A young Labrador
Kept tied the whole day
In the compound
Of a house named Bethel,
Which if the Lab could speak or write
Would rename as Methell.
A young Labrador
Kept tied the whole day
In the compound
Of a house named Bethel,
Which if the Lab could speak or write
Would rename as Methell.
My new piece for The Hindu thREAD, juxtaposing our attitudes to adopting children from orphanages with those from adopting animals from shelters. Unfortunately, the attitudes seem the same. Anyway, the thREAD piece has some edits. Below is the original piece.
Fertility centres seem to be coming up faster than, erm, babies. I turn a corner, and there I spot a spanking new facility. I turn a newspaper page, and here I come across an ad for a newly opened centre or a new fertility department of an existing hospital chain. All promising “the joy of motherhood”, or some warm copy and visuals to this effect. The existing centres, not to be left out in the BYOB (beget your own baby) race, seem to be devising more creative ways of marketing themselves. Outside one centre, I spotted a huge banner featuring scores of kid pix. It couldn’t have been all those kids’ birthdays the same day, for that’s what the banner looked like: individual studio pix, with images of balloons and candles dotted across. So, I gathered – as my transport whizzed past – that the facility was celebrating its own birthday. And I guess what better way to celebrate a fertility facility’s birthday than by showcasing all the birthdays they’ve helped cause, right? And in last week’s paper, things seem to have gotten expectedly commercial. One ad talked of different packages (Basic, Standard, Premier), and another of easy EMIs. And you thought bringing up baby was the expensive part.
I find this both intriguing and amusing. Amusing, because, heaven knows, lesser babies is this country’s leading deficit. Also because some folk seem to have taken our PM’s call for Make in India quite seriously, and are determined that at least in this department, we’re going to sock it to China.
And intrigued (and to be less flippant) because, someone like me, who isn’t too hot about either marriage or moppets, can only wonder at the boom of these baby-promising places. Some reasons seem fathomable. Couples are not able to beget due to some “problem” with either or both of them, age-related issues (with the increasing tendency of couples to marry later in life, once they turn their attention from the rat race to the brat race, they find themselves fighting against the bio clock), and on the same lines, lifestyle-related complications (longer work hours, shorter off hours, the resulting stress and exhaustion) leading to love-making complications.
A less brought-up reason is the lack of compatibility. Some researching shows that one in three marriages is ending in divorce, and within three-four years of getting married. Before they get to that, though, some couples, as a last resort are turning to that old gem: ‘Maybe a baby can fix things?’ But are perhaps not bringing up that other gem: Maybe the problem is not in the bed, but in the head.
Some more researching throws light on another reason, or trend. Many of these centres have a large clientele of foreign nationals, especially from European countries, where population isn’t a problem, or rather, “under-population” is a problem. And where money isn’t a concern, being the developed world and all. (One such friend once told me their government incentivizes them to have kids, such as through educational subsidies.) And I guess where they are not able to, with the money they have, they can just fly down to a third-world country to fulfil their baby dreams.
Which leads me to the biggest wonder: why aren’t these folk looking at… adoption? With the number of kids we know of in orphanages and adoption centres and the appalling conditions and illegal practices in quite a few of them, instead of paying so much to bring forth a new life, why not pay nothing to give a home and a new life to one of these kids, and the same joy to yourself?
Foreigners are up against a lot when doing so, having to go through a litany of checks. But Indians? Ah, the good old attitude of “log kya kehenge” (what will people say) and “pata nahi kiska bachcha hoga” (don’t know whose kid it would be) – a prostitute’s, a destitute’s, a druggie’s, an alcoholic’s, a trucker’s, a foreign tourist’s? And then of course, there’s the Great Wall of Religion. And you know, in our country and especially in these times, you can’t argue against what’s in the holy book(s).
