Two years ago, our beagle freed from 3 years of caged existence at a testing laboratory came hesitantly into our lives. She shivered and scampered in fright for almost everything, including kind, calm words of assurance. So the distant, dying sounds of Diwali frightening her didn’t surprise us. Over the months and years that followed, she learnt to settle into her home with us, go on walks to explore her world, put her inquisitive nose to good use to find her way to the kitchen every time any kind of cooking was in progress, show her intense disapproval if someone came to her door by barking the roof down (the angry rebuff can turn into a Heathcliff-like cold welcome depending on the chicken and cheese you offer by way of a bribe), and to jump into my arms as only an excited child at the sight of her favourite person can.
I’m now used to her tirelessly following me around the house as I go about my work. She’ll pause for a quick scratch to her ears or sit on her haunches as she watches what I do and then the pitter patter of her paws assures me I have my shadow with me as I continue moving around the house. A few days ago, I was putting together the things for her bath when the first familiar kaboom went off. We both paused in our tracks. I couldn’t show much emotion or reassure her because that would strengthen her belief that there was a need to be frightened. As nonchalantly as possible, I turned to watch her. The silence that followed the firework was a few seconds long and Daisy decided to go to the balcony to investigate.
She looked out into the bright afternoon and could see nothing to fear other than the buildings and trees she gazes out at everyday while sunbathing. The second boom came as she turned to come back to her trail behind me. She didn’t turn around to inspect but raced ahead of me into the room where she sleeps every night and jumped onto her bed, panting and looking at me. “Zoomies for what now?” I questioned her in a light-hearted tone. She wasn’t fooled. She continued panting and watched the direction from where the sounds came. I gave the ears the forgotten scratch and went in to turn on the water.
When I came out, she was nowhere in sight. I called out to her and her head popped up from between the dinning table and the wall, but not a sound, nor a pitter patter. I grinned and made as if to catch her for her bath – a usually high-speed chase follows this gesture as she jumps from bed to floor and on and off a zillion times till she collapses on the bed demanding a belly rub. My heart skipped a few beats as she picked up a paw ever so lightly and held it close to her – a sign of fear. The honey-brown, doe-like eyes that fire up with joy and sheer naughtiness now looked wary. The panting continued. And the worst of it all for me was the shivering haunches. I knew if I held her now, I could feel her racing heart.
When children are frightened, they cry, they come running to you to be cajoled. Daisy did neither, nor do most dogs. They cower in fright, when even their own homes where they rule the roost become a battleground of confusion and fear. I closed the sliding doors, knowing that it will do little to keep the sounds away and picked her up for her bath. Usually not a fan of being cuddled, she let me hold her as thankfully, the sounds died away in the distance.
So, what happens next week? Hopefully, we get to run for shelter with Daisy to a quite getaway in the outskirts. Not because we don’t love the lights and happiness around us, but because the sight of a thousand pair of frightened eyes on the streets mirror the pair we see at home.
