If I had a say...

I am called Ruble. I don’t really like my name. If I had a choice, I would have called myself something less mercenary-sounding, like Tao or Buddha. Legend has it that my ancestor was a once-famous St. Bernard in Siberia, and they wanted to preserve my Russianness. They could have called me Dostoevsky or even Rasputin, I wistfully wish. But then, I really had no say in the matter.

My first memories of my childhood (or should I say puppyhood) are about this ridiculously big red bow I wore around my neck on my first trip home. My new owner had just bought me and he had tenderly placed me in a mothball-smelling wicker basket in the back seat of his car. He had miscalculated my size a little bit (by a wide margin rather) and I could barely squeeze in there. Then he flourished a flagrantly red ribbon out of nowhere and tied it quite ineptly round my neck. I must have looked silly trying to attack it with my slobbery mouth because he chuckled and ruffled my head. He gazed at me long with his kind eyes and gave me a hug. I think that must have won my heart. But if I could have had my way, I would have torn off that nasty red ribbon.

I realized soon enough that I was his present to the woman he loved, the woman of his life. I admit I was a bit skeptical initially, I think I am congenitally disinclined towards the opposite sex. But she was beautiful, tender, and so friendly. She declared in our first meeting that she loved me. She won my puppy heart too, and at first sight.

They got married that fall. It was a lavish Indian wedding with parents and relatives especially flown in all the way to LA from India. Cacophony was the theme. I had grown pretty big by then. A short-sighted, bald old man called me a cow. He couldn’t even get the genders right. I sulked. I got in everyone’s way. In retrospect, I think I enjoyed myself; although I would have enjoyed more if that bald old man had called me a bull.

I wish my story ends there with a boring happily-ever-after. But it doesn’t.

Two years went by in a lovers’ haze. Perhaps the headiness of love wears off after some time. Anyway, something went wrong somewhere. It started with arguments – on food, books, friends, parents, culture, bringing up, religion, god, dogs (!!!). I patiently sat through tears and outbursts. Then there were interminable silences, which were more difficult to handle. I said to myself that they still loved me and that was all that mattered to me. Until it struck me one fine day that they did not love each other anymore. If humans could fall out of love with each other, could they fall out of love with a dog? I panicked. I loved them so much.

Time came for that inevitable moving-on-in-life. Divorce was discussed. I hung in there, too sad to even think what would happen to me. Divorce was agreed upon. Was there going to be a custody battle for me? I did hear arguments on that. My vain heart rejoiced for an instant knowing that both of them loved me enough to fight for me. In the end, it was decided that I would stay with her. She would get the house and they did not want to take me away from my home. I was his gift to her after all.

One day, he came to say goodbye. He ruffled my head again and gazed at me long with his kind eyes. There were tears in them this time though. I wished I could cry too. He said he would come and visit me often. And he left. She hugged me and she cried.

If you ask me, they are two good people who used to love each other and who still love me. If you ask me, they could have had a lifetime of happiness, a lifetime of love, a lifetime of me (my lifetime, that is). But then, as with many things else, I really had no say in the matter.