The Agony of Seeing My Dog Age


The Agony of Seeing My Dog Age

Illustration: Akshita Monga


n the night of April 4, 2008, sixteen-year-old me and my then girlfriend found ourselves sipping rose chai from elegant crystal cups in an uppity-looking 40-something lady’s sea-facing apartment overlooking Bandra’s Bandstand. The purpose of our visit was to convince her, that us flighty teens were genuinely interested in her cocker spaniel puppy, listed for adoption. After a round of meticulous grilling, when she was convinced that the Gujju boy and Parsi girl were decent kids, she finally unleashed two-month-old Zippy on us.

No sooner did the bedroom door crack open than we were bamboozled by a boisterous bolt of fur and frolic. It wasn’t just that this puppy was energetic; she was recklessly affectionate as well, toppling over showpieces and small furniture in a bid to lick our faces. An hour of boops and squishies later, our rickshaw ride home found us exchanging high fives for a plan well executed.