I’m quite an eccentric person. I overanalyze every
situation, I overwork when I needn’t, I am overcritical of myself, and I am
overtly concerned about those that I consider dear. That’s who I see when I
look at the mirror; a nervous wreck about to tip over from all the
overcompensating. That said, I am probably most eccentric when I am jumping
around to trashy pop music on the radio with not a care in the world. It is about
the being that jumps alongside me, with his ears flapping and slapping him in
his own face, that I feel I must tell a story.
One of the clichés you often hear is that ‘A dog is a man’s
best friend’. In many ways, I’m living that very cliché. My best friend is my
two year old boxer, Beans. Most people are curious about why he’s called that.
He was all of two months when he came home to us. He was so tiny, he fit in a
shoebox. However, he was simply too full of beans to stay put. That’s where his
name came from. Two years later, and he’s still the same; an antsy little jack
in the box, with mischief in his enormous, round eyes.
We had a dog called Pepper before Beans came home. Pepper
was a fairly terrifying German shepherd. He has successfully managed to leave
both my younger brother and I with scarred arms for life. We loved him, and he
loved us, but both parties did so with a mutual respect for each others’
boundaries. When we decided to bring Beans home, we did so with much
apprehension. We had no idea how Pepper would take to him. What happened,
however, left us dumbfounded. Pepper took him under his wing as if he were his
own; teaching him the ways of the world, inspiring in him a loud, manly bark.
They’d play in the sun for hours on end, chasing each other around the cars in
the driveway, much to the dismay of my father. What Beans had managed to do was
to take an angry dog of many years and turn him around completely. It was
heart-breaking to watch Pepper leave us as he moved on to the beyond, and it
was further painful to watch Beans cope with his loss. Yet, I am grateful for
the time they got together.
While Pepper was the kind that liked to rough things out,
Beans is a bit of a fancypants. He absolutely hates puddles. As a puppy, he’d
wait to be carried over one, lest his little white socks got muddy. Now, he’s
big enough to hop right over them, and does so as if he is doing an Irish jig.
He’s always been a bit strangely proportioned; a tiny body with a tiny head,
eyes large enough to prompt our house help to make jokes about how he is
definitely my long lost brother, ears so large that Big Ears from ‘The
Adventures of Noddy’ would be put to shame, and a tongue that simply does not
fit in his buccal cavity. He walks with something of a trot, causing his ears
to bob up and down like the majestic, large wings of a dragon. What he is,
really, is a ball of energy that just whizzes around the place making it
impossible for one not to be greatly affected by his presence.
Beans invites everyone into our home, friend or foe. He’s
much too friendly to hurt a person in vengeance. Yet, he’s a strong boy and has
managed to knock people down onto the ground, where he keeps them pinned,
licking their faces with such zeal that they are left desiring a long shower to
reverse the done damage. I often describe how coming home every day feels like
living the title sequence to the Flintstones cartoon. In his enthusiasm, Beans knocks
us down as Dino, the purple dinosaur, would Fred Flintstone. This excessive
enthusiasm is often misconstrued as an act of terror by those wary of the
canine kind. And so we find we have to keep Beans tied to his corner in the
dining room. What follows generally melts the hearts of most people. He
proceeds to wail a lengthy plea as a seasoned opera singer would perform a
ballad of lost love. I find myself arguing irrationally with my parents about
how we needn’t feel socially obliged to invite those over that do not
comprehend that our dog is as much a part of our home as we are, and that the
proposition of having to keep him tied to the grills of our windows is a
preposterous one.
