The Noronha clan has always loved dogs. And cats, but that’s only for some of us. We, as a family, have always been surrounded by dogs, and most of them were unplanned pets.

My first dog was Fluffy, a golden brown spitz. I remember it was a clear Saturday morning. Why I remember so well that it was a Saturday was because that was the day when my brother and I would be up to mischief, since my dad was not around. School was off, dad was in office and mum was busy in her usual chores. What better day to get our dark side out to play.

Our neighbors had dropped in to say a hello when they mistakenly mentioned a nearby house that had a dog which had recently given pups and they were being “given away”. Now, at that time my brother and I must have been ten and eight years old respectively. For us, “given away” meant FREE; naïve to the economics of this world, we slipped away to the house in question to pick up the dog that was so rightfully ours. On the way we planned our strategy, the color, the shape, the size, the age, the look, the feel and the rest. Yes, by the meantime we were at the doorstep, our product was ready to be picked up.

We rang the doorbell- a song in our hearts, a plan in our minds. A young lad, the same as our age, answered the door. We asked for our dog, he responded with a call. A lady came out and asked us who we were. She was nasty, you could make out. In all our innocence, we asked her for our dog. She said that they are being sold— Rs. 400 a “piece”. Our world came crashing down. 400 bucks for a dog, my dad would never say yes.

As we turned to walk away, there was another call from inside. As the lady explained “the stupid kids at the door wanting their free dog”, a roar of laughter could be heard from inside. Just then the mood changed and we could make out that something was on the anvil.

The lady called us again and said that there is one dog that we could take. We smiled again. There was justice in this world. God existed. As we walked across their room, we saw a basket full of beautiful puppies. They were white and golden. We were expecting to go the basket, but the lady led us straight down the hall to the rest-room.

There we saw a beautiful small little golden brown cotton ball. As we stared at it, it moved and then we realized that it was a pup. “Take this”, the nasty lady screamed at us. We hurriedly picked the dog and ran for our lives. Home was our only destination.

We lay down the small pup on our sofa. We excitedly called mum. The moment she saw the dog, she fell for it. One down, one to go. As usual, when dad returned every evening all was quiet on the western front. We had kept the small pup in the kitchen and locked the door. That was the only room in the house where dad would not go. That was mom’s domain, her kingdom, her rule. No entry for dad, at least for today. For now the plan, the big plan was to keep the dog hidden for as long as mom found the correct time to tell dad. In hindsight, it was not a plan with good fundamentals. There was no strategy, only prayer.

At 8, dinner was served. We ate. Everything was exceptionally quiet — too quiet for a house with two boys. Suddenly, there was whining. Dad said “did you hear that?” All of us said “NO” in a chorus. We all started to eat again. Again there was whining. Again dad asked “did you hear that?”, again we said “NO” in a chorus. But this time, someone was not buying it. Dad got up and went straight to the kitchen door. We followed, hearts thumping in great anxiety. I thought, I would be the youngest person to die of a heart attack that day.

As dad stared at the golden brown pup, we could not decide what to do. Would there be enough time to pack our bags and run for our lives before he could react? Damn, the bags should have been packed and kept ready. Or would this sound better “He lived, he died, because he brought a dog home?”

Dad picked up the dog and walked to the main hall. We followed him in a procession. “Where did you pick her up from?” We were surprised; there was compassion in his voice. As we excitedly narrated the entire day’s story to him, he heard us out patiently. “We need to call a vet immediately:, he said.

And that was how the west was won.

The next step was to give her a nice name. After a lot of brainstorming, we decided to name her Fluffy. A tribute to my aunt’s thirteen year old spitz.

I forgot to mention one special quality of Fluffy. She did not have her front two legs. But that did not matter. For, to us she was an inspiration. Try having one leg, and you’d understand. But that never deterred her. She could not be taken for walks in the lush green fields that she saw, like other dogs. We had to carry her in our arms when we took her outside. But that did not stop her from barking at them. She could not climb the bed or jump on the sofas. We had to help her do that. But she was a dog with style and grace.

There was a very nice doctor, I forget his name now, but I remember that he had taken special interest in Fluffy. He had done a lot of research on how we could get her legs back. But that was not to be. At the tender age of two, she choked on a chicken bone and died. She left behind her closest friend (read my next post for more details) and her family to cry. But we will always remember her.

Fluffy, we still miss you a lot and remember you to this day. Hope you are in heaven, smiling down. And do not forget to put in a good word for us!

This is a guest post by Avik Noronha. Avik is a prolific writer and a die hard dog lover. You can visit his blog at http://www.avikspeaks.blogspot.com.

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