Raising Daisy

Raising Daisy

When I was young, I somehow pictured bringing home a dog as a happy puppy in a cardboard box. Daisy wouldn’t fit nor sit in a cardboard box. She’s almost four, not used to a living environment outside a cage, and certainly not used to love and affection from humans – those intimidating creatures that tower over her.

A beagle rescued from a laboratory, the little miss came with an incomprehensible past. She’d spent a few months living with her batch mates released from the lab and a few weeks with a foster family during her rehabilitation – neither of which brought her distinctly closer to being happy and carefree, as most of us prefer our dogs to be.

The day we brought her home. If our respective mornings could be played parallel: she woke up with no notion that she was going to be uprooted from yet another space she was getting accustomed to, and I woke up bright-eyed and full of wonderment about the being who was going to fill a piece of my heart.

With all of that in my mind, the magnitude of her fear was one I least expected. As she watched, petrified, her world move away from her as we drove away from her foster family, I learnt what heartbreak looks like in gentle, brown eyes. Looking at her quivering form, I had to swallow a lump in my throat.

Amid a turmoil of emotions, I set about the task of settling her in. The next few days were filled with constant concern over Daisy’s incessant shivering and cowering. Not to mention her refusal to eat and scurrying into a corner at the faintest noise. I tried to give her her space – but that only meant she would sit in the farthest corner of the house, sometimes for even an hour with ants scurrying over her.

 

She held her pee and poop, only to relieve herself somewhere in the house with a worried I-can’t-help-it expression. Except for the occasional pitter-patter of her paws, or rather their swift scurrying, we never heard a peep out of her. I would never admit it to anyone, but I often wondered if I'd bitten off more than I could chew with Daisy. Could I ever really help her blossom into a happy girl?

And then there’s now. A month later. Our little girl has been sharp as a tack, picking up what she can and cannot do in the house, telling us what she can and cannot do, but above all, a bundle of energy launching herself right into our hearts. Welcome home, Daisy girl!

Bheemeshwari

When you leave the city premises at the crack of dawn on a weekend, the open roads are more than just inviting – there’s something very comforting about the scenery zipping past you as you see fewer buildings, and eventually, plush green fields and the countryside. 

The idea was to spend the day exploring Bheemeshwari. While the aim was not completely achieved, in part thanks to the heat, it was still one of the most relaxing days out in a while. The stirring greenery and plantations fortified with electric fences gave way to dry and dusty roads as we approached Bheemeshwari’s wildlife sanctuary and forest reserve. 

We embrace summer in Karnataka right from February, so we figured the weather also meant we weren’t going to spot much wildlife. We were wrong: almost as soon as we drove in we spotted a rambunctious herd of wild boar, scouring for food, no doubt, but judging by their disapproving snorts, the dry shrubs were not quite what they were looking for.

The lush vegetation leading to Bheemeshwari lends itself to the sanctuary too, we are told, when the subsidiary of Cauvery running through the reserve flows in all its might during the monsoons and colours the now arid landscape with shades of brown, green and that moss-black-grey hue specific to deep waters. 

Moving on to what we actually experienced. The time it took for us to assimilate our surroundings and choose an adventure package that best fit our group at the reserve did not do anything to alleviate our apprehension over the hordes of monkeys that flocked the reserve. We were thankful for the lemonade we were served, although we gulped it down just to be sure it wasn’t unceremoniously snatched from us.

The website said we should have a pair of walking shoes handy for our nature walk. But what they really meant was hiking or trekking shoes, built to carry you steadily up steep, gravel ridden slippery inclines.

Apart from its surliness towards inexperienced hikers like me, the walk had a lot of pros too. On our way out of the resort and its offices, we spotted a beautiful mother owl - the very colour of the bark of the tree where she homed. While we gushed over her standing barely a few feet away, she opened one eye to show her explicit displeasure at being interrupted during her beauty sleep. 

We’d barely marched a few yards ahead, when our guide pointed out little owlets perched high and far above, curiously peeking down at visitors from their safe nooks in the huge bough of a tree. With a grin, he quickly explained they were Sleeping Beauty’s babies, homed firmly away from her during her day’s snooze. 

Gazing up at their clamour and games on the tree’s bough, I couldn’t help glimpsing back at the owl and feeling a bond with her when I remembered my own little one firmly ensconced at home with her dad. Oh yes, Mother Nature sure knew what she was doing!

We spotted quite a few varieties of birds; their names elude me now, but our guide knew them in two languages. We stopped every now and then when we heard a new call and bent in every angle till we spotted them. 

