“Puppppy”, she goes, randomly during a walk on the street. “I should take my phone out and record this”, I think, every time. 

I noticed after the first few days that I intentionally let go of her hand only when she sees a dog on the street. I’m attentive of course, checking for cars while I do that. 

I let her run towards the dogs. It gives me pure, blissful joy seeing her around an animal. And of course, when she’s around me. “Same thing.” It doesn’t matter what mood she’s in. She switches to the inherent empathetic instinct that she has in her soul, beautifully kept. It’s a treat watching her eyes pop out with excitement— her face changes— every time. It feels as if I’m watching a plot of a grand play unfold in front of me. A play full of playful dogs and a compassionate little girl.

I’m taken to my childhood sometimes, watching her play with animals. Dirt poor, I couldn’t utter the thought of having a pet in our house. But we were always kind to them all. I remember Mom feeding half a piece of roti to the regular street dog, and feeling bad about it all day because she didn’t have anything else to offer.

I’m taken back to that small ranch in the village. I’m taken to those fights with my sisters about who gets which baby cow. I always wanted the black and white one. I was 5-6 years old. But when I looked into the eyes of that cow it spoke to me in languages I couldn’t comprehend. 

I’m taken back to Jacky, the stray dog who always chose our little house to guard. He got offered bones everywhere, but always came back to a small piece of roti that we had to offer. He was loyal, and we adored his loyalty. It was a sense of pride that we boasted that he always sticks around here and protects that tiny little 2-room house. I felt nothing when he passed away. It was as if we had all the conversation that needed to be had and nothing was left to say or feel.

I’m taken back to Coke. Now Coke was a nasty cat. Extremely moody all the time. Now that I remember it, Coke also chose to sleep under my bed when we were drugged out of our minds. He stayed there until I was sober and left when I was completely in my senses. It’s as if he knew what I was doing to myself and waited for me to finish. I miss those random scratches he used to give me.

She makes me revisit the parts of my soul which I kept hidden for a long time. This is one of the good parts. 

I want to own hundreds of animals with her, but we’ll start with a puppy and take it slow. I sit on the sofa as I scroll up my notes and look at this untitled piece of writing, I should call it— Animals.