SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 2011 WWW.LIVEMINT.COM
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SHOBA NARAYAN THE GOOD LIFE
Have you ever mourned a pet?
The night before my dog, Inji, died, she and I
lay beside each other on the orange couch in
our living room. She didn’t shut her dilated
golden eyes the whole night and neither did
I. Too weak to move after a month of not
eating, my beautiful beige Labrador with
her still-silky coat suffered spasms all
through the night as I kept watch. The E.
coli infection that had eaten through her
kidneys had finally lodged inside her
brain. The shivering that had started six
weeks earlier turned into violent
paroxysms. Let go, child, I whispered, as
she drooled bile and saliva; as her body
rattled so hard I could hear the
emptiness inside. I wanted her to die; I
wanted the decision not to be mine. Her
eyes never left me, even as I went to get
her some water from the kitchen—water
that spilled off the sides of her mouth.
Was she scared? I don’t know. I was.
You want to know about grief. Let me
tell you about grief—not the spousal grief
so beautifully captured by Joan Didion in
her book, The Year of Magical Thinking.
This grief is the kind that is felt by a
whole family that watches a beloved pet
lose life’s last battle. Grief is the sound of
drips, the coldness of a metal stretcher,
and the smell of antiseptic mixed with
urine. It is about monitoring intravenous
fluids and a cocktail of drugs. Grief isn’t
one emotion. It is shock, rage, bitterness
and incessant questions. Why me?
What’s a good way to die?
Inji was just three years old. The word
means ginger in Tamil. I wanted an
Indian name; my children wanted to call
her Laika after the first dog in space. She
ended up being Inji Laika Narayan. She
was a healthy, happy Labrador who liked
to eat—not the sort of dog to contract a
life-threatening illness. But then isn’t that
what all parents (and that’s really what I
was to my dog) say when their child
succumbs to the “lethal march” of an
illness that never stops?
The entire span of her illness was six
weeks. Was that too short a time; or too
long a time to watch her suffer? Was it
good that her illness gave our family
time to adjust? Or would it have been
better if she had suffered a stroke and
died the next day without suffering? I
can tell you that there were days during
that long month when I woke up in the
morning, dreading the sight of her tired,
prone body and feebly wagging tail.
Although I am ashamed to admit it now,
I occasionally wished that Inji would die
in her sleep, relieving me of decisions
about drugs that didn’t seem to work;
freeing me from days and nights at the
clinic. After several weeks of this bleak
routine, I just wanted the whole thing to
be over. Not my husband.
People react in different ways to
health crises. You learn new things
about your spouse and children. I learnt
that my husband, who didn’t even like
Inji as much as I did, would never give
up on her. He was like a maniac—going
on the Internet to discover new
medication; consulting four vets (one in
the US) about urine cultures and blood
reports. We argued over medical
protocols and rising creatinine count. I
wanted to let Inji finish her life at home,
without needles, in peace. He accused
me of pulling the plug; copping out. He
never gave up. Till one day he did and
the next day, our dog died. He is still
grieving. I seem to be over it; or so I tell
myself during those moments when I
feel Inji behind me as I boil milk in the
kitchen. I say this when I insert the key
into my front door and feel my body
tighten with pleasure in anticipation of
the overjoyed welcome my dog gave
me—tail wagging, body shaking from
side to side. I still smile when I open
the door. And then I stop.
That last evening, Inji started frothing
at the mouth. She had stopped drinking.
It was over, said the vet. The infection
had affected her brain. That evening, we
returned home from the clinic and
followed the usual routine of calling four
vets before deciding that the illness had
won. My husband conceded defeat and
called my sister-in-law, Priya.
Every family has a go-to person for
various crises. You call your Mom for
certain things; your Dad for others; your
siblings for something. Priya loves all
animals; and babies. She was the first
person we called that evening. She and
my brother came over; and didn’t leave
till we buried Inji.
Who are you? Are you the kind that
grieves intensely and quickly; or does
your grief take time to reveal itself and
leave? Does it ever leave? In the days
that followed Inji’s death, I told myself
and everyone else that I was over it. As I
watched the palpable grief in the people
I love, I told myself that I was different;
somehow stronger. Not true.
Dr Morton came over on Inji’s last
morning. We asked if Inji had a chance
to recover. He said “No”. He said: “If I
don’t anaesthetize her now, she’ll be
dead by tonight. But she’ll be in pain
the whole day.” We debated whether to
pull the children out of school, and
ended up bringing my elder daughter
back but leaving the younger one out of
the whole thing.
At 11.30, my elder daughter put Inji’s
head on her lap. My mother poured
Ganga jal into her mouth. Inji sipped it.
My father looked dazed. Everyone wept.
Our friend, Sriram—a dog lover who
simply showed up as friends do in times
of crisis—said: “Watch her eyes. It helps
you gain some closure.” So I stared into
my dog’s eyes, watching for signs of pain
or hurt. Her eyes remained dilated.
Death would occur in a few seconds, said
the doctor. I saw the light go out of Inji’s
eyes. With my fingers, I closed them.
We drove in a motorcade to
Kengeri, an hour outside Bangalore,
where a wonderful organization
called People for Animals
(www.peopleforanimalsbangalore.org)
rescues wildlife and rehabilitates it. They
also have a pet cemetery in a woody
knoll. We buried Inji there with full
honours and rites: four pall-bearers,
sprinkled rice, her favourite foods—milk,
bananas—and a jasmine garland.
To those of you who are considering
getting a pet, let me tell you my
experience. Having a dog in the house
forced my husband and I to walk
together twice a day. It was the best 20
minutes of our relationship. Sans
interruptions, we enjoyed the morning
sunshine, the relative quiet, and talked
about news and world affairs; about
trees and philosophy. We met other dog
owners and learnt the rhythms of our
street. Having a dog had an impact on
our children but not always in pleasant,
predictable ways. There were many
days when I said nasty, awful things to
them in an attempt to goad them to do
more doggy chores. “We should have
never got this bloody dog,” I would
scream as they watched MasterChef
Australia, when they ought to have
been walking Inji.
Having a pet is a lot of work. The
benefits are hard to measure. Children
curled into a ball with Inji; feeling good
every morning because the silly dog
wags its tail so hard—how to measure
this? If you are considering a pet “for the
children’s sake”, realize that it will not be
idyllic. But it will teach your children
compassion. Your child will suddenly
notice other animals, birds, stray dogs,
insects and trees and view them as an
extension of your family. Your child
might refuse to burst Diwali crackers
because she is worried that the rockets
flying to the sky will scare the birds.
We want to get another dog, but not
from a breeder. Rather, from shelters
such as CUPA or Compassion
Unlimited Plus Action. At the clinic, I
watched French expats bring in
beautiful crossbreeds with limpid eyes.
Most were strays that had been
transformed by love into sleek pets.
Every Indian city has organizations that
place orphaned animals into loving
homes. The Hindu carries photographs
of puppies that need placement every
week. If you are considering a pet,
please consider adopting a robust
stray—mongrels are healthier.
If you define a well-lived life as
having a variety of experiences, then get
a pet. I have stared at death in my dog’s
face and it isn’t pretty. It haunts me to
this day. But it has also prepared me for
other kinds of death. I have also
experienced the kind of love that even
my mother or children cannot give me.
People who want to experience
unconditional love should get a dog;
but also be prepared to take it out to
pee four times a day.
It’s been six months. I miss Inji
every day.
Shoba Narayan’s family is debating when
to get another dog. Two are ready to
adopt one right now and two are not.
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