This land is my land ...

When we were kids, towards the end of one school year, a puppy wandered into our compound and made himself at home. 

We kids loved the sight of a puppy, of course.  The traditional, and orthodox, household we were, the puppy had to remain outside though.  Mother gave him food and he was happy. Once, when she gave him something to eat, the fellow--as small as he was--scratched the dirt and tried to bury the food, which amused me to no extent. 

A few days later, it was time for us kids to head to grandma's village for the summer break.  We packed the bags into the car, which my parents sold soon after the oil shock of the early 1970s.  The car started rolling out of the compound on to the road.  The puppy darted after. The car picked up speed, and the puppy tried to keep up but could not.  We waved out to the puppy.

When we returned to get back to school, there was no puppy.  The emotion that I felt as a kid was so gut wrenching, which is why I remember that even after all these years.

Decades after that, when my parents visited with us here in America, we had two dogs at home--Speedy and Congo.  After observing how Speedy and Congo were treated, my father joked, tongue-in-cheek, that if one did good things in life, they will then be reborn in America as dogs.  He was convinced that a dog's life here was infinitely better than the human condition in almost every place on the planet, especially in India.

Speedy (left) and Congo (right)

If only he had known how much better it would get for Congo.  Speedy died, and it was all Congo's after that.  Congo had his own small little bed. Actually, three small little beds in different parts of the home.  Dog food. Vet bills. Riding shotgun. And, during walks, if he his small little legs got tired, well, I carried him!

We spend lots and lots of money on cats and dogs.  Amounts that most of the developing world will find incomprehensible, and perhaps even irresponsible when millions of humans struggle to meet even their basic needs.

One such pet owner was ahead of me in the line at the pharmacy window.  I know he was there to get medicines for his pet because he told the woman across the window: "There's no insurance.  It is for my dog."

I wondered if he knew that medical insurance is available for dogs too!

The woman at the pharmacy counter said something to which he responded in a loud voice: "Last time it was only thirty dollars.  How come it has gone up by three hundred and some percent?"

He was angry.  Maybe he is a loner.  His dog is his friend and family.  The dog is the only thing that keeps him going in life.

Yet, despite the anger, he was quick on his feet to calculate the percentage increase. Impressive in a country that is notorious for quantitative illiteracy!

The woman at the counter said something.

This time he exploded: "Fuck you all."  He hurried away without collecting the medicines.

Later in the evening, like Sylvester in Loony Tunes, I taut I taw a puddy tat; I deed, I deed!

A country in which dogs and cats live like they own the place can't be that bad, eh!