Lost & Found in the Cosmos

He wasn’t a good boy. He was the nastiest, most incorrigible dog to exist.

Eight years, eleven months and seven days ago, the most dysfunctional family I knew brought home a cross-bred German Shepherd from their family friend. He was a birthday gift to my younger brother, but in retrospect, he enriched the lives of everyone he met.

At one-month-old, Jasper aka Chinu aka Tannu was not a lot to look at. He had smaller hair than purebred dogs of his breed and was so well-fed that sometimes his hind legs would slip under the weight of his tummy. My brother, 10; my sister, 12; and I, 15, had no clue how to raise or train a dog. All we knew was that he was the best thing that had ever happened to us. 

Being the eldest of the three, I was supposed to assume charge of, with my siblings expected to help in feeding and potty training the “fourth kid”, as my mother put it. Tannu was too big to be put in a shoebox, so we put him in a plastic cloth-washing tub and slid it under my side of the bed. 

On his first night in the house, I heard him whimper. Like Hrithik Roshan catching fish with his bare hands in Krrish (2006), I slid my hand under the bed, scooped him out, and put him on my stomach. He was tiny. I ran my fingers through his fur and he went back to sleep. I did too. I later put him back in the tub, only to repeat the entire procedure again. 

Jasper was every bit curious and inquisitive as dogs can get. Even at a month old, he’d run at the sound of the doorbell, and was so small that sometimes the person answering the door would fail to spot him and step on his paw or his tail - but that never drowsed his spirits. 

Time flies in dog years. Before we knew it, Chinu was bigger than ever. And an even bigger pain in the posterior. Every time he’d hear the main door of the house open, he’d escape. No fetters, no leashes ever stopped him. Growing up, he destroyed countless leashes we got him - plastic, rope, and steel ones. His spirit of exploring beat everything else, every time. This soon became a routine. He was an escape artist - a talented one. Eventually, we started being extra careful. Every instance the main door of the house was opened, it was ensured that someone is holding Jasper or putting him on the leash. We were alert, but he beat us to it. The moment his ears would hear the latch of the main door sliding, he would spring into action. It was as if his feet were on nitro speeders. It was his equivalent of saying, “A’ight Imma head out”. 

Every time the bell rang, he’d be the first one to go out. Even in his call of duty, he always had escape on his mind. While answering the door, we would usually hold him by the collar to prevent him from sniffing or licking the guest and to prevent him from running away. Jasper found a way around that too. Whenever someone went to answer the door, he would try and run from between your legs, causing the element of surprise to make you lose your balance, helping the little monster escape. 

The first time he ever escaped had me and my siblings scouting the streets to bring him back home. But even the three of us combined were no match for his speed. He would spring from one end of the road to the other in the goddamn blink of an eye. We were worried that he would be lost, or would wander off so far that he’d never be able to trace his way back home. But we were worried for nothing. Jaz knew what he was doing. 

Eventually, we got easy. Every moment Jasper managed to escape when someone opened the door, the person responsible would just facepalm themselves spiritually and leave the door open so Jas could let himself in. On countless occasions, he would come back and just sit at the entrance. The moment someone would spot him, he’d run away again. It was his way of enticing us to go out as if telling us, “Why do you guys sit at home all day? Come, let’s go outside. Let’s make new friends. Do new things. Sniff more butts and find more holes to scoop out of. It’s fun! You’ll see!”

In the years that followed, Chinu grew into a distinct dog. He just did whatever the fuck he wanted to, and in the process, drew the wrath of everyone in the household - whether it was peeing in my aunt’s sacred Tulsi plant, chewing off half a dozen smartphones and smartphone chargers, or jumping and taking down the clothes my mom hung out to dry, tearing off countless underwear, shoes and newspapers. I’m reminded of this one time he found some underwear, managed to spread it over his face and just sat there, smelling it. He didn’t just tear other clothes - he’d tear off his own winter coats, his own collars, and chew off his own leash - for reasons we never understood. 

But I guess that’s the fun in being a dog - waking every day to live their lives to the fullest - smelling whatever they can find, treating a walk in the neighbourhood like it’s the adventure of a lifetime - getting excited to see the people you love, and never taking them for granted - doing everything in your power to show them how much you mean to them, every damn time you meet them - and living like there are no tomorrows.

A year ago, I used to be batshit spiritual. I never had an opinion about whether there’s an afterlife, but I believed in my connection to the universe I live in, in the grand scheme of things; in the fact that we’re all here for a purpose. Reading Yuval Harari’s Homo Deus ruined that for me. [For those who haven’t read the book, it’s exactly what it sounds like - a love story of two homosexuals. I’m kidding. Or am I?]

And so, knowing that souls are just illusionary tactics of wannabe godmen telling people what to do, knowing that there is no heaven or hell, knowing that we’re just specks of dust floating in space - it hurts to think that he is gone. That I will never hear Chinu bark again or be greeted with an overexcited flurry of tail wags and smeared saliva over my palms. There’ll be no one pacing the terrace, looking down and barking at the stray dogs on the streets. No one making an ‘I’m hungry since forever’ face while I eat. No one giving me the ‘I hate that you went out without me but I’m happier that you came back to me’ look. When I go home and look under my bed, there will be no one looking back, no pap-pap of the overgrown nails on the floor, no one barking and scaring the pigeons in the balcony, no one ruining the bed with the zoomies, no one being overdramatic and howling at 2:30 AM at night, no one getting up the moment you do, no one digging the soil out of mom’s plants, and no one reminding you to not take life seriously all the time. 

He’s gone. Forever. And I wasn’t even there to bid him adieu.

Homo Deus spoiled my faith for me, but Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything built it back up. I may not believe in higher powers of the miraculous kind anymore, but I still believe in higher powers - the one that the cosmos is made of; the stuff that stars are made of. The one that makes me, me and you, you.

Mr Bryson says that we’re all atomically numerous, and at death, atoms recycle themselves - from us, they go on to become literally anything and everything else in the universe; find new uses elsewhere. In short, we’re reincarnated - maybe not exactly how you thought, but reincarnated nonetheless.

I lost my friend. I will never get to see him, feel him, hug him, and give him belly rubs again. Well, not in this life or in this realm, at least. But it gives me comfort to think that Chinu will continue to exist in the universe forever. 

And maybe one day, my atoms will know his. And I’ll get to tell him how much his presence lightened my life and my being. 

I’ll get to tell him that he wasn’t a good boy.

He was the best.

Rest in the Cosmos, my furry little angel