the laughter of the crowd but began to butt her head at the legs of bystanders when no food followed the laughter. It was hard not to be reminded of the small acrobatic girl who performed, grinning, flipping, and dancing, outside our car window a few days before on our way home from Mother Teresa’s. We had been told not to hand out money—that it wouldn’t help the child and would only encourage the rings of adults who “own” these children and force them to work this way (and indeed, she should have been in school—it was noon on a weekday). When we did not proffer money, she’d approached the car, yelling and banging on the window, going from adorable and amusing to threatening and frightening in one quick moment.
In the impoverished villages too, there were more disfigured beggars, more piles of trash, larger crowds of humans, and smaller shanty shacks (but always clean; miraculously clean lean-tos and shacks, thatched huts and tents). In less impoverished areas, the dogs and other animals, like the humans, seemed content, not starving, and, if not healthy, at least not visibly sick or injured. And, I realized now, in the neighborhood we were living in, middle-class by India’s standards, I had seen purebred dogs—a Chow, a poodle, and to my great happiness, a beagle—being walked on leashes in parks, not roaming the streets eating from trash or the handouts given, it seemed regularly, outside restaurants or on street corners.
The symmetry—the equality of people and the animals as sentient beings with souls—appealed greatly to me. Before arriving in Delhi, I had thought I would be horrified by the condition of the animals. I expected to see sick, injured, and even dead animals. I had expected the dogs would be begging and that I would want to rescue each and every one and instead would feel my heart break over and over again at my helplessness. That was not the case. The animals did not strike me as unhappy or in any danger—at least not any more than a pedestrian in Delhi (and in my case, perhaps far less so, as I was not getting the hang of dashing across streets). And the dogs did not beg (and in that regard, I had to note, their manners were much better than a certain beagle, though clearly it was my indulgence that created his behavior, not a true need for food). The cows, of course, got special privileges; they are indeed sacred. We had even been told to follow a cow crossing the street; it would be the safest way across. That was true, but only if the cow went in the direction one wanted. But it seemed all animals were respected as sentient beings. I took comfort in that.
The bus ride home from Agra took more than five hours, much of the time spent not moving at all, stuck in a long line of traffic with young boys waving at us from the streets and children posing for the photos we were taking from the bus window. Again, I watched for the animals. Over and over I noticed that people set out piles of vegetables for the cows, and occasionally poured kibble and food scraps out in piles for the dogs. These dogs were not pets, but it seemed they belonged. They knew where and when to expect food. I realized then that the dog at the Taj pond probably waited every morning for the gates to open. Every morning he trotted in for his drink and perhaps a roll on the dew-dropped lush grass on the grounds before starting his day on the streets. The Taj was home to him and the other dogs I’d seen outside the gates. His place in the universe.
It was nearly midnight when we arrived back at CVV home base. I had not slept on the bus, though at least my thoughts were now restful. I changed clothes quickly, trying not to wake my roommates. I crawled into bed and quickly fell asleep.
When I woke in the middle of the night, I had an email message from Chris.
Seamus was improving daily, Chris assured me, and it was then I remembered reading in my Traveler’s Tales: India book that dogs at a location were a sign of
In the impoverished villages too, there were more disfigured beggars, more piles of trash, larger crowds of humans, and smaller shanty shacks (but always clean; miraculously clean lean-tos and shacks, thatched huts and tents). In less impoverished areas, the dogs and other animals, like the humans, seemed content, not starving, and, if not healthy, at least not visibly sick or injured. And, I realized now, in the neighborhood we were living in, middle-class by India’s standards, I had seen purebred dogs—a Chow, a poodle, and to my great happiness, a beagle—being walked on leashes in parks, not roaming the streets eating from trash or the handouts given, it seemed regularly, outside restaurants or on street corners.
The symmetry—the equality of people and the animals as sentient beings with souls—appealed greatly to me. Before arriving in Delhi, I had thought I would be horrified by the condition of the animals. I expected to see sick, injured, and even dead animals. I had expected the dogs would be begging and that I would want to rescue each and every one and instead would feel my heart break over and over again at my helplessness. That was not the case. The animals did not strike me as unhappy or in any danger—at least not any more than a pedestrian in Delhi (and in my case, perhaps far less so, as I was not getting the hang of dashing across streets). And the dogs did not beg (and in that regard, I had to note, their manners were much better than a certain beagle, though clearly it was my indulgence that created his behavior, not a true need for food). The cows, of course, got special privileges; they are indeed sacred. We had even been told to follow a cow crossing the street; it would be the safest way across. That was true, but only if the cow went in the direction one wanted. But it seemed all animals were respected as sentient beings. I took comfort in that.
The bus ride home from Agra took more than five hours, much of the time spent not moving at all, stuck in a long line of traffic with young boys waving at us from the streets and children posing for the photos we were taking from the bus window. Again, I watched for the animals. Over and over I noticed that people set out piles of vegetables for the cows, and occasionally poured kibble and food scraps out in piles for the dogs. These dogs were not pets, but it seemed they belonged. They knew where and when to expect food. I realized then that the dog at the Taj pond probably waited every morning for the gates to open. Every morning he trotted in for his drink and perhaps a roll on the dew-dropped lush grass on the grounds before starting his day on the streets. The Taj was home to him and the other dogs I’d seen outside the gates. His place in the universe.
It was nearly midnight when we arrived back at CVV home base. I had not slept on the bus, though at least my thoughts were now restful. I changed clothes quickly, trying not to wake my roommates. I crawled into bed and quickly fell asleep.
When I woke in the middle of the night, I had an email message from Chris.
Seamus was improving daily, Chris assured me, and it was then I remembered reading in my Traveler’s Tales: India book that dogs at a location were a sign of
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