Tale of a silent, saintly dog

A dog appeared at our gate one cold, rainy December morning. It was wet, shivering and probably very hungry. Something about it touched my heart. I spread out two empty jute rice bags one above the other at a cosy spot under our staircase for it to lie down warmly and placed before it a bowl of warm milk.

It was with us for hardly a week when it dawned on me that it had never barked since its arrival. When I realised it was dumb, I felt very sorry. It could hardly even whimper. To make up for its dumbness, God gave it very expressive and eloquent eyes, an expressive tail and a pair of very sharp ears. I could read in its eyes all its emotions. My mother tried to dissuade me from adopting a handicapped dog. “A silent dog is dangerous. A barking dog is safer. Barking dogs seldom bite, goes the saying,” she said. But this sermon could not make me change my mind.

When the question of naming the newcomer arose, I decided to call it Silent. It was happy with the vegetarian diet we could provide and did not hanker after the proverbial bone. Not being able to communicate with other canines on the street, it stayed indoors most of the time. Other dogs also did not show any interest in Silent.

A silent dog, like a silent man, invites no trouble. Only once did I see it lose its temper and bare its teeth, when a stray dog tried to attack me on the road. I don’t know what the stray dog saw in Silent’s eyes — it just turned tail and fled the scene for good.

Once, Silent fell ill. It just lay in its corner starving itself. “Can’t we take it to a doctor?” I asked my father. “Sick animals need no medicine. They get well on their own naturally,” he replied. Unable to treat the matter as lightly as my father did, I approached a friend. He brought a bicycle. Placing Silent in the bamboo basket tied to its carrier, we went to a veterinary clinic. After examining Silent, the vet gave it an injection. “It will be all right in a day or two,” he said, handing over medicine to be given to the sick fellow.

When my friend placed 10 one-rupee coins on his table, the vet looked at me questioningly. I explained to him the fact that my friend’s father was a purohit and he got paid for his service only in coins. “Now and then my friend steals a bit from his father’s coin pouch for worthy causes,” I said sheepishly. The vet was visibly moved and he declined to accept the fee. Silent got well and became fit as a fiddle.

After having been with us for about five years, Silent just vanished. It is said that dogs leave their masters when they see their end approaching. Silent it came and silent it went — it was a saint among dogs.