Chinna

Chinna is a Border Collie.

Of course, growing up in India, I had been only exposed to dogs of certain breeds as a child. German Shepherds where the most common. Then there were the snappy ‘poms’ or Pomeranians, tiny white dogs with pointy faces and hard, black eyes. There were also many Samoyeds, or at least I think they must have been Samoyeds. They were big, fluffy and fawn coloured, with black noses and mighty curly tails. As a child, I had always been scared of these dogs because of their size. For some reason, as the years went by and as I grew up, these dogs appeared to vanish from Indian homes – no family kept them anymore. Perhaps it is because our climate is nowhere close to the chill of the Siberian Tundra, and therefore rearing these dogs as pets is difficult.

And of-course, I had seen hundreds and thousands of the Indian Pariah dog, strays on our streets and sometimes in the homes of kind families.

But Border Collies? No! I had never heard of them.

I suppose there were people who raised Bod-Collies, but we had always known them to be ‘black and white Poms’ and had left it at that.

Anyway, back in 2005, my aunt Marie who is very fond of animals, came home one day with a little dog in tow. It was small, with fluffy floppy ears and a shaggy coat of black and white dapples. The dog was also filthy and flea and tick ridden, and when we tried to pet it, it shrunk back in suspicion and fear. It had a small, black lump on its left eye, just on the eye lid, and we tried to pull it off thinking that it was a tick. The dog howled in pain – we realised it was skin – a wound that had healed all wrong.

The dog was in a bad shape – not ‘dying dog’ bad shape, but just ‘unhappy and unhealthy dog’ bad shape. Its shaggy fur concealed a protruding rib cage and a shallow stomach, and its eyes were caked and crusted with infection. One would think that with the mal-nutrition, this dog would have wolfed down any food that it was given. Not so. This little ball of matted and dirty fur only glanced hesitatingly at food, swallowed a few morsels, and then slinked away slowly to a dark corner to be away from any kind of creature that walked on two legs. When Marie left the dog with us, and turned to leave after scratching its ears and whispering to it that all would be okay now, we all wondered at the tears in her eyes.

The same day, my brother and I got together, muzzled it, cleaned it of as many ticks as we could, and rubbed a flea oil all over its body. Then we gave it the longest bath we had ever given any dog. When we brushed out the matted, dappled fur and allowed it to dry, the little dog stood as radiant as an angel before us. For want of a better name and ascertaining that it was female, we called her Suey.

Suey’s story, till the day she stepped into our home had been sad. I reckon that as a puppy she must have been very cute, and must have been sold to the family who initially had her, with claims that she had been a St. Bernard, because her face had the markings of such a dog.

However, I suppose that it did not take long for the family to realise that they had been conned.

Suey was no St. Bernard.

She was just another common ‘black and white Pom.’ She must have been beaten as a pup when she chewed up slippers and shoes, or ripped newspapers, and that explained the lump of skin on her eye-lid, and was probably fed the stalest and the scrappiest food that only street dogs have the luxury of eating. Then, as she grew older and lost her cute, puppy face she was relegated to the open terrace of the house, chained to the corner with not so much as even a bowl of water to quench her thirst when the Indian sun scorched her back.

Poor little Suey.

My aunt Marie who lived opposite the house brought Suey home one day, stating that her neighbours had given her away because they could not look after her anymore.

Now we already had Blossom and Chancy, two of our own dogs, plus a host of cats, so keeping Suey was going to be difficult. Therefore on the off chance I asked my boss at that time if he wanted a dog.

Walter was an expatriate, living in India with his wife, so it was a shot in the dark. Normally expatriates stayed for a few years and then went back to their home country. Walter had already been in India a couple of years and had said that he really wanted to make his home here. So when I asked him if he wanted to adopt a dog, he only replied:

“I’ll take her – on one condition that when we have to go out of station or back to UK for any reason, you will baby sit or take her back.”

I agreed. It was done.

Walter had also added, “I’ll take her provided I can change that ridiculous name you’ve given her to something else.”

A dog by any other name is just as sweet!

And finally Walter had said, “she is a Border-Collie. It’s a kind of sheep dog.”

So Suey was conveyed to her new home in less than two weeks. She was then taken to the vet, given her shots and steralised, and was showered with toys, a soft bed, good food and plenty of love. She was also renamed Chinna, which means ‘gold’ in Kannada.

Twice I baby sat little Chinna, once when Walter and his wife had to go on a trip to Hyderabad on work, and on the second time when they had to go to England on a holiday. It had been almost a year since Chinna had joined her new family, however it was choking and very fulfilling to note that when I first stepped past their flat door to take responsibility of my charge while Walter and his wife were away, Chinna silently walked to me and rolled onto her back by my feet.

She remembered.

It’s the 31st of December 2018 today.

On Christmas Day, Walter texted me to wish me for Christmas. He had moved to Germany in 2008-2009 and a few years after this, he and his family moved back to England. Walter and his wife had jumped the hoops and the red tape to take Chinna back with them.

On his message profile is the picture of himself in something that looks like an old boat, and beside him, proud and very happy is Chinna, older by at least 12 or 13 years, but very, very happy.

When Walter had been in India, and when we would chat about Chinna and her condition when she first came to my home, he would sometimes remark with a smile:

“Was your aunt really given Chinna? Or did she steal her?” and then, “no, don’t tell me anything. I don’t want to know. Chinna is our pet now and that’s all that matters.”

After Walter left India, I got the story out from my aunt.

Marie lived opposite the house where Chinna had been tied on the terrace. In India the terraces of houses can be accessed by a cement staircase from the outside, so even if people are away, anyone nimble enough could jump a gate and access the terrace. It was here that poor Chinna had been tied. Marie had heard her intermittent cries for food or water one day and had tried to alert her neighbours. When there had been no response from the house, Marie, assuming that they were out on work or at school, jumped the gate or wall and tried to feed the frightened dog. When the poor dog cowered away in fear, my aunt had left the food and water in the corner and went back to her own home.

She had waited for her neighbours to return home to tell them off. They didn’t.

Two days later, Marie had realised that the dog was home alone. The family had gone on a holiday, leaving Chinna, chained to the terrace wall, with no food or water. So Marie fed the dog, and this went on for a whole week, until Chinna, now probably understanding that this person was a friend, did not cower anymore. Then she unchained the dog, carried her down the terrace and brought her to our place from where, within two weeks she was taken to her forever home.

Chinna now lives in England, and enjoys long walks with Walter and his wife. I doubt that, if she could remember me, and thank me for two weeks of love and warmth with a sweet roll at my feet, she would have forgotten Marie who fearlessly rescued her, and gave her the chance of living a full and happy life in the love and care of a real family.