Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 10-Min Read

In the wild, power isn’t about stories or perceptions—you either have it or you don’t. Joshua sensed this instinctively, even as a puppy. Biological evolution hadn’t shaped him to buy into human narratives. In many ways, when things got tough, he remained a wolf at heart, untamed by the stories we tell. But I was still human, conditioned to believe in those stories, and that made me vulnerable.

During our roughest times, he understood his reality far better than I did, even though he was fully dependent on me. Sometimes, when I looked into his eyes, I saw a wolf—wild, free, and unbound.

***

When Advay was about three, Joshua developed a slight limp. At first, we didn’t think much of it. He’d often had issues with rough paws that could be fixed with a simple oil or cream rub. But this was different. The signs were there, but we missed them—too distracted by everything else going on. The writing was slowly appearing on the wall, but we had lost our watchful eye.

That’s how rough times start—one thing leads to another, and before you know it, a pile of problems weighs you down. And if you’re not prepared, no matter how sudden it seems, it feels like you should have seen it coming. Like somehow, it’s still your fault.

We had moved yet again, this time to a flat with a terrace garden—a little patch of lawn and open air that felt like a gift. The sunlight, the greenery, a touch of nature amidst the concrete jungle—it gave us a reprieve, especially with all we were juggling.

Since the start of 2015, I had been working from home after switching jobs. This offered us some flexibility in moments of crisis, which seemed to come often. Kavita, tied to her marketing job, had no such option, and back then, remote work was still a distant idea—three years before COVID would teach us that everything has a workaround. Affording full-time help wasn’t immediately possible, and even when it was, finding someone reliable seemed impossible.

Amid everything happening in my personal and professional life, I never expected Joshua to fall sick the way he did. He had suffered the most brutal arthritic attack. Looking back, I blame myself. But at the time, I felt a helplessness I had never known. I always thought, despite my shortcomings, I could somehow fix things. But I was wrong. When things start to go wrong, they have a way of unraveling entirely.

One day, he didn’t get up. At first, we weren’t sure what to make of it. For years, we had come to believe he would bounce back, just as he always had. He was the most resilient, bull-headed mutt I’d ever known. Sturdy in ways that made us forget he wasn’t invincible. Joshua had never been overly dependent on us—unlike a typical Labrador. Maybe it was the Boxer in him that made him behave that way.

Yet, his mixed breed came with its drawbacks. He had the bulk of a Labrador but the slender, athletic legs of a Boxer, an awkward combination that aggravated his joints. Like many large breeds, hip dysplasia and arthritis eventually became a problem. His body, though powerful, was ill-equipped to carry his weight as he aged.

And then there was his appetite—a trait we had spoiled him with, no question about that. Joshua was a voracious eater, and if he hadn’t eaten well, he could bark from dawn till dusk. His nose, sharp and insistent, would go on its own hunt if he even caught a whiff of food nearby.

One morning, after Kavita left for work and my son for pre-school, I stepped out to pick up breakfast from a nearby joint. It took me a little longer than usual—an unexpected rush kept me waiting. When I finally returned and opened the door, a foul smell hit me, pulling me back to that thunderous night years ago. Joshua wasn’t in sight. I called out, my heart pounding, and heard the faint sound of labored breathing.

He was behind the curtains.

I pulled them aside and found him lying there, weak and helpless. He had tried to drag himself toward the terrace door, desperate to get outside, but no one had been there to open it. In his frustration, he had soiled himself and was rolling in his own excrement. His eyes met mine—eyes that once brimmed with mischief and defiance now filled with pain and fear. The freedom he had always cherished was slipping away, and he knew it.

That look… it was so different from the fierce spirit I had known in him as a puppy, on that rainy night long ago when he had once caused so much chaos. Now, his wild heart was dimming, and it broke mine.

We took Joshua to several vets close to home, but his condition barely improved. In the end, we had to travel across the city to the vet who had saved him as a puppy—the one who’d revived him during that terrifying dehydration episode. He showed us the report card—severe bone degeneration in his left leg. The right wasn’t in great shape either. Full recovery was almost impossible, but walking again was within reach—slow, gradual, with medication. He also needed laser therapy, water therapy, warm compresses for his joints, and plenty of sunshine.

Those were dark days. There was a lot on my plate, and the weight of it all pressed down on me. The demons in my head made me feel like my world was crumbling, that it was happening only to me, though I knew that wasn’t true. But it sure felt like it.

I needed an escape. I knew no one else could offer a solution—the battle was mine alone. That’s when I turned to writing.

It was a rainy, gray afternoon—just the kind of day that invites reflection. The house was quiet, no distractions. I sat down and put pen to paper, intending to write about my tangled state of mind. For two hours, I wrote non-stop, something I had never managed before. When I finished, I was stunned. In my hands was a short story—fiction, no less—drawn from a memory of childhood but transformed into something entirely new. I hadn’t planned it. The words hadn’t felt heavy or forced. Somehow, a gate in my mind had opened, and the words flowed through it effortlessly.

