Our daschund, whom we named Kavi for his poetic eyes, was perhaps as old as us or even older, biologically. Sometimes we wonder whether others will ever be able to bear with our idiosyncrasies as we get older. But we and our canine partner had developed a near perfect relationship.
We could not leash him at will, beyond the usual cycle of three times a day; and if he was not in the mood, he would go into hiding. In particular, when trying to leash him in preparation for the visit of friends who did not like dogs, he would disappear.
His favourite quarantining locations were a mat, his cot or the mattress on which he slept. And he would come out of hiding only after the guests had settled down, and try to make conversation. Even otherwise, he would growl, bark raucously and even bite if made to do things not to his liking. Even we had not been spared.
One big no-no for leashing is when he had to be taken to the doctor or when the doctor was called home for his annual pokes. The doctor would say that we had spoilt him.
His food intake went down. My wife had to occasionaly feed him with her hands in small bites or morsels. When we would request him to come out for his jobs, both of us had to accompany him, one in front and the other behind him. When I used to take him out for a walk on the leash, he would walk slowly. I had to adjust my pace accordingly. Affection, very often, was a function of time. The irony with old-timers is that less the time available to them, the more of it they want from others.
He developed this rather touching habit of following me room to room. If we are at the dining table, he sat between the two of us at our feet. If we were in the bedroom, he would be resting somewhere to keep us in the line of his sight. If I was in my study, he would come and sit at my feet, occasionally using them as a pillow. In short, he refused to socially distance himself from us.
He did not complain, only whimpered (which sounded like “please, please”). As life ebbs away, attachment grows.
He has stolen a march over us in our quest for a face-up with our Maker. He departed taking a part of us and our circadian routine too with him. A strand of our attachment had snapped.
He rests eternally now very close to the wall of our bedroom. We often mistake the chirping of a particular bird for his “please, please”.
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