Finding companionship in a stray dog

by Marnie Vinall (Australia)

Making a local connection India

We were told not befriend any of the stray dogs by our group leaders while staying in Bandi Kodigehalli. Or as the small rural village in the Bengalur urban district of Karnataka, India was known to locals, B.K Halli. We were told to hold rocks in our hands when walking any empty streets, especially alone. That way, you can hold them up as if to throw them and that will scare away the wild canines. Or, at least stop them from attacking you. However on most of the streets in the village, this wasn’t a problem. Despite being a community of over just five hundred, in every direction there was an abundance of life going on, catching my attention and intriguing my curiosity. From the moment the sun rose, the streets were filled with women sitting crossed legged in groups shelling beans while kids ran around – the boys with cricket bats in hand and the girls platting each other’s hair – and men chatting in groups, sharing affection in conversation. Although the quiet streets were rare, occasionally you’d find yourself in one. Stepping onto an empty street felt like entering a small pause in the commotion that was life in the village. A moment of stillness in a country filled with chaos. And it was in these streets that we were told to be extra careful of the strays. Yet, despite the warnings given, I ended up friends with one. I named him Tiger. This, I’ll admit was not a particular moment of great creativity on my behalf as he had a dark yellow coat, covered in fine black lines and was bigger than the other strays around. He also didn’t look as mangy. The only mark that hinted to his homelessness was a mangled left front paw. His full and seemingly fit body hinted at being well fed while the others in the area were stunted from hunger and hardship. You could spot a wild dog without a second glance due to their demeanour; their bodies hung low and were often covered in open wounds, warts or other diseases. This often led me to wonder if Tiger was actually a domestic dog, just allowed to roam the streets whenever he pleased. But I never saw him with an owner or give his affection in unconditional fashion to anyone in the village. As far as I knew, he was a stray. Just a gentle stray, somehow. We first became friends in the light of the mornings. I would sit outside on the shared balcony of my rented apartment block and he would join me as I sipped green tea and watched the sun rise, turning the village orange in its wake. At first, he would just sit nearby but eventually over time, he would nestle my legs as if to say good morning. I found a comfort in this odd companionship. When I would walk to get a midday chai from the carts in the street or some milk for our morning instant coffees, I would hope Tiger would be around. He made me feel a sense of belonging in a place I was a stranger. On days when I felt untethered or needed to process the day, I would sit outside on the balcony and talk the day away to him – honestly believing he was listening. I told him about the chicken curry I had in the adjacent village that made me eyes water so much I had to leave in embarrassment. And how I was worried I would never taste anything as good as the Gobi Manchurian made by the man with the stall down the road. I told him how Akush, the young boy a few houses away, let me play cricket with his friends even though I was a girl. He heard how I constantly had a bit of a funny tummy and was actually getting quite accustomed to the bucket showers. Some of my best memories in the village were sitting and chatting with Tiger. Yet as all good friendships made in the rare moments of shared space in time, our companionship was fleeting. In the end, I suppose I didn’t even know his real name.