I have always been an animal person in a big way, even as a kid – to the point where it was not cute, but detrimental. I would approach dogs constantly and, by the time I was 10, I had been bitten 13 times. We lived in the Philippines, where there was rabies, so I was always going to the hospital.
My sister, who was six years older than me, had Champa, a pomeranian cross who was responsible for the majority of those bites. I didn’t blame Champa, though – I was always trying to get her to like me more and play games, none of which was her bag.
When I was about seven, my mum drove home and said: “There’s something in a box in the front seat; go get it.” It was a little white puppy, a samoyed mix. My sister thought it was a stupid dog and didn’t want anything to do with it, except she did name him Torchy. I had no choice but to go along with it. But I thought: great, he is my dog.
Torchy and I became inseparable. I had no friends, I had a stammer and I was at an international school where I was the “different” kid. When you are a child and you are lonely, an outcast and have an inclination towards animals, you can get a real friend in a dog. I was very lucky that I had that.
Torchy understood me because everyone rejected him, too. Champa rejected him, my sister rejected him – even my mother thought Champa was more elegant. But Torchy and I just got each other. I would spend hours alone with him. We played a lot of hide and seek and liked jumping on the sofa. Once, his paw marks got on the carpet and my mother said: “What did you do to the carpet?” I didn’t want to snitch on Torchy, so I said I messed it up, but she could see the paw marks. We were each other’s only ally.
When I look back, I think of all the patience he showed: he was the only dog that I spent time with who never bit me. He was very happy and always excited. He was basically me: boisterous, ready for fun, happy to make up games. There was a real bond between us that I took for granted.
When I was nine, my mum went abroad to study. Torchy got ill and had to spend the night at the vet’s. The next day, I went to collect him with our babysitter and we arrived before the vet had opened. You could see the kennels through the wire fence and I could see Torchy lying in his kennel with his back to me. I called and called his name, but he didn’t turn around. The vet arrived and I was told that Torchy had died in the night.
Something big shifted in the moment when I learned he had died – a shift that is still with me today. Listening to the vet, I felt very grown up. I remember looking up at him and feeling as if I had to take this news in a formal way. I didn’t freak out at the time, but later I cried to my dad – not because I really understood what death was, but just because I missed Torchy.
Soon afterwards, we were told that we were going back to live in India. I remember my sister’s trauma because we couldn’t take Champa with us. That became the main story. Everyone forgot about Torchy – except me.
I have had many dogs since, but Torchy was special. I think it’s because, at the time, he was my only friend. As I’ve got older, friends have drifted away, but those I have been able to hang on to are the ones that are fundamentally happy and optimistic – just like Torchy. I think he confirmed to me the value of staying happy, no matter your struggles. Even if you are the reject of the class, someone is still always going to be your friend.
