of Dogs...

With my beloved Turpie when he was healthy (although this blog is not entirely about him)

Mom had been going on and on about the new black pup that they’d bought from the neighbour. He was a mix of a lab and a who-knows-which breed. Healthy, hairy, very heavy and very much adored. By the time I came home he had already grown in to a very young dog (not a pup anymore) and not as healthy or hairy as he was as a pup. And not very long after, the dreadful disease, which I’m sure was mange, attacked him. He was constantly whining and scratching himself till he bled, his hair started falling off and he turned into a pitiful, very smelly young dog. We tried everything… doctor’s prescriptions …people’s suggestions…all sorts of antibiotics, and ointments and horrible local remedies that were supposed to clear out those lesions but it all took very long to heal him. I would bathe him and dress him up…but the itching remained and the hairs kept falling off and he became smellier and smellier.

People who came to visit my parents must have all been appalled by his conditions. They must have wondered why we did not put him down. The others who could wonder aloud were our relatives who complained every time they came over. But not even a thought crossed our mind about putting him down. Especially me. My blood curdled every time someone talked about getting rid of him. I loved him however ugly he looked and ignored the fact that he filled the entire house with his stench. Dad was not particularly happy at all times. Everyone else was not particularly happy during meal times. Me, I didn’t care. When we all sat in the TV room watching some shows or movies, we mostly had to shoo him off… at the end we didn’t even have to say ‘Tuffy! Out!’. We only had to say ‘eh shhuwaaa’ (or whatever gesture you make to indicate that something stinks) and he would meekly slink away. It broke my heart.

As weeks went by, the injections and ointments finally paid off and he started getting better, his wounds dried up, his stench decreased and his hair started growing back. He was going to survive.


The next time I returned from college he had grown into an incredibly handsome young dog (still young because he was just around a year old then). But he was hyper active now that he was a healthy young thing with all the vigour in the world. For a long time even after he healed completely, he had that inferiority complex which still tugs at my very heart strings. But now he had forgotten about those horrible times of his life and had turned confident and playful. 
He was soon to face another milestone of his life though. He was getting more and more aggressive, and his size and the deep resounding woofs were getting scarier. Though he would not harm a thing, it was still very dangerous if he jumped on people playfully. I knew it because he would jump all over me, and my arms, neck and sometimes even my face would be left with bumpy red scratch marks for days. 

So we decided that we should castrate him. Our previous dog, my beloved Turpie was not castrated, so every mating season he turned into a hopeless Casanova fighting with every other dog, trying to show his macho power to that neighbour’s bitch he liked. He would not come home for his meals, his ears would all be torn and bloody from the fights and it was horrible every single season.


I was naturally in charge of Tuffy’s castration because in a new place filled with strangers and other animals he might turn aggressive. When Turpie was sick with epilepsy in his last days, I was the one who took him to the vet because he was calmer with me around. When at home, everyone stayed away during his attacks, but I made sure I was around. I would follow him around, wiping off the froths in his mouth and just sitting near him for the fit to get over. I would clean up all the mess he made. After a fit, he would wake up disoriented; sometimes he would run about like crazy, hitting his head on the doors and walls. But other times I would just keep calling his name, rubbing him, and in spite of his disorientation he would recognize me and wag his tail. Mom was worried he would get up and bite me. That never happened. I cried every time I took him to the vet, and fortunately for me, he passed on when I was away at college which made it easier for me.


So, on the day of his castration, Tuffy proudly sat in the backseat with me. I had a talk with the vet about my concern for his health, but the vet assured me saying everything would be fine. He only joked that the dog would mind since we were stripping him of his manhood, or should I say malehood…doghood…?
Tuffy was given an anaesthetic injection and I took him to the other side, waiting for him to vomit. He did. The he started wobbling about like he was sloshed which made me and my brother laugh. And he finally passed out. I stood by him as they performed the minor operation on him; he came about in the middle and lifted his head a couple of times but thankfully was too anaesthetized to actually get up.


Operation over, he was made to lie down while the vet wrote down some medicines, ointments and stuffs which had to be bought a few yards away. As the anaesthesia wore off, Tuffy started panicking. I guess it was because of the weird feeling, and he tried scrambling off but immediately calmed down as I started calling his name and rubbing him. It was getting tiresome for me because I had to keep doing that in a crouching position, my legs were going numb but as soon as I took off my hands he would get up with that wild crazy look, with his tongue hanging limp. He looked completely wrecked. And then I found a way to keep him relaxed, I slowly took off my hands, put his hand on my foot and sat on the bench. That did it. I played around with him a bit, as I would usually do, taking away my foot to his distress.

The days following his castration were awful for him and for all of us. All his life, we had never tied him; he had all the freedom in the world. Now that he had the stitches we were told to tie him lest his stitches tore open when he jumped around. And so we did. Tuffy did not like it one bit. He got shocked at first, wondering what was going on, and then he tried his best to get away. Unlike some other dogs that yelp like crazy and drive you insane when they are unhappy, Tuffy silently revolted. Not even one woof. He would only quietly tug at the leash with all his strength. He even broke a few leashes and managed to run away, like the wind, not sure where he was running. He would run some distance away from our house and look at us from afar. We ignored him. There was no way in hell we would be able to catch up with him and bring him back by force. He was too big and strong. So he would eventually come back himself and then we would gently force him down and tie him. At the end he gave up trying to break away, instead he sulked. He would eat only when we weren’t looking or when he got really hungry. If I was around he wouldn’t even look at me, he’d just turn his face away. And I would just laugh and go to the side where he was facing and call his name and he would look away at the other side again. His face was the epitome of the word sulk. 

It took a few weeks for him to heal completely. He came to recognize the antibiotic ointment and the powder that I applied on his wound a few times a day even after he had been let loose. So if he saw me come towards him with those containers he would flop to the floor and spread his legs to my amusement. All in all, those had been the major milestones of his life. Thankfully his castration didn’t affect his bark. I was scared his voice might change…in much the same way that happens to human males. To my relief it didn’t.

Tuffy after his ordeal