Dog Days and Black Shadows
In the sweltering heat of a Himalayan summer, fear didn’t come from ghosts in the woods, but from a black dog loose in the police quarters. As a child, I witnessed more than just a dog chase—I saw the blurred line between fear and cruelty, duty and guilt. This is the story of a moment that still haunts my memories—and perhaps, a shadow that never really left.
“Mummy, Dinoo ko kaale kutte ne kaat liya!” I shouted, eyes wide with alarm.
“Mummy, the black dog has bitten Dinoo!”
She drew me close, her hand soft on my head, concern flickering in her eyes.
“Be careful of the dogs in these dog days,” she said calmly.
I tilted my head, puzzled.
“Dog days?”
“The days when dogs go crazy,” she explained, glancing out at the dusty, heat-laden street.
“They can’t stand the intense summer heat. They lose their minds and start biting people. Don’t go near them—don’t tease them.”
“Main toh unke paas kabhi jaata hi nahi,” I assured her.
I never go near them.
“Good boy,” she said with a faint smile.
That evening, Goga’s urgent voice rang through the street.
“Bhole! Kala kutta Police Lines mein aa gaya!”
“Bhole! The black dog is in the Police Lines!”
I dashed out before my mother could finish warning me:
“Don’t go near the dog!”
Goga and I climbed over the fence that separated our quarter from the Police Lines. Ahead of us, a commotion brewed—shouting policemen, flying sticks, and in the center of it all, a frightened black dog, thin and dusty, its fur matted, its eyes wild.
Trapped in a patch between the barracks and the canteen, the dog backed up against a wall, snarling, hopelessly trying to defend itself. Sticks and even hockey sticks jabbed from all directions.
One missed. The dog bolted—straight toward us.
We froze. Goga screamed. The dog rushed past without even looking at us, chased by a mob of policemen.
It darted under a stairwell. A stick cracked across its back.
The yelp it let out lodged deep in my chest. I wanted to look away but couldn’t. The officers didn’t stop. Blow after blow landed, and blood spattered the dusty ground.
Staggering out from under the stairs, the dog limped toward the flower bed near the edge of the barracks. Just when it seemed it might collapse, one final blow came.
The dog’s body jerked—leapt nearly eight feet into the air—and then fell with a sickening thud. Blood pooled beneath it.
The policemen grinned, poking at its motionless form, as if they’d defeated some monster.
My stomach twisted. I turned and ran home.
“Mummy!” I burst in, breathless and trembling.
“Police walon ne kaale kutte ko maar diya!”
“They killed the black dog!”
She listened silently. Her eyes, usually soft and nurturing, now held a quiet sadness.
“Unhone itna maara… ki mar gaya,” I whispered.
“They beat it so badly… it died.”
I remembered her teachings—about kindness to animals, even feared ones.
“God sanctions punishment only for those who do wrong,” she used to say.
I needed her to know I wasn’t part of it.
“Mummy… maine aankhein band kar li thi.”
“Mummy, I closed my eyes.”
She wiped my sweaty face with her dupatta, saying nothing. I leaned into her warmth.
“Ab mujhe paap toh nahi lagega, na?”
“I won’t be punished, will I?”
“Nahin,” she said gently. I breathed out, feeling lighter.
But a question remained:
Was killing the mad dog wrong?
Everyone feared rabies. The horror stories were endless—foaming mouths, hydrophobia, painful injections, even death.
A few days later, after returning from her kirtan, Mummy brought grim news.
“That mad dog is still out there,” she said.
“They say it’s been spotted in Lower Kaithu now.”
I stared.
“Toh phir jis ko unhone maara tha…?”
“Then… the one they killed…?”
She shook her head.
“Pata nahin. Tum zara kutton se door hi rehna.”
“I don’t know. Just stay away from dogs.”
That night, as the house settled into silence, I curled up beside her, wrapped in the comfort of her presence. But even in sleep, the image of the black dog haunted me—bloodied, beaten, running for its life.