Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 9-Min Read

I remember a night before Joshua, before Kavita, and before I had developed my love for dogs. I was walking back to my PG after dinner with my roommate. It was late, and back then, Bangalore’s streets were quieter, less chaotic. On our way back, just a little over a kilometer from the restaurant, a dog began to follow us. My roommate, uneasy, tried to shoo it away, but the dog kept pace, undeterred. This troubled him to the point where he picked up a stone, ready to throw it. That irked me.

I stopped him, though he was clearly upset. In his mind, he was just protecting himself. But I didn’t buy it. I wasn’t a dog lover at the time, but something in me believed that the dog meant no harm. My roommate, however, didn’t share my conviction. What started as a disagreement quickly escalated into a heated argument—one that nearly ended in a fistfight.

But then, something shifted. I managed to find the words that diffused the tension. I didn’t want to fight him; he was much younger, and I understood his fear. But I also wasn’t willing to back down. So, in that tense moment, I simply said, “If the dog wanted to hurt us, it would have done so long before you picked up that stone. We wouldn’t have stood a chance. But it chose not to. Maybe it was just hungry, maybe all it wanted was a biscuit or some leftovers.”

It was past midnight, but those words seemed to reach him. Nirmal, the boy who had almost punched me just moments earlier, understood. He hugged me and said, “Sid, you say things well. I am sorry.”

And just like that, the tension melted away. That night, a small part of me began to understand something about dogs—their vulnerability, their simple needs. A lesson that would take root, only to bloom fully when Joshua came into my life.

***

There were moments during Joshua’s first year and a half when I hated him for the violence he unleashed out of fear. The mess he created—both mental and physical—took us a long time to clean up. Yet, even in those dark times, when I spat expletives in his direction, I couldn’t overlook the goodness in him. It was there, undeniable, shining through, even if I’d been blind. But my most bitter words were always reserved for the person who had mutilated his tail. Man, woman, transgender, or alien—whoever did that to him, I can never forgive.

This part of his story also must be told, because, just like humans, no animal is purely black or white. We are all driven by the same instinct to survive. And Joshua’s story isn’t only about his trauma. His scars cannot steal the spotlight from who he truly was—the loving, caring, and fiercely loyal companion we came to know.

***

Many of you must be wondering why I thought of Joshua as an alien dog. Well, there were two reasons. First, I always believed he had the most advanced sixth sense when it came to reading human minds. He always knew exactly what we were up to, and if our plans didn’t align with his, he’d somehow find a way to counter them. It was as if he could read our thoughts. Even if he didn’t understand a word we said, he grasped our intentions perfectly.

The second reason was his insatiable appetite. Joshua was the biggest foodie I’ve ever known—not just in how much he could eat, but what he could eat. Burgers, rolls, biryani, kebabs, socks, shoes, toys, even mattresses—he devoured it all. After that terrifying incident as a puppy when he became severely dehydrated, it seemed like his gut became invincible. It felt like he could even eat tungsten and not burp.

In Joshua’s first two years, going out without him felt like playing a game of chess. We had to outthink him, not just fool him. If we changed our clothes, spoke differently, packed bags, or behaved the least bit suspicious, he would instantly sense that we were planning to leave him behind. His final move was always a dash for the door, and no matter how carefully we planned, he’d outsmart us. What followed was always a chase, with the whole neighborhood soon aware that our dog had escaped. That was his way of saying, “Take me with you!”

Back then, we didn’t have a car and ride-hailing services like Ola and Uber didn’t exist. Most auto drivers wouldn’t allow a dog in their vehicle. But we eventually found a few who would. We took their phone numbers and called them whenever we needed a ride. Those were Joshua’s happiest days. He loved feeling the wind in his fur, just like any lab. He adored the tuk-tuks so much that when we went on walks, if he saw one, he’d try to hop in, not realizing that not all autos were for him.

