Episode 2 – Brat – My Dog as a Life TeacherHave you heard a dachshund sing for ice cream?
Mine did — Brat, the dog who brought unconditional love into our family.
I had announced at the end of Episode 1 that Brat – My Dog as a Life Teacher will be published next.
Brat had a clock in that little head of his. He always knew when it was time for the beach on Sundays. We would take him in an auto because I did not want sand in the car. He would finish his morning business, walk over to the waiting auto, and wag his tail. If I pretended not to notice, he would call me. – insistently, knowingly.
Brat entered our lives when the children still needed us daily. He left when another phase was calling — when attachments had to be loosened, not without pain. But with grace. Loving him and letting him go quietly prepared me for the later acts of life.
I had gone to Lonavala on an official trip. At Kamath’s restaurant, a lady was sitting with a few pups on her lap. Dog lover that I am, I stopped to pet them. She asked if I knew anyone who might be interested in taking a pup, with one condition: they must be good parents.
I came home and told my daughter, who is equally mad about dogs. She immediately wanted to bring a pup home. There were two strong barriers — my husband and my mother-in-law. “Consider all factors” is a strategy I teach, but this time I did not practise it, because I had already fallen in love with the pup. I convinced them both. We called the owner; she brought the pup to her home in Mumbai, and after work we picked him up and went straight to the vet — list of dos and don’ts, list of vaccines. We toyed with names, and finally “Brat” stuck.
He had an excellent temperament, loved children, and had a loud bark. Visitors would exclaim, “He is so tiny — we thought he was big from the sound of his bark!”
We laid down a few rules — no climbing on the bed; he had his place to sleep. But after dinner, if I was watching TV, he would curl up next to me on the sofa and nudge me to scratch his back. Those were our quiet bonding moments.
Before my car could even turn into the compound, he would be at the door, tail wagging, announcing to the rest of the family that I was home. In the mornings, he would follow me into the kitchen and lie down between my legs. A clean dog that he was, he hated going out in the rain. After a rain-soaked walk, we would wash his underbelly and then offer a little incentive to coax him the next time.
One evening, my husband and I were walking him when I stepped into a watch shop to buy a battery for my wristwatch. It took some time, and meanwhile Brat started crying at the gate. The owner asked me to bring him inside. The crying stopped the minute he saw me — like a baby with separation anxiety.
He would run along the beach, and children loved to play with him. It was a pleasure watching him run, ears flapping. If we walked ahead, he would come running to catch up; if he was ahead, he would turn around to check whether we were following.
Our daughter got engaged. Her fiancé was accepted by Brat. After the marriage, when she visited us, he would search for her husband. My Brat sensed relationships too.
The happiness came to an abrupt halt. His spinal cord got twisted and he lost control over his lower body. After much debate and advice from his vet, we agreed to put him down. We wanted to give him dignity in life — and in death. I was in no condition to drive to the crematorium, so we took him there in a cab.
Outside the crematorium, I was crying inconsolably. Someone stood nearby for a few moments. Only later did I realise he was a well-known Bollywood actor. At that moment, it did not matter who he was — or who I was. Grief has a way of making everyone simply human. In that moment, grief erased all identities; there was only loss.
When we returned home, we found that crows had managed to get into the drawing room and peck at a bowl of mangoes. I realised then that he had not only given us love, but had also silently kept the birds away.
Brat was not just my dog; he was my life teacher. Through him, I learned lessons no classroom ever taught me — about presence, unconditional acceptance, loyalty without possession, and love without language. Long before I spoke of socio-emotional learning and humane education, I was living it every day with him. In caring for Brat, I became more patient, more attentive, and more aware of the quiet rhythms of life. Even in his leaving, he taught me the hardest lesson of all — that love sometimes means letting go with grace.
Rest well, Brat. We miss you