Paddy

by Suresh Subrahmanyan

Paddy was born on nine eleven. The nine eleven, when the twin towers in New York City collapsed under the ministrations of a bunch of misguided goons. Why is this horrific incident relevant to Paddy’s date of birth? Who was Paddy, you ask, a tad restive. Good question. Paddy was a black and tan Cocker Spaniel with a white tie running down his chest. A tri-colour specimen. Very rare, and handsome. He was born on the 11^th of September 2001, and I believe this concatenation of circumstances (as I’ve heard it described), had much to do with his personality. It is our considered opinion that the stars were aspected in such a strange manner that anyone born on that date must be off-kilter in some unique way. We even considered calling him Osama but wiser counsels, thankfully, prevailed.

That is the storied fable we have created around Paddy. The mundane truth behind his unpredictable personality may have had more to do with the fact that he was kept caged by his keeper for four months after his birth, before we could bring him home. He just could not adjust to the freedom, initially. He would dash around our apartment like a mad thing. Under the bed one minute refusing to come out, wetting the sofa the next. Not making a sound during the first fortnight in his new home, then ceaselessly barking for the next fortnight. He was beside himself. We would take him down for walkies early in the morning, and after an hour of perambulation, would return home with nothing to show for it. The moment we reached home, he would run towards the dining room, and there, contentedly, do his big job. As for small jobs, our spacious flat was his public urinal. Anywhere will do, our carpets under constant threat. Cleaning up after Paddy became second nature to us. Old newspapers were at a premium at our place for their splendid powers of absorption!

As first time dog owners, this was much more than we had bargained for. Every now and then, the thought would enter our heads – ‘have we bitten off more than we can chew?’ Should we send him back to the kennel? Speaking of biting and chewing, Paddy was not averse to the odd sharp nip at our ankles or finger tips, if something was not to his specific liking. As for chewing, there were enough cushions and curtain material for him to sink his canines into. We would buy him all manner of soft, squeaky toys and rubber rings, but he had a special affinity for all the things in the flat that were taboo. Anyone who has seen the movie, ‘Marley and Me’, will have a pretty shrewd idea of what I am talking about.

In sum, the first 7 or 8 months with Paddy was an edge-of-the-seat roller coaster ride. He was like a whirling dervish, clearly out of control. Our vet was flummoxed, to say the least. All he could offer us, by way of comfort, was that things would improve with time, but his words carried no conviction. One good thing, though. Paddy always ate well during those early days. His body clock would tell him exactly when it was meal time, and he would hare off to the kitchen, waiting and whimpering anxiously for his morning or evening repast. He loved snacking in-between, partial to biscuits, chewies and bones. You were well advised not to approach him if he was gnawing on a bone. Fruits and raw carrots were not quite to his liking. Not a health freak, our Paddy.

As the months and years passed, things quietened down a wee bit. Paddy’s frantic running around ceased. His toilet training was brought under control. That said, our lives were dictated by Paddy’s daily routine. Our terrace garden was a haven for him. Not a day would pass without Paddy running up the spiral staircase at a rate of knots and lying there in wait for us, like a coiled spring. This was the signal for playing ‘throw the rubber ring’, which he would scamper after and return to base. Whereupon he would speculatively nibble at the ring, and run to the other end of the terrace, waiting for me to throw it back for him to run after and fetch. We deduced this was a racial memory playback, the wolf stalking its prey. This was a game he taught us, and we played by his rules. That applied to most things he did. We merely followed his dictates. He didn’t much care for my yogic breathing exercises. As soon as I commenced my pranayama, he would start howling and pawing my chest. Somehow, he instinctively felt I was drifting away from him to another world, of which he was not a part.

Paddy’s yelping ‘welcome home’ greeting, whether we were away for two hours or two days, was of unbridled intensity. He would be all over us, licking us frantically while his stub of a docked Cocker tail went on overdrive. It lasted no more than two minutes, but it typified the ‘merry Cocker’ of legend.

The Paddy bath on the terrace was a weekly ceremony, entirely handled by my wife. He would not let anyone else perform this sacred task. The bath was a raucous event, and we had to muzzle him, as he was apt to snap unexpectedly. At the end of this frenetic ‘shaking- all- over’ ablution, it was difficult to divine who had had the bath – Paddy or his mistress, as she was equally drenched. After this, I would hang around with the towel and hold him by the leash, while he furiously rolled over on the towel laid out for him, under the hot sun. Sunless days, and there were a few in cool Bangalore, were a huge problem. We would worry ourselves sick about him catching a cold. After the bath, Paddy felt so light-headed that he would literally fly across the room in a frenzied state of freedom. Then the combing and brushing took the wind out of our sails, but he looked like a little black teddy bear after his cosmetic care. A tall, cold glass of Coke with plenty of ice was needed to cool us down. Paddy would not be diddled out of a couple of ice cubes to crunch.

Paddy, being the good looking devil that he was, had plenty of suitors. On one occasion, a female golden cocker spaniel was brought to our home to fraternize with Paddy in the hope that romance would blossom. The virile Paddy was very excited, but his intended mate turned on him, and it all came to nought. That was his only brief dalliance, alas!

Sadly, dogs grow old. Paddy, for all his good looks, was not a healthy specimen. He would fall sick every now and then. On occasion, he would wake me up at 3 am, and I had to take him down to eat some grass, which would enable him to bring up some bile, after which he would be fine. The illnesses increased as the years passed. His kidneys failed and he had difficulty walking or even standing for long periods, and it all became quite distressing. We tried everything in the book, including obtaining expensive medicines from abroad, but to no avail. There is nothing more wrenching than to watch your pet steadily and surely go downhill. The vet had all but given up hope.

We were now faced with the ultimate, heart breaking, existential dilemma. Should we or shouldn’t we help Paddy along towards a peaceful end? The vet left it to us. After much soul searching, we felt releasing him from his earthly bondage would be the kindest thing to do. And that is the call we took, though the guilt would stay with us. He did not make it easy for us. On that fateful morning, he demanded a biscuit which he gobbled up, and our hearts sank. But shortly after, he went limp again, and the choice was taken from our hands. The vet did what he had to do and the ending was ever so peaceful. I choked involuntarily, and my wife wept for days thereafter.

Paddy was 11 years old when he joined the great, big kennel in the sky. He was a troublesome and mischievous dog, but he had only the two of us to care about, and he gave us his all. It goes without saying that we loved him more than anything else in the world. We have tons of wonderful pictures and videos to remember him by. Not that we need reminding. Paddy is etched indelibly in our hearts and minds. After lights out at night, we can sense him snoring gently at our feet. And no, we did not get another dog. The emotional baggage was too heavy to bear.

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