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| Sunday, 15 June 2003 |
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The story of Maggie When Maggie and Violet came into our lives, they had no names. As a matter of fact, they had nothing then, but each other. It was the intensity with which they reacted to each other that attracted my attention them. Maggie now has an enviable thick golden yellow coat on her, but she behaved like she always had that - even when she was hopelessly rash-ridden, hairless, and the exposed skin along the spinal cord was speckled with sores. Skin on the lower part of her body, abdomen and legs, were simply dead, and the dead skin was black in colour. She had 'rosy' cheeks - that was because the skin on her cheeks were peeling off, and her ears were hopelessly inflamed. Her tail was like a dead stick with two or three strands of hair sticking to it, and the rest covered with oozing wounds. She gave out an intolerable stench whenever she entered our garden from its rear side. The smell emanating from her body was so repulsive that we had to have all the windows opening to the rear, closed for months. Purpose Despite her deteriorating body, she had a strong sense of purpose - a purpose for life. She was never alone. Her puppy, a hairless puppy covered with dirt, always accompanied her. I would see Maggie walking past our house by the lane leading to the street. And, I would pray quietly that the puppy did not follow her. I always wished that someone had adopted that puppy, or simply if the puppy was dead. But, a few minutes later I would see the puppy trailing on her mother's track. They would both run about on the street, mother running and the puppy rolling behind. They would feed themselves on the garbage heaps on the roadside. And, they would lie down on the middle of the tarred road, getting up and moving to a side whenever a motor vehicle passed by, and then returning to the middle of the road to lie down, to lie down together. Everyone noted the pair. Everyone noted them, particularly the tiny dot of a hairless, dirt-ridden puppy, lying contently in the middle of the road. Discomfort Everyone that visited us during that period would make some sort of reference to the pair with a lot of discomfort. We, neighbours, never talked about that couple among us - might be because the pair weighed so very heavily on our conscience. The male dogs roamed about the street did not hurt Maggie and her puppy - rather they were very friendly with them, and were apparently giving them protection. The puppy was so very tiny at that time, and it would not have survived otherwise. It was during this time, our domestic help for the last ten years bade farewell to us since her family was well out of economic difficulties that had earlier compelled her to work for us. As it was not that easy to replace a decade-old domestic help, we had been buying our food from a restaurant nearby. The lunch and dinner packets contained so much food that I could never eat all the food. Nearly half the cooked rice and curries like dhal were always leftover. Whenever I opened the compost bin to dispose of the leftovers, the images of Maggie and her puppy on the garbage heap would flash in my mind. A lump would form in my throat, and my eyes would become moist. It became so unendurable to dispose of the leftovers into the bin that, one late evening I braved the cold wind that gives me non-stop sneezing and wheezing that follows it, to feed the pair. I wanted to do it without my husband's knowledge, because I did not want to make him aware of the pain in my heart - for I feared it might well be contagious. Sneak As he started to do the dishes after dinner, I sneaked out with the leftovers. I opened the gate noiselessly, and walked all the way to the top of the lane. I was lucky to find Maggie, then nameless, in the would-be garage of the new house that was being built across the street. I signalled her to come, silently, with my hand. She appeared to have picked up the message instantly. She got up, stood expectantly, but did not take a single step. I waited for a while, but she did not move. I then kept the food on the side of the road, turned, and walked towards the house. After having walked a while, I turned and looked. I was worried that she might not get to eat the food. I saw her move towards the food, but hesitating - maybe because I turned to look. I did not see her puppy anywhere close to her. There was, however, nothing much I could do about that. I continued to walk towards my home. When I got very close to the gate, I looked back, and saw her eating the food that I had offered. With heavy heart, I locked the gate and walked towards the door with small steps. As I entered the house, my husband asked me if I went to feed 'the dog'. I said 'yes', and it was the first time we made any reference to Maggie, by name. They now got bread pieces soaked in milk for breakfast, and our leftovers for lunch and dinner. Time and again, they also got portions from the meals that we cooked separately for our pets - two dogs resulting from a perfect mixture of a Dalmatian, a Boarder Cooley, and a Japanese Spit, and four cats. The couple now had two plates for them - they were the lids of the plastic buckets used in the house, one small and one big. They also had a bowl full of fresh water. All these were placed outside the front gate. It took weeks before Maggie started to pay attention to me, not only to the meals that I provided her and her daughter. She now seemed to realise that they were given food not just because I wanted to dispose the leftovers but because I loved them. The pair still roam the street, and lay down in the middle of the road. In addition, they also lie down just outside our gate. By Dr. R. Shanthini |
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