Crying Twice
It had been a tiring week since the terrible accident. Woken up by a sudden quarrel, I was welcomed to a gory site of blood shed all across the house. Thick drops of blood everywhere, and my aunt was visibly angry. It took a while for us to figure out, our dog had been bit by another and the gashes on it’s neck had prevented him from alarming us of the pain he suffered. None of us knew how long the poor lad had been sitting in pain and agony waiting on us to wake up and take notice. It was the most unfortunate Sunday of all our lives.
It had been ten days now that we had been rushing him in and out of Vet clinics, getting his IV drips, medication and wound dressing done twice a day for treatment, since his food pipe was damaged. An old puppar three weeks shy of turning fourteen, he had been the baby brother we never had.
This was a happy puppy who had learnt to maneuver its way around the block over the fourteen years of living with his human family. Pushing through the tiny gap in the vine rail of the main entrance he would often sneak out, take a stroll, and even meet up with his buddies at the park and return home like a goody two shoes. It often left our guests amazed. The entire locality loved and feared the little menace to the core. Thinking of the little antics of this tiny troublemaker I went to bed leaving my brother in-charge to monitor the fragile fur baby. Somewhere in the night around 2-3 am, woken up by my brother, I walked shakily to his room, fear coursing my veins as I stooped down to where the dog bed was as I let out a howl. He is no more! I weep incoherently with sobs as my brother sits next to me, doing his best to console my wounded heart. We both keep crying as I hold onto the little paw of Mojito, our dog. Suddenly, I feel wetness in my eyes as I wake up gasping for air.
It was all a dream, a scarily realistic one again. I needed to check in with reality. I walk to my brother’s room and find him slumped next to the dog bed, scrolling through old pictures of the three of us. Me,him, and Mojito. We were kids when we brought him home and practically grew up together.
“You okay? I told you I’ll take care of him, you can sleep now”
“Ya, just a weird dream. I’ll go”
“Another of the bad ones” [ He could always guess from my face if it was a bad one]
“Hmmm, subha baat karenge.” I walked back to my room and tried to get some sleep.
Next morning I narrated everything to my brother, and we told dad.
“Sapne mei kisi ka chale jana matlab umar badh gyi uski. Tu chinta na kar sab thik hai, Doctor bhi to keh ra tha, slow recovery hai age ki wajah se, par thik hojaega Mojito”
“Haan, par wo sab, Par aap keh re ho to maan leti hu”
“Bhool ja, sapna tha. Raat gayi baat gayi”
“Chalo, zor laga k haisha. Babu ko tol do” My brother cracked a joke to cheer me up.
Mojito had always been our partner in crime as kids and even while growing up, he seemed to understand us like any sibling would have.
Days passed by, and Mojito recovered slowly. The IV drip treatment continued as his injuries prevented him from moving the mouth. One year in human life is close to seven years in dog lifespan. Calculating the disparity, we knew Mojito was battling day and night for his life. Walking was also difficult and yet this good boy tried his best to keep his house safe and clean, trying to bark every time he heard any sound. It was painful to watch him get IV needles pushed into the veins each day, for supply of medicine and essential glucose to keep him alive. Another week went by like that. I forgot all about the nightmare, and started hoping for better days to come where we could again take him on car rides with his flappy ears flopping around in the wind. Another tiring day of standing in the Vet clinic with dogs coming in and going out, dad and I returned home at 8 pm in the night. Fully exhausted, I wanted to clean up and rest a while before we headed out for another round of his treatment tomorrow morning. My brother convinced me that he would sit next to Mojito and watch him all night lest he may need anything at all. I washed my greasy hair and retired to bed, drifting into a comfortable sleep right away. It must have been a few hours of sleep, when I felt my brother's hand on my shoulder trying to nudge me awake. He was incoherent but I knew something was wrong, I could feel it in my bones. I walked shakily to his room and as my hair fell onto my face, a sense of dejavu seized me. I did not need to hear anything more now, as I lost balance and sat facing Mojito’s little lifeless face. Mojito was gone, it was just his body lying on the bed. My brother held onto me as my father tried his best to console us both. Just like that, after all these days, of fighting with fate and hanging onto dear life, Mojito had left us, a week shy of his fourteenth birthday. We grew up together, played together, and even went on bicycle rides together. The first bike and first car we had in the family, we took Mojito for a ride. He was part and parcel of our lives, and losing him meant losing a part of us too. And to this day I do not know why I had to see that coming and go through the agony not once but twice.
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