In memoriam: Ranga

There are very few things he abhorred more than taking a bath. He won’t like it one bit that I chose this fabulous post-bath image for his obituary.

All pets are special but your pet is always going to be a little more special than the others. That’s just how it is. 

Those who have been following this blog must be well acquainted with Ranga. He was with us for years, with amusing ‘pawnecdotes’ making their presence felt not only here but also on other social media platforms where I am active. Usually, people adopt a stray. In our case, this goodboi adopted us. He showed up outside our door, after being chased by other street dogs into our apartment building. The poor thing was extremely cautious, terribly scared, and we’d give him food and water.

With time, his confidence grew but his tail remained stuck between his legs. For almost a year and a half, he remained outside, refusing to step inside our apartment. And then one night, there was a small gathering of Zomato friends and we opened the door for the delivery guy. Guess what? Along with the pizza, Ranga walked in reluctantly. He looked at all of us and went straight to the missus and sniffed her face—some other regular faces were there, including those who took care of him over the past months—and slowly sat on the rug. His tail wagged furiously but he appeared awkward, almost embarrassed with his decision. 

Well, he never left our company again. 

Until he did, recently. 

People have often asked me why I chose the name Ranga for him. The answer remains the same: “He is black in colour.” So, an ironic colourful name indeed. And if you think about it, he embodied irony. He was a meek dog but showed courage in the most unlikely situation. Always in fighter-until-the-last-round survival mode. We would take him to the terrace regularly, not only to attend to nature’s calls but also because this furry hero used to own that space. He was most comfortable being away from the ground floor; far from the thick layer of fear that enveloped him all his life. He jumped onto the ledge—which always gave us mini-heart attacks—and walked on it without any fear of heights. And if this wasn’t epic enough, he used to run across the ledge, performing acrobatic jumps that made building security guards give us worried calls.

Oh, have I told you that he enjoyed watching the sunset? (Of course, I did.)

When we moved him with us to Mangalore, he was the first one to enter our apartment.  A real gruha-pravesh. During the first 2-3 weeks, he often escaped and walked up the building stairs, hoping to find a terrace. That’s how attached he was to the open sky. 

There was a phase when he’d hunt pigeons just for fun. He wouldn’t devour them, just kill them, and leave them in the balcony amongst my plants or near the water bowl. Interestingly, this ritual ended after a pigeon flew itself onto our sliding glass door, leaving a paint trail of blood. He went to inspect the badly wounded bird and never killed another pigeon again. 

I can go on and on about him. We, the animal lovers—the pet assignees, more so—proudly posit that our fellow is unique. But trust me when I say this: Ranga was indeed unique. I haven’t seen another dog like him. He was a cat trapped in a canine’s body. Or maybe a sad philosopher who loved staring at me, digging out information about my mental health without an exchange of words. He didn’t feel the need to conform to others’ perceptions of what a pet dog is supposed to be like. He was perfectly alright in his space: curled up on the sofa corner or on his mattress or on the bed with his head hanging to gravity, with his tongue slightly hanging out. 

Every time I took him for a walk in Mangalore, he followed the same routine: check his bowl first (in case he forgot to finish it or maybe I must have given him something more to eat—both never happened); scratch his right ear with his hind leg, and then just as he approached the door, he galloped out like a horse, as if in a hurry to escape a burning house. 

Now that Ranga is gone, I am trying to recollect the last time I took him for his walk. And for some demented reason, I can't remember it at all—although I am fully aware of his routine inside the building premise during monsoon: where exactly he picked up the pace (basement), where he slowed down (parking), where he stopped to meditate (parking ledge to stare at cats from a safe distance, and first floor window to stare at mother Manorama and her pup Bodda), and where he ran like a panther (corridor). Outside the building gate, he was uncomfortably aware of other dogs, cats, mongoose, cows and whatnot.

In his lifetime, he made a lot of friends (offline) and fans (online) but simply didn’t care. Whenever someone visited us, he used to greet them warmly and pester them for food, only to fall asleep in the middle of the room as the rest of us conversed. Nothing made him happier than the comforting sound of people talking around him. Sometimes, we could hear him snore on the rug. Very often, he would run in his dreams and do that cute woof woof sound, making you wonder who exactly he was running away from. 

Of course, sleeping was his favourite hobby. At night, he woke up the missus as she was his designated night shift peon. He would do it by bringing his nose very close to hers, with his tail wagging. No barking. Our boy didn’t bark unless it was absolutely necessary. Feeling his warm breaths on her face, she got up and took him out for peeing/pooping. Like I said, he refused to accept that he was a dog. There was a rare elegance to his ways of living. 

