“Why do you want a dog? Don’t you have enough to do?”
To be fair, my parents had reacted similarly to my decision to have a third child and acquire another degree, so I huffed in a fit of bravura, “Well, you don’t have to look after it.”
I had reached the point of no return courtesy of my 10-year-old who openly yearned for the day he could leave home and buy a dog. Given the state of housing affordability in Australia, I should have called his bluff; instead, I blinked. He named the puppy, Odie, after Garfield’s frenemy.
When Odie was 10 weeks old, I took him in a shoebox to meet my parents. That year, my scientist dad reserved judgment, partly because Odie liked to nibble at his shoe, or failing that, his foot. My mum couldn’t believe how we nuzzled his little head, scooped him off the ground and fed him with our hands. When her turn came, she would warily hold out some roti, causing an impatient Odie to lunge at it and send her scooting back.
As a pandemic puppy, Odie was smothered by human company. He was quickly trained and became a firm favourite inside and out of home. Then came the return to normality and with it, some days in the back yard. I can’t say that the quiet time disagreed with him but his palpable delight at our return proved a bit guilt-inducing. When I mentioned this to my intern, she exclaimed, “We got another dog for just that reason, best thing ever!” That evening, impossibly, my daughter asked, “You wouldn’t buy a dog for Odie, would you?”
One dog was company, two would be a crowd. To nip the idea in the bud, I turned to the proverbial village that had helped me raise my children. Having spent their lives in India worrying about (other) necessities, I wondered whether my parents would embrace the dog as they had my children. But being carers in the true sense of the word, they said a qualified yes, so long as it was during the day. I exhaled.
At first Odie resisted and whined like a child on the first day of kindergarten. He greeted my arrival (after an hour) with exaggerated fanfare as if he had been in a penitentiary. But what parent has not tasted ingratitude and looked past it? The dog might have looked a gift horse in the mouth, but on the other side were gracious humans determined to do their best.
And then the unexpected happened. My parents went out and bought a swish bowl and a nice leash – there could be no surer sign that both parties had outlived probation and grown on each other!
Another year on, Odie sprints through their door and launches himself on to their plush sofa. Nudging a cushion under his head, he settles down to watch my dad read the newspaper. Here, he waits for my mum to finish praying because, in Odie’s world, food follows prayer. As she eats, his little head bobs up and down until she succumbs to his soulful eyes and gives him a small treat. Then they take a post-prandial walk. The other day, when he was being stubborn on the way back, she scooped him up and tucked him under her arms just as she has seen my kids do. “It’s so cute!,” she exclaimed, tickled by the thought of controlling the dog.
Odie started “great-grandma day care” one day a week. Now my parents can’t get enough of him. They miss him when he hasn’t surfaced for a couple of days and urge me to drop him off when it’s “very hot, very cold or very rainy” outside. In Melbourne, these days occur in sequence, so Odie has become a frequent house guest. I suppose it’s what happens when your love language is loyalty.
A dog is a real responsibility, so I am careful to not conflate my reprieve with their gratification. But when I regard the untrammelled joy that Odie brings my ageing parents, I am reminded of an old patient I used to care for.
When we met, he insisted on a CT “so I know how long I have”. When I gently explained that a scan could not determine prognosis, he disclosed the real reason: his beloved dog had died and he wanted to get another. Touched, I encouraged him to do it because I knew it would leaven his loneliness and enhance his quality of life. But the man’s love for dogs was so strong that he couldn’t bear to think of doing the dog a disservice by dying.
Two full years passed with him mired in this dilemma and I lived his torment alongside him at every single appointment, which ended with “Now doctor, what do you say about a dog?” Then, he began falling over and it really was too late. I still think that it was the best therapy he never had and, in hindsight, I wish we could have explored creative ideas such as “borrowing” a dog as my parents do.
At three, Odie has become the fourth child in our family, the one without whom our lives had once been complete. He is the antidote to human irritations: a forgiving companion, an attentive listener, an unquestioned friend. The whole household can sizzle with annoyance but, for the dog, there is only tenderness. In a house of teens, dinnertime can be a flexible concept, but the dog gets fed at six. Most wonderful of all, Odie has surreptitiously entered, and effortlessly filled, the increasingly quiet lives of my ageing parents.
When I think of all the gaps in our lives so beautifully sealed by a small creature who doesn’t even know the importance of his role, I think of the entertainer Will Rogers who befittingly said:
If there are no dogs in heaven then, when I die, I want to go where they went.
PS
Dear Readers,
On a personal note, thank you for this 10th year of your generosity and support, which I greatly value. I wish you a fulfilling holiday and look forward to seeing you in 2024.
Ranjana Srivastava is an Australian oncologist, award-winning author and Fulbright scholar. Her latest book is called A Better Death
