Sanjay Jha on a dog's life

"When a man's best friend is his dog, that dog has a problem".

- Edward Abbey

I am not surprised at chronic cribbers, who call their frequent doomsday sentiment with dismissive disdain as a dog's life. But it is not necessarily accurate. Many of the canine fraternity will remonstrate at that cynical summarization. Some will even react with an indignant facial expression that exposes incandescent white teeth, albeit in jovial vein. Certainly, Amadeus would have, I think.

He came home for the first time in the small space in front of the rider's seat in a Bajaj scooter usually reserved for license papers. He was so small. He was delivered to us by a garrulous dog merchandiser who was brokering a sale deal for a pedigree German shepherd pup. Around the same time, we saw the Hollywood classic , the nine-Oscar awards winning movie Amadeus, based on the tumultuous life of a musical genius, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. It was a compelling watch. My wife and I looked at the small, soft inscrutable black-haired frisky thing in our hands and thought he possessed all the maverick predilections of the music icon. He was bouncy, irrepressible, clearly had a mind of his own and made arresting sounds, not necessarily melodious but impactful nevertheless. That's how Amadeus came to be.

Amadeus had the formidable grandeur of the imperial lion king in his mane; a handsome frame, commanding a glistening hirsute hue of golden brown and dark black. The ears stood in perpetual attention, like a German achtung. The side of his finely crafted jaw had a conspicuous dark spot, signifying the distinctive mark of a blue blood. The tail swaggered in rhythmic harmony whenever he smelt cottage-cheese, and since non-vegetarian meal was strictly prohibited at home, Amadeus was essentially a reluctant vegetarian who could have done with some red meat ( even if it upset the current beef banners). He, of course, gorged on the juicy bones and those assortment of meat-flavored goodies we bought for him from the friendly neighborhood store. If he received an occasional hollering for ingeniously transporting some bony remains from the street-side, he offered a convincing expression; "Me Dog, Love bone. Why you guys getting so uptight? Anyway, I will forgive you". For him, that explained the Society of Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Amadeus could never perhaps fathom why human beings so intent on self-destruction and mutual antipathy, often diverted their foul intentions on the most benign four-legged creature. And these gluttonous variety even ate a thing called a hot-dog.

Amadeus was essentially in the non-violent pacifist mould, and remarkably tranquil given his natural inherited Gestapo inclinations when it came to the human race. But when he spotted another competitive tail running around in his territory, he assumed wolfish proportions. He came into his formidable, refulgent own. It was his own sacrosanct domain and neighboring dogs were forewarned to stay clear; that was his non-negotiable diktat. In that sense, he was schizophrenic; a Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Once he sniffed up without any pervert intentions the dropping trousers of an unsuspecting visitor, till that poor fellow almost literally hit the ceiling. For all the barbaric, heartless attack that dogs receive at the hands of cruel sadistic humans, this was according to Amadeus, comeuppance, although it was only an innocuous tease. The truth is that if you have a dog who licks your face, you will never need to see a shrink. But very few of us know this secret of dog-whisperers.

He loved car-rides so much, I believe, he would have loved to be on the driver's seat, with an authorised license from the RTO to boot. Going back and forth to Pune, he would stand upright even as the car bumped along the circuitous highways, his heavy breathing resonating in the car. For him , this was the open space that a journey provided, away from the claustrophobic excesses of the cosmopolitan base that was his life in Mumbai. Occasionally, I would watch him look at the traffic snarls from our second floor residence, as if he wondered why were the teeming nitwits so clueless about work-life balance; why this utter madness, the incessant honking, the frenetic pace? I think he almost shook his head in acute disbelief and profuse sympathy. These guys suffer from road rage, and they call mine with choleric contempt as a dog's life? Really?