There were only two instances when he made contact with someone from his species. One was unplanned (failure) and the other was planned (massive failure). Once, a young female dog playfully got close to him in Gurgaon during his walk, sniffed his junk, and ran away like she must have seen a ghost. The second encounter happened with Akshar’s hyper young Biskoo and Ranga hated it so much that he barked at us for at least half an hour once everyone left the scene. We laughed and laughed at his “no dogs allowed” policy. 

Yes, humans were welcome. And that too women. He was super comfortable with the ladies. It won’t be an overreach to assume that men had been mean to him in his younger days. We all know how difficult a dog’s life is on the street. So, clearly, men made him suspicious but this mindset changed during his older days in Mangalore. As he got slower, he looked forward to guests. 

With a pet like him, it’s convenient to assume that nothing will change. We want our furry pals to stick around with us forever. My amma often said this about Ranga: “He is your connection from a previous life and he is going to be your connection in your next life as well.” 

Ranga pretty much stopped running in the corridor almost a year ago. After a point, he could barely climb up the stairs on our way back from our walk, and would smartly stand in front of the lift. But every once in a while, he would try to sprint as he got closer to our door, and then look back at me, as if to let me know that "see I can still do that"—poor thing.

To be fair to time, things were going great for Ranga until his age took a toll. Turns out that the average life expectancy of street dogs in India is between 3 and 4 years. Which is why you’d rarely spot a terribly old dog on the road. Our oldboi lived close to 11 years, with barely 2 sharp teeth left in his arsenal. Not to mention, the many tumors, along with liver, kidney and skin issues. He would feel better for a while, sometimes, a long while, and then one day, he would puke throughout the day. And every time he puked, he felt so guilty that when I cleaned up the floor, he used to press his head against my back, arm, or knee. 

Sometimes, I am convinced that we get the dog who reflects us. Like me, he never got rid of guilt. That sinking stone of a feeling. Everything is great but nothing is good enough vibe. 

I was talking to a well-wisher recently and abruptly said this, “Ranga ko mere ghair-maujudgi mein marna toh nahi chahiye tha.” [Ranga shouldn’t (have bothered to) die in my absence.]

But then, that is death. Like life, it happens when it has to happen. And in the end, most of us turn into warm memories. Based on the messages I’ve received over the last few days from random strangers online, as well as friends and ex-colleagues who had met Ranga, I can be assured that the name ‘Ranga’ would mean something to a lot of people for a very long time.  

My pappa shared something uncharacteristically sweet on phone: “He only cared about two things: food and people around him.” Quite true.

Last weekend, I was in Jaipur when his health deteriorated sharply and he was turning into a lifeless being. He could barely get up, with heavy muscle wastage. The missus was with him, by his side, taking care of him, all on her own. One can only imagine her despair. The night before he passed away, I was on a video call and I asked the missus to rub his head for me. I could see his eyes. They usually lit up during furry scratches but not that night. They wouldn’t blink and kept staring at me, as I continued to speak to him in Tulu. I just wanted him to blink once at me but he didn’t. In a way, he had already left. 

A few minutes later, I called her again and asked her to show me his face. I started telling him that he made my life better and I am fortunate to have lived with him, and I hope he recovers as he always did. After all, just two weeks ago, the missus informed me that he was up and walking around after a bad painful night. You never know with him; our oldboi was a survivor, you see? 

And just as tears rolled, he blinked. Slowly. Considering the fact that dogs can’t really understand technology and most probably, he didn’t even register my presence on the phone video screen, it was a mere coincidence. However, I like to believe that he knew it was me. After all, I was his designated human for hiding his snout whenever he felt stressed. I was his go-to person when firecrackers burst outside. 

The following morning, he passed away with the missus close by. 

As Irfan Khan rightly phrased in Life of Pi (2012), what hurts the most is the denial of goodbyes. You’ve got to be there. The tyranny of distance is worst felt in afterthoughts.

As I conceded above, this blogpost can go on and on, regaling tales of Ranga’s adventures (his encounter with peafowls in Gurgaon, his train ride to Mangalore, his interactions with human cubs, his first visit to a beach, and so on) as well as his misadventures (ravishing an entire chocolate cake kept on the table, his bathing stories, biting Vivek on new year’s eve, his first long drive to our village in Manipal, and so much more). 

Anyway, grief is grief.

Perhaps the only way to get over it is to accept that loss is inevitable. No matter what we do, or how we play out our cards, some things are bound to occur. Now, whether I can mitigate this bereavement is a matter of time. I was just telling someone dear the other day that I haven't fully recovered from the departure of my ajji (1998), our cat (1999), my cousin (2001), my aunt (2013), my childhood bestie (2021) and a street dog (2022). Some of us are too caved in, too attached, too sensitive and go awry with the idea of loss. 

I don’t think I’ll ever recover from the demise of Ranga. I hope I never do. 

Yet, I pray that amma is correct about next life.