Somehow, the heat didn’t really get to us till we hit the slopes: a steep, slippery hill that had recently survived a forest fire. Three quarters of the way up, two of us gave up: one at the risk of slipping and spraining her previously-once-broken-arm, and me wheezing from the ashes scattered around and struggling with my ‘walking shoes’. While the rest of our lot clambered further up to enjoy the complete view from the top, my friend and I turned to take in our view.

The picture laid out in front of us was mostly set in a desert brown tone, with a feeble arm of the much fought over Cauvery river snaking a rocky course for as long as we could see. As meagre as it seemed right then, it was just as easy to picture it all at its season’s best. The rest of the landscape was pretty much what we’d traipsed through – a jungle closely knit with dry shrubbery and trees with wide, protective branches.

When we stumbled back off the hill, groaning at our empty water canteens, our guide proffered us pieces of a wood apple, completely wild and natural, he said. I didn’t think I’d appreciate the sour fruit till I actually took a bite. But my gourmet retreat in the jungle was to be short lived as I heard an angry screech from an equally angry monkey and I quickly decided to forgo the fruit, lest the beast decided to teach me a lesson in sharing.

On the way to the shallow pool of the river, we spotted herds of spotted deer as they sped away from our footsteps. Our guide took every opportunity to point out old elephant manure, trying to assure us if we visit again after the monsoons, we were sure to spot them too. Kind of shuddering at the idea of trying to outrun a herd of wild elephants, we assured ourselves that maybe our trip was timed well enough.

The water looked murky, but when I managed to steer my way in carefully past the moss ridden rocks, the sand bed immediately caressed my soles invitingly. I guess we were too old to splash around, so while some of us lounged under the trees by the banks, a few of us picked our way around with the guide assuring us the water was safe.

His definition of safe, however, mystified me a few hours later. After a lazy lunch and lounging in the hammocks with the monkeys, that now seemed part of the locale, running around insisting on inspecting the contents of our backpacks, we decided to try out the kayaks and the traditional parisals.

 

This is the deeper end of the river, the guide explained, and we gazed curiously at the rocks amid the river that separated the shallow bed where we spent the earlier part of the afternoon and the deeper end where we were now being rowed around. With one hand reaching to caress the water, I asked him more on a gut feeling rather than on knowledge, if there were crocs in the river. Yes, he said simply, as though they were nothing more than fish. Being a bit more dramatic by nature, I remembered Lake Placid, and decided to put my hand to better use taking pictures of our kayaking friends.

Curiosity got the better of me somehow, “Can we spot them now,” I asked our guide.

With something akin to pride glinting in his eyes, he rowed us closer to the rocks just in time to see what we thought was a section of the rock, slide in quietly at the sign of intruders, tail swishing ominously. Still reeling from the thrill, we quickly spotted two other crocs rising a little to the water’s surface, almost as if to peek at us, and disappearing just as suddenly. 

When we stepped out of the boats, the sun was setting tranquilly on a day, which was tiring, but filled with good company and laughter. The drive back seemed familiar now and we settled back into our seats, tucking the day safely into memory. 

 

A little bit of Dad

“One egg is not hatched yet,” said the duck, “it will not break. But just look at all the others, are they not the prettiest little ducklings you ever saw? They are the image of their father, who is so unkind, he never comes to see.”

-          Hans Christian Andersen, The Ugly Duckling

Unlike in the animal kingdom, most dads love to watch their young ones grow. They do, sometimes, have one thing in common with their animal counterparts: they rarely fret over their young like the mothers do. And in the process, they impart to you their quiet strength.

I don’t remember my father running behind me with a bowl of food as a child, but he always knew when I was in a fussy mood and would implore my mother, “Just feed her and she’ll be done with it in no time.”

My mom probably knew this solution too, but what her tired brain couldn’t process, my father’s could almost always. While mom had a tough time understanding another pair of jeans, dad simply indulged. This calm understanding, or indulgence, just when you need it is something we all appreciate in our growing years and even beyond that.

I can’t speak for the men folk, but I can say something for the relationship a woman shares with her father – it may leave you wanting more out of it at times, but you can’t imagine it any other way either. Fathers bring in to your life strength and understanding.

We may not realise it, but we always carry a little bit of his personality in us too. We worry about turning into our anxious mothers but ignore that part of us that is so typically dad. So rest assured, ladies, if there is a part of you that constantly worries and frets over everything, there’s a huge piece of dad in there to keep you strong and resilient.