I hate dogs

I hate dogs.I know that’s a statement likely to provoke outrage from dog lovers, but it’s the truth. My dislike didn’t arise from some trivial annoyance or bad experience with a neighbor’s pet. It’s something deeper, something born from loss.

This thought was fresh in my mind when my wife made her latest suggestion. We were watching a movie, a modern retelling of the true story from Japan about a dog named Hachiko. I was only half-watching; I hate dogs, after all. But the story was hard to ignore. Every morning, Hachiko followed his master to the railway station, and every evening, he waited there for his return. One day, the master didn’t come back, but Hachiko kept waitingfor nine long years. The townsfolk were so moved by his loyalty that they erected a statue in his honor.

The tale tugged at my wife’s heartstrings.

“Let’s get a dog,” she said, eyes shining with that hopeful look I knew so well.

I sighed. “You know how I feel about dogs.”

“But they’re so loyal, so loving. Wouldn’t it be nice to have one around the house?”

I tried to argue, but as usual, my resistance was futile. What I didn’t tell her, though, was the real reason for my reluctance.

I wasn’t always this way. I grew up in a family that adored dogs. My father was in the army, and over the years, we had a whole parade of pets, from fluffy Pomeranians to stubborn dachshunds. After my father retired, we settled down in Kerala, where one day, my uncle surprised us with a tiny Pomeranian puppy, no bigger than a tennis ball. We named him Bobby.

Bobby was a whirlwind of energy, always finding his way into the most impossible places. During the day, he explored every nook and cranny of the house. Once, he somehow crawled through the car tires and ended up on the seat. Another time, he got stuck in the grill under the main gate. Keeping an eye on him was a full-time job.

But the nights were the hardest. Bobby, still missing his mother, would roam around the compound, wailing. After a few sleepless nights, the neighbors began to complain, and since my bedroom was closest to the garage, I wasn’t getting any rest either.

Finally, I found a solution. Bobby seemed to find comfort in my room, so every evening, I would carry him to my bed, where he’d curl up on the carpet. He was terrified of the dark, so I’d hang my arm over the side of the bed, letting him snuggle against my hand until he fell asleep.

This became our nightly routine. Over time, Bobby grew braver. He began chasing away birds that pecked at the rosebuds in our garden and became the scourge of any rats that dared enter the house. He even got over his fear of the dark, content to stand guard while we slept.

But then, life intervened. I got a job that took me away from home, with a training period that lasted a year and work assignments across the country. When I finally came back for a short two-week leave, it was one in the morning when I arrived. I rang the bell at the gate over and over, but my parents, who were in their seventies, slept soundly. I didn’t want to bang on the iron gates and wake the whole neighborhood.

Just as I was losing hope, I heard Bobby. He saw me standing on the other side of the gate and started running in circles, barking wildly. The gate blocked the view of the house, but the lower part had a grillthe same one Bobby used to get his head stuck in as a puppy. Now fully grown, his nose poked through the grill, sniffing the air.

He barked furiously at first, so I cautiously held out my hand. He sniffed it, paused, then something clicked in his brain. Suddenly, he was wagging his tail furiously, clawing at the gate in excitement. He remembered me. I tossed my bags over the wall, climbed the gate, and jumped down on the other side.

Bobby was ecstatic, darting around, licking and sniffing me. It felt good to be home.

The next day, someone left the gate open. Bobby, always curious, ran out into the street and was hit by a passing truck. The wheels didn’t touch him, but the shock was too much for his tiny heart. It just stopped.

I buried him in our backyard. That night, no one ate dinner. The next day, I returned to my post.

And that’s why I hate dogs. They wriggle their way into your heart, only to break it when their all-too-brief lives come to an end.

But I didn’t share any of this with my wife. Instead, I changed the channel, and we started watching Godzilla.