He walked majestic, loved the early morning stretch, and did the complex poses, head lowered, front-legs bent at 45 degrees and back-legs straightened without a muscular twitch. I am sure he wondered why we made such a big deal about emerging from a similar routine with a triumphant expression as if we had climbed Mt Everest. Unmindful of the Sensex volatility, slumping economy, communal tensions, cacophonic TV debates, and celebrity gossip in Page 3 columns, he snoozed and slept his way through his daily travails. He needed no stress-busters, but that exasperating sneaky Beagle did occasionally get under his skin. It was for this hugely hyperventilating, hyper-connected variety who seemed to be perpetually bent neck-down typing feverishly on a stupid-looking rectangular gadget to read How To Stop Worrying and Start Living. Or listen to Deepak Chopra podcasts. Or sing paeans of Oprah Winfrey. Not Amadeus. You take your warm baths and get the fragrance right to keep the insomnia out, folks; I live in the moment, and sleep in a moment too.

Giving him a bath was usually a monthly ritual, and he had Shyamalan's sixth-sense about when there was a big conspiracy being hatched to trap him. He dodged intelligently, his nose smelling trouble yards away. Usually he hid under the sofa sets till some delectable biscuits he fancied invariably did him in. He was susceptible after all. And when he was fully wet and shampooed, his expressions conveyed disgust at our cleanliness fetish; get on with it, guys, and let me go, was his succinct message. At the first instance, he would roll in the mud.

Amadeus adored my two girls, allowing them to indulgently create havoc with him, make a mess of his afternoon nap-sessions, put him through some fashion experiments, and even wear branded apparel. But he never ever complained. They gave him the most unadulterated pure love I have ever seen. It was a pulp of foamy mush and bonding of the souls. And my wife treated him with such gentle caring affection it gave him the status of being our " little boy" at home. The feeling was clearly mutual. It was endless love.

It is seven years since he is gone, and yesterday was my allocated day of giving him the Sunday walks, our regular routine. A walk interjected several times by his sniffing his way into the perfect spot for his daily constitutional. Amadeus had converted shitting into a sublime perfectionist art. I also think he sensed my occasional restlessness, but told me that this was the least I could do for him at least once a week. He usually won those silent arguments, as if reminding me of, love me , love my dog, master. He was secretly aware that family tensions rose like the unpredictable mercury every time we discussed his poop. Clearly, Amadeus was in charge.

One regular day at exactly 11.07am he passed away. Almost as quietly as he had arrived in the palm of a hand twelve and a half years ago. He had been battling an internal condition for over two weeks that had suddenly consumed his already-depleted energy and strong reserves. Over the preceding few months, the big jump at the door had transformed to a slower wag and a half-hearted lurch. Now he preferred to be smothered; his tiring legs prevented him from even making his customary call at the door. The big wide smile was still there as was the unbridled happiness of seeing us all home. But a spate of illnesses had become regular. The decline was perceptible. He watched you come in from a distance, his own legs were far too enervated now to traverse the distance with his customary swagger. It was time to do a Google search on average life expectancy of a German shepherd. It said 12-13 years.

I remember taking a walk down the back-lane the day after he said adieu, where we hung in together. His favorite locations, his penchant for following a process. A sniff. A circle. A sniff. Two circles. And then indecision. I remembered it all. I looked around at all the places at home where he ensconced himself in his magnificent pose, watching the entire household with his alert eyes. At meal -time, his favorite vessel was empty. That inimitable smell of boiled rice from his body was not in the air. His walking leash lay on the shelf untouched. When one heard a distant bark , I almost thought he was resurrected. Or perhaps never gone. And I somewhere looked for those large brown eyes, speaking a million nuances, with just a longer lingering stare. Or the unrestrained gleam of joy. Of love; that was not measured, and did not fear your absence of reciprocity. Of that acceptance of loneliness when we would leave him alone during our summer-holiday peregrinations. Or the pain of an end that he knew was inevitable.

In Dale Carnegie Training they tell me that communication is about a combination of words, tone and tenor and body language. I have written approximately 1,500 words here to express my love for Amadeus, knowing fully well that he needed to say none to express his own.