poornachandra
“The army is going to the dogs!” is a common exasperated expression I’ve been hearing all these years. “No, the dogs have come to the army” is the retort as common. What is it about the army and the dogs? It’s an existential problem I’ve been mulling over for some time. A retrospective view of my experience in an army gone to the dogs or with dogs in the army, as you like it or how you take it, is what I think will help me clear some mist.
During my jaunt on the Civvy Street my contact with the canine kind was limited to a distant view of these friends of mankind, cautious as I was due to my inability to differentiate between those that barked and those that went further to bite. But things changed once I turned onto the martial road and added my two feet in marching to the metronomic cadence. My encounters with dogs increased, and the respectful distance I maintained thus far began to decrease. I realized that the animals were mingling with the people like relatives. I also understood that one had to be either a dog or a dog-lover to make it to the cantonment who’s who. Otherwise, one could end up with a serious identity crisis. There were as many types of fanciers as there were varieties of dogs. There were the philosophers who thought that “The dog commends himself to our favor by affording play to our propensity for mastery.” There were cynical misanthropes who said, “The better I get to know men, the more I find myself loving dogs.” And there were ardent supporters of ‘Animalloversunited.com’ who simply felt that “Happiness Is a Warm Puppy.” Wow!
Let’s leave the masters (and mistresses, to avoid gender bias and sound politically correct) and talk about the pets. Because they’re the protagonists of this piece. Also because they say “Like master, like dog.” If you shook hands (or paws) with one, it’s as good as making an acquaintance with the other.
Bozo was the ‘first’ dog I met in the army. He was the first citizen of the animal farm in my first regiment because he was the Commanding Officer’s own. He was always in a frazzled state, white hair turned dirty-brown and gone awry, eyes hidden under the very same hair, and never knowing whether he was coming or going. But he fraternized well with his master and gave him good company. Bozo was a Lhasa Apso, and the boss felt that he would do well during a high-altitude tenure, what with the added prospect of all those special rations. So off he went with the regiment, high above the snowline to the mountains, closer to his fatherland by a several hundred miles. But alas, neither the cold climate nor the tense circumstances of an insurgency suited him. The special rations didn’t help either. Both dog and master grew frail and cantankerous, eagerly waiting for deliverance from the high-altitude-and-uncongenial-area. Of course it came, well after both earned their medals for valorous service and the blue ribbon showing white peaks.
It was in a peace station when the first soldier of the regiment changed. There was a corresponding change of guard at the first canine’s chair too. The color changed from white to black, the name to Dollar, and the breed…I don’t know to what. This one, I guess, knew that his namesake was with the richest kid Richie Rich. He behaved in keeping with his regal status, and drew on all his perks and privileges. But he was perpetually in the company of Nonie the cat, and that really confused his sense of identity. He chased mice instead of men, and never really matched his master in stature or status, except when he pretended.
My exposure to canine lifestyle took a revolutionary leap when I volunteered and joined the Airborne fraternity. The sheer number and variety of dogs in my new regiment was an education in zoology and sociology. This was definitely the place that made someone exclaim that the dogs have come to the army. It could be the dog compartment on the Noah’s ark. And the masters and mistresses in this place followed the simple dictum “Love me, love my dog.”
Leading the pack were, as usual, the first family’s pet canines. There was Oscar the Alsatian and Simba the Labrador. Both were big enough to take a bite off my thigh and finish it without a burp. They maintained a haughty air worthy of the Egyptian Pharaoh, and disdainfully disregarded any friendly overtures from lesser beings like me. They roamed the unit area like kings and the subjects diffidently stepped aside to let them pass. If they had ranks in the canine hierarchy, these two would definitely be Colonels, or maybe more.
Our regiment was abode of breeds as exotic as the Masai warriors. There was Bimbo the Beagle, the playful one with a British lineage. The English blood didn’t make it stiff, though. She was all over the place, gregariously making friends with man and beast alike. Energy and enthusiasm marked her character. Sheba the mongrel surpassed all the others in friendliness and affection, remarkably making up for her lack of pedigree. But her saccharine sweetness could get uncomfortably cloying at times. So, one kept his distance. Then there was the quaint and contrasting character of Anastasia the Basset-hound. Ana, as she was called, appeared eponymous with some mysterious Russian princess. Pale, quiet and inactive, she seemed to be brooding over her colorful past, contrasting it with a drab present. Her dolorous expression reflected the collective sorrow of some bygone royal dynasty that had lost all its glory to the vicissitudes of history.
The regimental kennel had old inhabitants leaving and new faces showing up, whenever some human counterpart was transferred on posting. That made life in the kennel spectacularly kaleidoscopic. There was Lisa the German Shepherd who spent a good part of the day liberally vocalizing her emotions and tugging at her leash. Maybe she heard some amorous bark she found irresistible, or maybe someone found her too alluring. Whatever the case was, one day she inexplicably vanished, never to return. There was Tiger, the most inappropriately named hound ever, who wouldn’t chase a cat and could be scared by a mouse. There were Dalmatians too, but only two, instead of 101. Sheba and Pasha, as they were named, were very social to the point of being intrusive. They were fond of visiting you as uninvited guests and making their presence felt. Imagine 99 more of them Dalmatians to make up the numbers… what a prospect!
And thus there were dogs, and dogs all around. They are as ubiquitous in the cantonment as are neatly-trimmed hedges and well-maintained pathways. They have life so good that it necessitates the expression “It’s a dog’s life” to be redefined. They get a human companion who dutifully walks them, or runs with them, as the master feels apt. Good food in terms taste and variety is there for the asking. Their only competitors in terms of attracting affection are the master’s own progeny. And their closest rivals when it comes to demanding attention are humans of the feminine gender. Things couldn’t get better. It wouldn’t be just an anagrammatic twist if one felt that dogs in the army are almost divine, considering the way they are worshipped.
To talk of it, dogs have found context even in spirituality and Zen. There’s an interesting story is about the monk who said to a Master, "Has a dog Buddha-nature too?" The Master replied, "Wu" — which is what the dog himself would have said. That could be the answer I’ve been looking for.
That’s all about dogs.
18 0ctober 2002
1 comment:
Bow Wow..that was great!!
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