shrug. He didn’t feel anything as if she were talking about someone else’s dog. Without Hanuman on her side, she would be lonely, he thought and felt sorry for her.

It was a present from one of my patients, his brother-in-law had told him when he carefully pulled out a brown puppy from a toiletry bag and handed it to him. He held the tiny creature carefully with both hands, sensing the warmth from his body. They would name him Hanuman, after a loyal companion of lord Rama. He would follow him around the house, teach him to climb the stairs, play with him on the balcony, and laugh when he made high-pitched barks frolicking back and forth. He would hold him tight with his left hand and feed milk with his right hand as if he were his baby. He made him a bed next to his. He would wake up at night to feed him and play with him. In due course, he would take him to the vet to get all the necessary shots. In a few months, he would get a job and their lives would take different turns.

He would leave for the office in the morning and come back home late in the evening. He would eat his dinner and go back to his room and read the books he had brought from his work. There is so much to learn, he would say. Even on Saturdays or holidays, he would shut himself in his room, typing on his computer or reading the books from work. Hanuman would spend most of his time sleeping on the balcony and following his mom when it was his meal time. He would go to the balcony to pee or poop. He got used to being around in the house alone. When he reached adolescence in 8–9 months, he displayed higher energy and became rebellious. In the presence of young kids, he would be intolerable. He would hold their knee and perform the act of humping. These acts disgusted him. Whenever he caught Hanuman in the act, he would grab him by his neck and drag him outside to punish him for his unpardonable sin. He would hold him tight, his face pressed against the floor, and hit the slipper continuously on the floor near his face producing a loud pattering sound, letting him go only when he was tired. Hanuman would run away and hide under the table.

When it was time to bathe Hanuman, he would be the one to hold the leash. Hanuman neither liked water nor the leash. Hanuman would be furious and attempt to bite him. How dare you, he would scream. He would hold the leash tight, making Hanuman uncomfortable, while they poured cold water over him. Almost every interaction with Hanuman involved a punishment. They avoided each other.

Every once in a while, he would think of Hanuman and go upstairs looking for him. Hanuman would be sleeping on a floor and, as the footsteps neared, he would raise his head, looking suspiciously at him, and finally closing his eyes, letting his head fall off slowly to the floor.

He would get married and leave home with his wife. He would have two kids. He busied himself looking after his family. When he called home, he seldom asked about Hanuman as if even the traces of Hanuman were erased from his memory.

Now that his kids have grown up, he is not needed at home as in the past. He goes for long walks and says hi to others on the trail. Some come with their dogs. Sometimes they stop and talk about the weather, the trail, or their dogs. With COVID, more and more of his friends adopt pets. He congratulates them on their new family member. When they meet, they talk about their new companions as if they were talking about their kids. The lack of memories of his pet in the past keeps him quiet and torments him when he is alone.

He goes online and reads about the various dog breeds. During dinner, he floats the idea of getting a pet. His children get excited, but his wife opposes the idea. They first try to convince her with reasons; they beg her; they kowtow to her and finally; she gives in. They draft roles and responsibilities documents assigning each of them some responsibility. They look for a puppy online. They call and leave messages to various kennels. A breeder from Paris, a two-hour drive from their home, responds positively, and they immediately send her the payment as an advance and fix a date to pick up their puppy. They go online and read “How to prepare your home for a new puppy”. They order crates, beds, bowls, treats, food, toys, leashes, collars, toothbrushes, and training clickers. The day before the pickup, he assembles the crate and the playpen. On that day, all of them drive to Paris, meet the breeder, and pick a puppy. They take some pictures together and drive back home, excited. He picks the name Leo after his favorite soccer player. They spend the whole afternoon and evening playing with Leo. He sleeps on the sofa next to Leo for the next two months. In the beginning, he wakes up a few times at night to change his pee pad, feed him, and play with him. He takes him to the vet regularly. When he works from home, he comes out from his office room a few times a day to play with him. Sometimes he takes Leo out in the backyard and throws the ball for Leo to fetch. Sometimes Leo runs with a toy around the house and he runs after him, shouting, pretending to be chasing him. When Leo is 4–5 months old, he takes him for a walk in the morning and in the evening. Leo loves going out, sniffing every grass blade, and leaving his marks everywhere. Leo would wait for him at the bottom of the stairs in the morning or sit next to the main gate peering outside through the glass pane when he came home from work or sitting outside his office room when he worked from home. When he comes out from his office room, Leo runs to get his toy and comes to him with a toy in his mouth.

It is a spring morning, and the sky is clear and blue. He goes to the backyard to read his book and Leo, as usual, follows him and lies down next to him, touching his leg. He reads a few lines, but something distracts him. He looks at Leo’s youthful body, lying next to his feet, soaking up all the sunlight. He scratches Leo’s back gently, which awakes Leo, who then turns his head lazily and stares at him, exposing his belly as if inviting to scratch it. How peaceful and calm Leo is of any events of today or tomorrow, he thinks. He probably doesn’t even realize one day he will get old and weak. He won’t be able to follow me, go out on our morning and evening walks, won’t even care to sniff the grass, leave his marks, or about the neighborhood dogs. He may lose his memory and not even recognize me, this house, this backyard, and the neighborhood. He may suffer from pain and groan all night, unable to sleep, his sorrowful eyes begging to ease his suffering. I may have to take him to the vet to put him down. What will be his last passing thoughts? Will he be in peace knowing he was beloved all his life? I hope he does. I really hope he does. How I will look at Leo’s lifeless body, whose entire life, from childhood through adolescence and into old age, has unfolded right in front of my eyes? How will my kids and wife cope with the grief? The void he will leave will be too pervasive to escape, the silence too deafening to avoid. I will need to learn to live with the void, with the silence. But this time I will have memories, the memories of Leo, our story of tears and laughter, the summation of my salvation.