And of late, some people we look up to in some ways don’t seem to be helping much either. Things looked promising until a decade or so ago, when we had two Bollywood divas, Raveena Tandon and Sushmita Sen, choosing to adopt even when single, sending out great signals in pre-Twitter times. (Raveena later got married and had two children with her husband.) But of late, the fertility centres seem to be winning. A few Bollywood biggies (SRK, Aamir K, Farah K) and a couple of “mediums” as well (Sohail K and, most lately, Tusshar K) have in recent years all chosen to have kids through surrogacy. Considering four of these are men, you can’t help but wonder: good old male ego?
Aamir perhaps lost out the biggest opportunity to walk his earnestness talk. Sure, he was open about his surrogacy. But just imagine if he had emulated his character from Taare Zameen Par, taking under his wings (though in a different way) a lesser-blessed kid. He could have helped a zameen par taara get back to the aasmaan (helped a fallen star get back to the sky). But I guess these are the pressures of stardom: star kids cannot be called star kids if they are not the star’s own, right?
Now, for someone who’s already said he isn’t too hot about kids, why am I going on about this? Well, I may not like babies, but I love their four-legged versions, animals. (And animals, if it hasn’t been said enough times already, are indeed kids: as innocent but with more hair.) But I see the same attitudes prevalent here. No, not that animals are going to fertility clinics in case of problems on the jungle bed between Mufasa and Sarabi, or Raksha and Rama. But it’s about people’s attitude to bringing home animals from pet shops and breeders versus adopting one from a shelter. So, they continue to buy Persian cats and Afghan hounds and house them in climes they are not meant for. I mean, don’t you get the anachronism by the names itself: a Siberian Husky in Scorching Chennai?
Why do they do it then? The same attitude of what will people say. “How will it look if I get a shelter-residing dog into my sea-facing penthouse?” “Ew, only a shiny Golden Retriever will do in my gleaming silver Merc.” And to be stand-up snarky, “Oh, the irony of feeding Pedigree to a dog without one.”
And so they continue fattening unscrupulous pet-shop owners and animal breeders and perpetuating puppy-farm cruelty. A puppy farm, or puppy mill, in case you don’t know, is actually various kinds of cruelty in one. It involves keeping breeding dogs captive or caged when they aren’t breeding, which is very little of their miserable lives. Before that, it involves having them constantly pregnant, leading to a range of problems, from malnutrition to floor-hanging mammaries. And when their pup-producing days are over, they are either cast off on the roads or bumped off. New-born pups don’t have it much better either, neither the ones who make it to the pet store nor those who don’t. Those who do, have been pulled away at birth from their mom, resulting in separation anxiety (for both), and are brought packed like sardines, resulting in stress and fatigue. The ones who don’t make it to the store, because they are unhealthy or abnormal, thanks to the assembly line-like churning of pups, face a fate similar to mom’s. Suddenly, you’re seeing the cruelty behind the cutie in the pet-shop cage. Blood Doggies, anyone?
Even when enlightened, people don’t care, or worse, don’t want to. On my morning walks, I sometimes meet this man with this Lhasa Apso (bad choice again for the climate, but then most foreign breeds are) named Fido. Last time, though, Fido wasn’t to be seen. On querying, he told me that Fido had passed away after an incident of food poisoning. After expressing my remorse, enquiring about the details, and commiserating over the loss of “his son” (his words: “he was like a son to me”), since I know the way these things go, I ventured, “So, you plan to bring home another dog”? He went pat, even before Fido’s soul could have reached animal heaven, “Yes. I’ve already paid for it. It’s a Beagle.”
Even as I was sighing at the idea of “paying for your son”, I didn’t want to lose the opportunity. I proceeded to inform him about the cruelties of dog breeders, that he could consider adopting one from a shelter (without having to pay, that too), and that if he really wanted a Beagle, he could go for a Freagle, a Beagle that has been freed from an animal-testing lab and is up for adoption. (Why, he could even call him… Freedo.)
He looked at me like I had just revealed it was I who had poisoned Fido. We parted, with him offering that he’d think about it, but I dare feel that since the money’s been paid, the deed’s been done. And the next time I see him on my morning excursion, there’ll be alongside him a fresh little Beagle pup, and not a thankful shelter-housed indie. Because attitudes, unlike animals b(r)ought home, are not so easy to change.