I kept going. Personal experiences and stories I had heard and read started weaving themselves together. Within ten days, I had written five short stories. Soon enough the idea of compiling these stories into a book sprouted in my mind.

That rainy afternoon had changed something in me. It wasn’t just about the stories I wrote, but about the release, the catharsis of finding a voice in the silence, of creating something beautiful out of the weight I had been carrying. It gave me hope. Something we humans cannot live without.

Joshua was right beside me when I wrote those pages. I never thought I could garner the resolve to do what I was doing, but looking back, I realize Joshua was my inspiration. It was heartbreaking to see him so helpless, yet he hadn’t given up. He wanted to live. He was willing to push through the grind. Even in his desperate state, the moment he caught a whiff of food, he’d let out his signature bark, as if to say, “I’m still here.” Despite his immobility, in every other way, he was still himself—remarkably, he had learned to live with his pain while I was still struggling with mine.

It was time to stop overthinking and start acting. My days were a whirlwind of juggling work, home, and caring for Joshua. At night, with Kavita’s help, I found time to write. Joshua had his own routine, which was separate from ours, with medication and a strict list of things that needed attention. Luckily, we had a small lawn—a godsend—where he could bask in the afternoon sun.

Every day, I would drag him out to the lawn, letting him soak in the sunlight, surrounded by nature. Butterflies, in every color, danced around the flower bushes, and pigeons would occasionally wander in—pigeons Joshua had once loved to chase. Now, he’d just glance at them and let out a bark. They teased him for a while, but when his bark turned to a low grumble, they’d leave.

Things weren’t normal, but we tried to create a sense of normalcy, clinging to the hope that one day, he would get up and chase those pigeons again.

But recovery was slow, and despite everything we did for him, Joshua wasn’t showing much improvement. For a dog, a walk is more than just exercise—it’s their way of connecting with the world, a spiritual ritual. As the months dragged on, our hopes were fading. Joshua was in pain, no doubt about it. At night, he’d drag himself around, sometimes whining, his body betraying him. It was heartbreaking to watch.

We did what we could—changing his position several times a day to prevent sores—but his skin was turning blue, and a faint stench had begun to settle. I’m not one for miracles or a big believer in God, but we still found ourselves hoping for something extraordinary to happen. I didn’t want him to go like this. Joshua was a fighter. But he was rapidly losing weight, and time was running out.

***

Six months had passed, marked by rare good days and far too many bad ones. There was little left to believe he’d ever stand again. Then, an unavoidable family function came up. Over the years, we had built a support system of trusted house helps for moments like this. Our maid’s husband, Birender, offered to take care of Joshua for the three days we’d be gone. I was wary—this wasn’t a small task. But Birender, a patient man with no fear of dogs, especially unpredictable ones like Joshua, took it seriously. He learned every part of Joshua’s care—massaging, cleaning, medication, therapy.

With great apprehension, we left for the function. I called Birender several times each day, and he reassured me everything was fine. Somehow, those three days passed.

When we returned, Birender greeted us, and there was Joshua, lying in his usual spot. He glanced at us, as he always did. Birender left, and I went inside to change. Moments later, the doorbell rang. It took me a minute to answer. It was a parcel. As I locked the door, I felt something familiar brush against my leg. I turned, and there was Joshua—standing beside me.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. He hadn’t stood in six months. Everything we had done for him, every painful, hopeful moment, flashed before me. It was a moment I’ll never forget.

We celebrated Joshua’s revival that weekend. Everyone who had known him over the years paid a visit. It seemed he was trying to get back to his old ways. But we knew he had aged considerably after the ordeal of the past months. His eyes were getting weaker as well, and a deadly virus was about to wreak havoc in the human world.

To be continued …

The final chapter next week.

***

About the author –

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 7-Min Read

Around 30,000 years ago, when man and wolf were natural foes, humankind made one of its most profound decisions—to domesticate the wolf and create the dog. The dog was the first animal to be domesticated by humans. Scientific evidence suggests this monumental shift may have begun with a lone wolf, outcast by its pack due to poor hunting skills, scavenging for scraps near a human encampment. One fateful night, this wolf, in search of food, alerted the human tribe to the presence of a more powerful animal—perhaps a tiger or an elephant—unknowingly saving their children and securing their trust. In that moment, a bond was forged between man and wolf, evolving into a partnership that has endured millennia and reshaped the future of both species. Through all the evolving roles of man—as hunter, farmer, herder, warrior, and family man—the dog has stood by his side, whether as a tireless worker or a loyal companion. In essence, the story of mankind is incomplete without the story of the dog.

Anyone who has ever had a dog knows this is true.