This was an ongoing problem we had to deal with every time a
very dear aunt would come home. Her fear of dogs can be compared to my fear of
elevators. She too feels cornered and claustrophobic, with shallow breaths and
lightheadedness. However, she loves us, and so had learned to love Beans from a
distance. While she thought he was incredibly adorable to look at, the fact
that his canines stuck out funnily from his lower jaw, almost playing
peek-a-boo with the generous folds of skin on his smushed snout, posed a
constant reminder that he was, after all, a dog with sharp teeth and the
potential to attack. He would sit tied in his corner and she would sit tight in
her chair, both equally aware of each others’ presence. One day, by some
accident, Beans was let loose while my aunt was home. We scampered to stop him
from embracing her as he usually does people, but he was much too quick for us.
Almost sensing her apprehension he eased his head into her lap gently looking
up at her with his large, sappy eyes. Incidentally, that’s his secret super
power as far as the begging for food goes. It never fails him. She realized
that the monstrous image she had of Beans in her head was just that; a figment
of her imagination. She picked her hand up and placed it precariously on his
head. And the rest is history.
Sometimes I’m taken back to when Beans was a puppy. I could
carry him around in my palm; his soft, coin sized paws tickling my fingers. I
remember how he’d curl into a ball and fall asleep in the niche between my
pillow and my clavicle, his floppy ears making me giggle. Our mother tried her
best to make sure he stayed off our beds. But Beans is something of an
unstoppable force. It wasn’t long before
she began picking him up and putting him to sleep on her belly during her
afternoon naps. Soon enough, he was too tall to stop. One jump and he’d make it
onto the bed.
My family is fanatical about cricket. During the Indian
Premier League, we sit glued to the television somehow managing to fit on the
bed in my parents’ room. We’re not tiny people. As you can imagine, the four of
us on one measly bed is quite a compact fit. Beans, I fear, lives under the illusion
that he is a man of great stature, and so simply must have right of way and the
best seat in the house. One hop and he’s on top of the bed, walking all over us
with no respect for our bodies. Many loud exclaims of pain later, when Beans
has found his spot, he too watches keenly, feigning interest in our hooting,
swearing and cheering. When the advertisements come on, Beans sits up looking
at the TV in rapture, tilting his head from one side to the other in synchrony
with the jingles.
Beans has a very defined relationship with each member of
our family. My grandmother and him tend to stay away from each other. He knows
better than to mess with her lest she chase after him with her walker, bringing
imminent doom. He treats my brother as a brother. Flings him around, chases
after him, gets slick with his ladies, and all the rest. My mother is regarded
with a combination of fear, love and respect. Yet, she’s his comfort blanket;
his mummy. Beans often confuses our father for a young boy, and so needs reminding
otherwise. He loves Pa dearly. Especially the bald pâté on his head that Beans
seems to think is a lollipop meant for licking purposes. Sarita, our house
help, may as well be our elder sister. To Beans, however, she is the bringer of
food, the love of his life. In short, the quintessential Indian housewife every
run in the mill boy and his mummy are seeking so desperately.
What Beans and I share is a love for each other that I find
hard to illustrate eloquently. I adore him with such ferocity that sometimes I
make myself sick worrying about him. I welcome him to share any food that I
know for certain shall not hurt him. I tickle his belly until he’s upside down
with a melancholic grin and a psychotic look in his eyes. I teach him how to
groove to dhichick-dhichik Bollywood
music; an integral quality one must possess for me to love them
unconditionally. And I try very hard to find him a viable match from his own species.
He loves being groomed; so I find myself bathing him, brushing his teeth, and combing
him until he’s lulled into a slumber.
In return, he loves
me and protects me from any harm that may come my way. It angers him when
anyone so much as raises their voice around me. He stands tall, lets out a
loud, authoritative bark, and then boxes my attacker with his front paws
threateningly. He sulks if I don’t make it home at night giving my parents
silent, angry glares as he frequents my room only to return disappointed. He
knows when I am sad, in pain, happy, pensive. I’m eager to get home every day
despite having to travel for hours on end, because that’s where he’ll be
waiting for me; my best friend with his tongue sticking out and no pants on - wagging
his behind excitedly, ready to unleash his slobbery tongue on my face, and
making me feel missed, loved and home every single day.
