Recently, our sixth floor neighbour sent the family Labrador, Tipsy, who has been with them since she was three months old, to their farm in Pune because their little girl is no more little and no longer interested in playing with Tipsy who is now six years old and by dog standards, middle aged.
And when the gentleman in the building next door got tired of his Pomeranian's constant yelping he took off her collar and threw her out of the gate, telling the building watchman, 'make sure she doesn't come back in.'
Which is why when I read this news article in The Washington Post about New Delhi's sudden fascination with Portuguese Water Dogs (courtesy Bo'Bama, and herewith known as PWD), I felt a little ill.
Firstly, there's a reason why a PWD is called a 'Water Dog.' It likes water. And unless you count the Yamuna River, or have a swimming pool in your backyard, there's not much water in Delhi a dog has access too. Second, it sounds very much like Zoey, a Jack Russell Terrier, who needs lots and lots and lots of exercise. I put three 'lots' in there to illustrate just how much exercise Zoey needs. She goes to the beach for an hour in the morning, where she runs back and forth after a ball, non stop. She's out briefly after lunch. At half three she goes back to the beach for another hour of non stop running. And then at 6 p.m., when I'm back from my own exercise, I continue my servitude and sit with Zoey for an hour in the garden, throwing the ball like I'm paid to and enjoy it. (Not true, and partly true). (I should point out though that I don't take her for her beach runs.)
I don't exercise Zoey merely because I love her and want her to be happy. I do it because I researched her breed thoroughly before I brought her home and know what she needs to remain healthy and feel loved.
It's all very well to like Bo'Bama, or to convince yourself that your life will move magically closer to that of the Obamas if you have the same breed of dog as they do. But even the Obamas researched breeds of dogs before they settled on this one, and well, they live in the White House which as far as I can tell isn't short on space.
Many parents buy dogs only because their children beg them to. (The Obamas did). But few parents realise that a human being not old enough to take responsibility for herself/himself cannot and should not be trusted with the sole responsibility of looking after another living being. When parents buy a dog believing it's enough to say to their child, 'you have to look after him/her now' they seem to assume this will magically happen. But a dog in the house is like another child. It needs more than dry food, water, and the gardener taking it out to pee once every six hours. If it doesn't get the constant care, the attention, and the exercise necessary for it's breed it will become angry, depressed, and anti social, and make sure its owner is aware of these facts by barking, biting, and peeing at will.
Reading this anecdote from the article, therefore, made me feel very sad for the PWD due to make its entry into the family: "Can't we have this dog?" Raina said his 8-year-old daughter pleaded. "That's how this whole thing started. Right away, I called our vet. I asked who we should approach, even if it meant that I have to import it. And his reply to me was: 'Sanjay, you're not the first one to call but the ninth or 10th one who has enquired since this thing flashed on the TV.'"
I'm sure Raina's eight year old is charming. But if all she knows about the PWD is that Sasha and Malia Obama have one, and now she wants one too, and if Sanjay's first instinct on hearing her request was to 'right away' call the vet and demand a dog, as opposed to 'right away' researching the breed to see whether it was a good fit for their family, well then, commiserations all around. The dog won't be pleased, and when its little owner realises she cannot replicate the cuteness of the Obamas running across the White House lawn with her own folks on the patio, she won't be either.
After all, before he was Bo Obama, the world's most famous dog was a mere 'Charlie', known around town only for his greedy guzzling of other people's tomatoes.