***

In December 2014, our baby arrived. I was nervous about how Joshua would handle this new chapter in our lives. For so long, he’d been the center of our world, soaking up all the attention. Given his unpredictable ways, we’d done our research on how to introduce him to the baby without overwhelming him. But despite all the preparation, there was a thread of fear that lingered—because of his past.

Joshua always slept under our bed, and during the day, he never left Kavita’s side. In those final months before the delivery, he’d rest his nose gently on her baby bump, his eyes searching ours. We knew then—he knew.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what that first meeting would feel like.

The night before Kavita and the baby were set to come home, I brought a small piece of the hospital with me—our baby’s clothes. Sitting on the sofa, I called Joshua over. He came, cautiously. It was just the two of us in the house. I held out the clothes, and he sniffed them, his head turning slowly toward me. I’ll never forget his eyes that night—full of questions, understanding, and something else I couldn’t quite name.

He kept looking at me, as if we shared a quiet secret, and then he walked away to a corner of the room, lying down. In that moment, I knew he felt it too—the world had shifted. Something deep, something permanent.

The next day, we brought Advay (our son) home. Joshua was overjoyed to see Kavita after three days—his usual burst of energy filled the house. But the moment he saw the baby, he changed. He approached with curiosity, his movements unusually gentle, as though he instinctively knew this was a delicate, new presence. He sniffed Advay carefully, then, just like the night before, he retreated to his corner, watching from a distance.

Joshua was seven then, no longer a young dog but still full of energy. We worried that having to share our attention with a baby might worsen the issues he’d struggled with. But we were wrong. Though he seemed sad at first, Joshua embraced Advay with a quiet strength. In the days that followed, he became the baby’s silent guardian, lying next to his pram, alerting us when he cried or stirred.

Advay, even as a baby, was restless—never one to sit still for long. He didn’t nap much during the day, leaving us exhausted as we balanced work and his constant need for attention. But Joshua, in his calm and watchful way, became our greatest ally. When Advay turned one and started to toddle, and eventually run, Joshua kept his distance but stayed close enough to keep an eye on him. If Advay took a tumble, Joshua would be the first to check on him, gently licking his hands as if to say everything would be alright.

Still, I had my worries. Joshua wasn’t always predictable, and I feared that in one of Advay’s wild bursts of energy, he might accidentally step on Joshua’s tail, sparking a reaction. That fear was put to rest one evening.

It was almost dusk, and the light in the room was dim. I switched on the tube light and sat with my laptop, working on an email, while Advay played on the other side of the room. I glanced up to see him, a toy in his hand, laughing and babbling to himself. Suddenly, he decided to run toward me. My heart jumped—Joshua was lying directly in his path. “Stop!” I yelled, but Advay was too caught up in his excitement. Just then, the electricity went out, and the room plunged into darkness.

I heard a thud, followed by a low grumble from Joshua, and then—after a beat—Advay’s cry filled the room. My stomach sank, but before I could react, the lights flickered back on. There was Advay, sprawled on the floor, crying, and Joshua—licking his head and hands, comforting him.

Advay had tripped over Joshua in the dark, landing hard on the floor. If it had been anyone else, Joshua might have snapped. But for Advay, he showed nothing but care. In that moment, I knew my fears were unfounded. Joshua had chosen to love our son, fully and without hesitation.

That night, I felt a quiet relief settle over me. Joshua had found his place in this new family, not as a jealous older sibling but as a gentle protector, willing to share the love and attention he had once had all to himself.

And just like that we had learnt our eighth lesson as a pet parent. Never underestimate the maturity of a dog. They are more intelligent and sensitive than you think.

In the years that followed, Advay and Joshua grew into a bond that was uniquely theirs. Joshua wasn’t the kind of dog he could cuddle with or hold close. He kept his space, sometimes reminding Advay who was the elder, but he was always there, watching from nearby. And Advay loved him for it—understanding, even as a young boy, that their bond didn’t need constant affection to be strong.

I was proud of both for accepting this relationship with such grace. There was no struggle, no sense of wanting more.

With a toddler in the house, time moved quickly. Days blurred into months, and before we knew it, two years had passed in what felt like a blink. But life has a way of surprising us, and I was about to face some of my toughest years. Joshua, now nine, was beginning to show signs of age. His health started to decline, small issues creeping up as the years caught up with him.

It was a hard time, not just because of Joshua’s health but because life, in general, seemed to weigh heavier. But it’s in these moments that we find the strength of our connections tested, and for me, it was also the beginning of something new. During those tough years, I found solace in writing. What started as a way to process everything eventually led to something I’d never imagined—writing a book. And, in many ways, Joshua had a hand in guiding me there.

His presence, his quiet strength through it all, became a source of inspiration I hadn’t anticipated.

To be continued …

About the author –

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).