Some people ask me why I campaign for animals such. My usual reply is, “Because for most humans, animals are at the level of trash.” With our attitude to want “our own” child at any cost (Basic, Standard and Premier, no less), rather than give a home to one from an orphanage, our outlook toward less-fortunate younger human beings seems no better.
So, have I walked the animal-love talk and brought home a shelter dog, or two, myself? I have a standard reply for that too. If I do so, my love for my 47+ and counting street-dog friends (plus two street cats and eight ledge-perched pigeons) will get divided. The dogs will also get jealous on each other and the different species fighting with each other. And there are only so many kiddie fights one can take – even if they are of the cuter, furrier kind.
I was about to cross the road yesterday, on the way to one of the places from where I begin my morning walk / jog, when I spotted a morning walk-jog (I start with a walk and end with a jog; should I just call it ‘wog’?) regular cross over from the other side. However, something, or rather, someone was missing. His doggie companion, a Lhasa Apso by the name of Fido.
As we started approaching each other, I gestured about Fido’s whereabouts. He gestured back the reply. The reply indicated that… Fido had passed away. However, I wasn’t sure, or I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear that. So, I waited until we came up to each other and asked again. He confirmed it. He told me Fido got sick some days back, started throwing up, and then passed away some hours later. He had appeared silent for sometime before (I nodded at this, as I had observed one young streetie too pass away with this indication a couple of years ago). The man’s wife was at home, and she took Fido to the vet (after some resistance from the auto-guy who wouldn’t take in a dog, that too, a sick one). The vet though had made his announcement.
Hope Fido is in a happy place, right up there with Rai, Tiger and Ginger (some of my streeties who have passed away, though I’m not sure about Ginger – she might just have got swept away in the floods and landed up in Chengalpet).
The man went on for some time, talking of how Fido was like his son, and how he had hoped Fido would outlast him. The man isn’t particularly old, at least doesn’t look it, and I told him so. He smiled and continued about Fido: Fido had been around for quite a while, at least 10 years or so.
I have had some sweet moments with Fido too. He would recognize me through this shaggy drooping hair, lick me, and the last time, did the old doggie chestnut of humping my leg. Guess that was his way of saying goodbye: leaving me with his, and every doggie’s, favourite action.
I know what folk who’ve had doggie companions for a long time typically do, so I asked him, “So, do you plan to bring home another dog?” His response was pat – faster than you could say say, ‘RIP, Fido.’ “Yes. In fact, I’ve even paid the money.”
I have bumped into this man quite a few times in the morning now, have spoken about doggie love and my work, and believe we are at least cordial with each other, so I felt I could take the opportunity to educate him. Starting with a disclaimer (“If you don’t mind, may I say something…”), I ventured what educated animal lovers know: the cruelty of puppy farm-bred dogs, the scores of dogs (puppies and adults alike) up for adoption at animal shelters, the shelters specifically offering breed dogs for adoption if you are looking only for one such…
He does tend to look surprised at most things about me, I guess (my wog attire, my conversation, my views; but then, most people do), and this time too, his eyes opened wide: like I was giving him breaking news, or that I had said that I was the one who had poisoned Fido.
The invisible-cruelty angle didn’t seem to be cutting much ice with him (as with most people, even vegetarian – he is), so I asked him a conversation-continuer, “So, which breed are you planning to get?” Again, pat: “Beagle.” I jumped at this too. I told him about how Beagles especially are put through the greatest cruelty for lab experiments, but added that recently, many have been rescued and are up for adoption – though after stringent checks of the human companions, mercifully – through Compassion Unlimited Plus Action (CUPA) of Bangalore, via a cutely named programme, Freagles (Free Beagles). I reiterated it to him, and he did check a few things with me.
However, I’m not sure I may have succeeded. I’m fairly certain the next time we meet on a morning wog, there will be a small little Beagle with him. He might even appear embarrassed or uncomfortable at not having taken my suggestion (and thus not helped get one shelter dog out of the overworked shelter). But that’s ok: there’s only so much you can do. The biggest piss though: Don’t say your dog companion is like your son after having paid for him. That’s way crueler than bringing home a puppy-farm-bred dog not suited for a certain climate.
