“I am so sorry!”
A big dog has suddenly cornered mine in the dog park. I am furious but hold my tongue, conceding that its elderly owner could not have intervened any faster.
Relief courses through my veins as I snatch my dog away. My children would have killed me if anything ever happened to him.
“Were you on your phone? Why weren’t you paying attention? How could you let this happen?” Questions from my own repertoire would have come back to bite me. Of course, they would beget their own loaded questions in return: who promised to “do everything” for the dog – and who does everything? Why was the dog on a walk between meetings and not after school? But as I often point out to no one who is listening, the dog is ours and we owe him our care.
In his first year, Odie survived Covid but nearly died after eating a grape. Well, at least the vet though he might, so caught between two ridiculous costs, the price of a pandemic puppy versus the vet’s fees, I chose the lesser evil. Suffice to say the $800 grape soured me for ever. We don’t buy grapes now, we simply devour other people’s.
This year, I am pleased to report that Odie has been safe and has found his place in the family.
Once, I asked my married-with-children friend how her dog was doing. “He is the love of my life!” she swooned. Now I get it. The other day, my teenager said: “If you line up our whole family and Odie, I’d pick Odie every single time. He brings me joy.” Remind me not to compete with a dog for affection.
When someone comes home, the first “person” to be greeted is the dog. There is a dash to rescue him from his (cushioned, bone-replete) kennel outside, nestled in a corner and shielded from the elements. Sometimes, our outings are constrained by his needs. Too dark, too rainy or too cold and the kids resist putting him outdoors.
I haven’t told them that my friend John used to leave the television on Oprah all day for his dog. I used to mock John for this idiosyncrasy, but when I see how Odie consumes David Attenborough (and growls animatedly at the lions), I feel as if he was on to something.
He follows me around dutifully and lets me prop my feet against his soft fur
The dog repays our love by being the only one to faithfully meet and greet us when we come home. Instead of mumbling something unintelligible without looking up from the TV remote, Odie skids and skates to the door, paying no heed to the risk of a fractured leg. His tail wags overtime as he makes cute guttural sounds and promptly rolls over for a belly scratch while holding out hope for a snack. It is impossible to resist anyone who takes such unalloyed pleasure at your presence and whose behaviour is not dictated by what happened at the office that day.
I can’t say I wasn’t warned about this predictable fate of dog-owners, but for the first year, I strived to restrict the dog to “dog areas”, namely downstairs, off the good carpet and absolutely off the good sofa. After all, he had a plush bed, bought at full price on the kind of impulse I rarely reserve for myself.
The dog needs boundaries, I warned, as Odie clambered on to laps and snuggled at various feet, ensconced in the folds of a blanket. Then, like a stealthy invader, he crept up the stairs. And then one day, behold, he was on the big bed where we congregate for family time. I screeched and Odie jumped off. He tried again and I growled. But Odie can read vibes. He knew that the consensus view maintained that shoving an innocent dog off the communal bed was not the done thing.
Odie won. Now he invites himself and his antler, wedges it between our toes and gnaws diligently while we watch The Crown. He periodically growls at the Queen’s corgis and horses, proud to defend us from those dangers lurking behind the screen. I explain my concession by espousing that Odie was not born to be a common ground dog. At the time of writing, he is only allowed on the “foot side” of the bed and is under no circumstances to occupy a pillow, even the one that says “Dogs, first they steal your bed, then they steal your heart.”
My relationship with Odie has evolved from carer to companion. He follows me around dutifully and lets me prop my feet against his soft fur. When I write in bed, he jumps up, making sure that some part of him touches me. Then, as soon as I posit a walk, his ears perk up before one paw and then another slams my keyboard, deleting entire paragraphs or interspersing carefully curated words with random letters. But he is so thrilled at the prospect of going to the same place, at the same time, with the same person, that I too feign excitement and take him to the reserve, where he madly chases after birds with the wind in his hair while onlookers stop to watch in delight.
My favourite is a young man with a disability. An older man at his nursing home drives him to the oval every day to walk laps together. As if this kindness isn’t enough, the older man also helps him buy tiny treats which he gives the dogs with permission. The dogs love him, and he adores them. This ritual might just be the happiest part of his day, at once humanising and a reminder of the transforming power of small gestures performed by quiet people.
I recently spied a party in a posh park where the dogs wore Dior collars and each dog guest received a pricey gift bag. My guilt at Odie’s worn brown leash and council-issued poop bags lasted but an instant. I don’t know whether dogs have birthday expectations but as he turns two, my wish for him is simply that he lives a long and happy life. I had not anticipated what a fountain of joy and gratification he would turn out to be.
• Ranjana Srivastava is an Australian oncologist, award-winning author and Fulbright scholar. Her latest book is called A Better Death
