Chosen, Again and Again

All my life, I've thought of myself as a dog person. Wherever I went, they seemed to know it. Strays... they'd come sniffing my way with tails going like tiny metronomes and eyes full of trust. I never left home without a packet of biscuits or dry food in my handbag, wedged in between the perfume, the kajal and the lipsticks. They were as essential as my makeup pouch.

Every dog got the same little ritual: a smile, a pat, the soft crunch of a biscuit breaking the silence between us. And a "hi."

I rarely greet humans. They're too judgmental, too predictable, and, let's be honest, often boring. But pets get my full-throated "good morning" and "good evening," as if the whole street might brighten because I stopped to say hello.

Some followed me for blocks, trotting at my heels, tongues lolling. On the beach, in the park, outside the grocery store, dogs drifted towards me as if I had something magnetic in my pockets, and I never minded. When one nudged my leg or rested a warm head on my shoes, I felt as if I had come home, no matter where I happened to be standing.

They taught me something I hadn't expected. Love doesn't always need words. It shows up as warm eyes, soft fur and another living being who chooses you, again and again.

And yet, somewhere deep down, I wondered about cats. What would it be like to share a home with one? I pictured it weaving around my ankles, then curling up beside me in the quiet of the evening. Dogs give their love loudly and without holding back. Cats, I imagined, would teach me patience and make me notice the smaller rhythms of the day. There was something in those amber eyes, that unhurried elegance, that look of knowing a secret they'd never tell, that pulled me in.

Dogs had always been my tail-wagging shadows. But that curiosity told me I wanted a different kind of connection: tender, tentative, full of surprises.

My first real taste of companionship came in college, in the form of Scrabby, a stray who hung around our landlord's house and one day decided I was his person. He moved into our home as if he'd paid the rent. My family grumbled for a while, then fell for him completely. 

He had his quirks. He adored chapatis, carrots and anything with ghee or milk, and he'd sit and stare at every bite you took until you gave in. Handsome, loyal and shamelessly charming, he strutted through the neighbourhood like its unofficial prince.

I still remember one rainy afternoon. He slipped inside and tugged at the hanger stand where mum had hung nearly fifteen freshly washed clothes. Down it all came in a heap. When we finally found him, he had patted the whole pile into a nest and was fast asleep in the middle of it, looking very pleased with himself. Mum, who woke up to the wreckage, didn't scold him. She scolded me. In her mind he'd only dared because I was home, which made it entirely my fault. I took the blame gladly. He was worth it.

Not long after, we had to move again. I didn't take Scrabby with me. He'd been the landlord's before he was ever mine, and it didn't feel right to carry him off. He chose to stay, or at least that's how I like to remember it. It still tugs a little when I think of him.

Years passed, and we moved into a new apartment. That's where Gullu walked into our lives. I remember our first meeting clearly. It was eleven years ago, during our housewarming. She was a striking white stray, wandering the street as if she belonged nowhere. 

Our eyes met, and I knew she'd find her way to my doorstep someday. That very afternoon, as I stepped out to empty the dustbin, I found her trailing behind me, small paws padding quietly on the concrete. For a while she was just Vellai, which means "white." Later she became Gullu, and she never left.

Gullu was more than a dog. She lived her whole life at our doorstep, as constant as the sun. 

I watched her go from a sprightly adult, all bounce and mischief, to a wise, frail old lady. Her eyes clouded over, her hearing faded, her teeth fell out one by one, and her joints stiffened until even getting up from her spot was an effort. Every sign of age tugged at my heart. But in my mind she stayed young. That is the Gullu I chose to hold on to.

She passed away on a Mahashivaratri night, leaving a silence I can't put into words. For days I searched for her everywhere: down the street, along the temple steps, outside the tiny shops she loved. I kept hoping I'd turn a corner and find her waiting. She was gone.

I learned later that dogs often sense their final days and go off to die alone, sparing their humans the pain of watching. When the truth finally sank in on the third day, I sat down on the pavement and wept, right there in the open, not caring who saw. Losing her felt like losing a child. I swore I would never have another pet. The fear of losing them again seemed unbearable.

But life, as it often does, had other plans. Our new apartment introduced me to a cat, a wary, feral little calico. I named her Kichu. She kept her distance for months, watching me from walls and stairwells, until slowly, patiently, she stepped into my life. I never pushed. I just left a bowl of food; one day she decided I was safe.

She came in, stayed, and eventually had kittens. Some wandered off, some vanished, and a few I never saw again, probably lost to the hazards of city life. I worried about every one of them. But one stayed: a ginger kitten who looked nothing like her mother and followed me everywhere. That was Thangamayil. 

A couple of years ago, Kichu passed. Thangamayil is now my constant companion and a living thread connecting all the love and loss before her.

Through Scrabby, Gullu, Kichu, and now Thangamayil, I've understood what it truly means to share a life with these pure souls. 

Pets love us without conditions and trust us without a second thought. And when they go, they leave their paw prints all over our hearts. The grief is heavy; I won't pretend otherwise. But the love is heavier. And somehow, when you least expect it, it finds its way back to you.

Thangamayil is on my keyboard as I type this, both paws on the spacebar, daring me to move her. My handbag still has the biscuits in it, tucked in next to the perfume and the kajal. She finds the crumbs every time, then looks at me as if I've insulted her. I used to say I was a dog person. Maybe I'm just someone who gets chosen and who can't leave the house without something to share.

AI-generated, but every wag and whisker is true. The dogs and cats who chose me, again and again.