I may not have been able to help this man see better. Hopefully, I’ll do better with the folk reading this piece. Find out more about puppy farm cruelty here. And if in India and interested in adopting a Freagle, know more through the CUPA site here.
“What’s her name?”
“She has no name?”
This has happened twice when I’ve asked the human tending to the doggie outside their house about the name of their doggie companion. The only thing different was the gender of the dog, a female in the first instance and a male in the second. Oh, there was another thing different too: in the second instance, the lady thought I was asking her name, or even the house’s name.
Both sets of folk have looked at me baffled, like either they didn’t know that naming the dog at home is a (nice) thing to do, or that I was asking them if I could come in and poop all over their house.
It was only after the second instance that I seemed to notice a trend. In both cases, the dog was chained and kept outside the main house premises, for almost the whole day (and night), getting breathers I hope for ablutions and perambulations. It seemed obvious: if you keep the dog chained, you obviously don’t care for them. So, why would you bother about an even smaller thing as a name?
So, tip no. 1 for naming your doggie friend has nothing to do with your intellect, but with your attitude. If you’re bringing home a dog to only keep it chained most of the time, they’re better off at the shelter. (And hopefully, you’re bringing them from there and not a puppy-farm-fuelled pet shop.)
Oh wait, there seems to be a name after all. Watch-dog. And that’s worse than the Tommys, Rockys, Jimmys, Johnnys, Lakshmis and Manis.
What’s Wags in a Name about? Check it out in the intro post here.
Update: Thanks to my frequent questioning, doggie 1 (female, mixed breed, mixed brown fur) has a name now: Brownie. Yes, standard old Brownie. I feel like I both won and lost that battle.
Chaining them. Caging them. Thrashing them. Training them (for the circus, where this practice still goes on, or training them beyond limits if at home). However, something equally “criminal” we can do with a dog is… giving them a commonplace name.
I won’t go into home-dog territory (as I’m more of a street-dog lover), but I’ve lost count of the Tigers, Leos, Brunos and Caesars I’ve heard). Even among the streeties, the few that some folk deign to name, they show equally lazy thinking. Moti, Raja, Sheru, among the Hindi vernacular; Tommy, Rocky, Johnny, among those who know English; and down South, Lakshmi, Mani, and well, Mani. (Coming to this in just a bit.) Lakshmi (the Hindu goddess of wealth / prosperity) is such a popular name for street dogs in Chennai / Tamil Nadu that almost every second dog I come across that I haven’t named seems to be called so, including… the male ones. Arrey, at least check properly and then call him Lakshman, no? But no, a goddess has higher standing than a god’s brother, right? As for that double Mani thing, it’s a prime example of the height of laziness (and that’s why the double hyperbole). Two dogs who hang around together are both called Mani. How does which Mani know which Mani is being called? And with the equal number of men who seem to be called that, how mani, sorry, many men will also turn when I shout that name?
Well, I’m here to correct this anomaly. An ad guy, especially a branding aficionado, and a (street) dog lover, I’ve decided to put these two powers together to put together a primer of sorts on how to name a dog you come across (on the street, who you decide to become friendly with) or one you decide to bring home (if doing so, do bring one from the shelter; there’s too much cruelty in buying a breed dog, but more of that some other time).
So, dog-loving ladies and gentlemen, I give you… Wags in a Name. A short sub-series within my animal series, Irfanimals, on how to name a dog, so that, as the name suggests, you’ll see their tail wagging. Another way of looking at it is, the name should sit well on the dog, just like their wagging tail. I’m so clever, no? That’s why I’m in advertising, I guess.
Anyway, wag, er, watch this space. Woof!
I find myself writing about the smaller things in life, and getting infinite joys from that.
“I’ve always admired the The Bombay Review for its eclectic content. Kaartikeya’s passion for words and literature shows in every issue.” – Ananth Padmanabhan, CEO HarperCollins India
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