And then there were two:

It was a chilly winter morning. As I sat with my steaming cup of tea, rocking on my newly acquired jhula, the black one came up to me cautiously. With a very well defined brows, he was a handsome little puppy with warm brown eyes, and thick black coat. I held out my hand, the one having a sliver of Mary biscuit. No, he did not ask for it, I offered on my own, because I thought he must be hungry. After all, he was a road puppy, with no home and obviously no source of food other than his mother’s milk. He gladly accepted and in no time we became fast friends. Of the four puppies that Bhuli (the mother dog) had decided to bring in our front yard, he was the cutest, most well behaved and definitely the most friendly one. I had just started working in a new office and each evening, when I came home the black one would be there to greet me by the gate, separate from the huddle. I christened him Pogo. And as soon as I started calling him by the name, he would stand up, tail in full wags mode, a smile on his face (or so it seemed). This is how he got acquainted with my cats, especially our kitten Chiku. Chiku and he hit it off quite well, and my Sunday afternoons were spent playing with them… Chiku being the lazy one always rolling on the floor, and Pogo pulling at his ears or tail to get him up to play.

Life seemed perfect with my stress busters until one fine evening, when man made stress got me into quarrelsome mood. That evening as I came home, I did not pay attention to Pogo, who was in his usual spot, wagging tail and waiting for my hug. I stormed into the house. Pogo followed, and I picked him up, only to drop him a few seconds later. Then came the sound of a sharp screech, on the road. I Ignored. I was busy making my point to my folks. Moments later I heard  a cry. Our neighbors who had come out to see off some guests, had seen the pool of blood on the road. I walked calmly to the gate thinking nothing much of it. But then I could not find Pogo. At first, a bit concerned, and then frantic, I searched the road…only to be told that he was lying next to the boundary wall of my house. I ran towards him only to be pulled back. You see, he was dead! He was hit by one of the forever-racing-speeding bikes on the road. He had trotted off to the road when I was busy making my point, and I lost him forever. I stood there, stupefied, not really believing that in a span of minutes a life was lost because someone was thrilled with speeding.  A numbing realization which did not do me any good. To make a long story short, the same fate awaited the other black puppy in the group. After some months of being with us, he also left for a better place as I would like to think of the after-world.

Now two of them remains whom I still feed. But no, I am so scared of losing them, I don’t pet them. Or have not named them. It’s better they learn the hard way the survival rules of this world. Of the dangers of thoughtless, stupid people, and their machines. But Pogo remains in my mind. And I have learned the hard way why a pet cannot be replaced. They are sometimes more valuable than some human beings. More precious. And definitely more loving, in a selfless manner which can only be found in them. One day, may be, I will christen the remaining two. Once I am confident they are going to stay. So that’s the story of four, of which, there is now two! 

The four of them, winter of 2016.