But the mind reader used his super-power for our good as well. Sometimes, I felt Joshua knew us better than we knew ourselves. He had an uncanny ability to sense our pain. Whether it was Kavita, me, or her roommates, he’d never leave our side when we were sad—even if we tried to fake it, he always knew. He wouldn’t be in our face, just quietly nearby, offering silent comfort. And when we finally snapped out of it, he’d pull off something mischievous, instantly lifting our spirits. He wasn’t just a goofy dog; he was clever, almost sneaky, and always seemed to know exactly what we needed.

Joshua the foodie was a worthy rival to Joshua the mind reader. One particular day stands out. Kavita had packed chicken rolls for Aditi and me. I devoured mine the moment she arrived. Aditi, however, decided to take a bath first and enjoy her Kolkata Kathi roll later, at her leisure. The only flaw in that plan was that Joshua had already locked in on his target. By the time she came back, the hot, delicious roll had disappeared. Joshua was sitting there, licking his paws, while we searched for the missing roll—through the kitchen, the packets, everywhere. It took us a while to realize that the reason he was licking his paws was because he had eaten it.

About a month later, Kavita invited some friends over for dinner. She had an elaborate menu planned. A big bag of groceries came home that day, including a kilo of paneer meant to become a rich Palak Paneer dish. Instead, it made its way down Joshua’s throat, the entire block gone in the blink of an eye. It was as if he’d performed a magic trick, one second it was there, the next it was gone.

There were countless more episodes like this over the years. To be honest, we didn’t make too much of them. When we look back now, we laugh, just like we did then—though back then, the laughter often came after a good bit of frustration.

Our marriage was on the horizon, and Joshua had just turned two. Given his history, I was anxious about how our families would react to him. To be honest, he was no saint. If he wanted something, he would find a way to get it. He was stubborn and disciplining him wasn’t for everyone. But in the end, it was all about earning his trust.

In November 2010, we got married. It wasn’t exactly smooth sailing with our parents, who took turns staying with us for months at a time. Neither my in-laws nor my parents were dog lovers. In fact, my parents had an aversion to dogs. But they soon realized Joshua wasn’t just a dog—he held a special place in our home. Over time, they learned to manage their fear and earn his trust. This was laudable. There were minor hiccups along the way, but nothing we couldn’t handle.

The same could be said for some of our friends. A few had a deep-rooted fear of dogs. Inviting them over for house parties often meant locking Joshua in a room. But Joshua had no interest in being shut away. He loved people, and he especially loved food. If we made the mistake of locking him up, he’d bark non-stop until we had no choice but to let him out. After a few drinks, my once-fearful friends could be found petting him, and within a year, they were cuddling, hugging, and even sleeping next to him at parties. By the next morning, their fear of dogs would miraculously return. I’d pull out photos from the previous night if they started putting on a show about being afraid.

In all of this, Joshua was the biggest winner. He got everyone’s attention—and, of course, their food. Many of these friends of mine are now settled elsewhere, but whenever we connect over phone there is always a talk on Joshua. Those are the memories he has left behind.

When we first got married, Kavita and I became pros at packing and moving, thanks to constant job changes. One of those moves landed us in a quiet, two-story villa in a serene little colony. The peace didn’t last long, though—Joshua saw to that.

He arrived after we’d moved most of our things, and the minute he hopped out of the auto, he locked onto a target. A poor little male stray. Before we knew it, Joshua—leashed, freed himself—launched into a full-on chase. The stray dove into a dry ditch, and thank goodness, we managed to drag Joshua back just before things could escalate.

Of course, the whole colony was out by then, stray dogs barking in a chorus that shook the neighborhood. And just like that, we were famous—for all the wrong reasons. The residents weren’t exactly thrilled to meet us.

However, after a few months, things calmed down. The neighbors adjusted to life with our “resident alien.” But there was something else on the way. A baby. Joshua was about to have a kid brother!

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 his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

Written by Siddhartha Krishnan | 7-Min Read

Of all the chapters in Joshua’s life, this is the one I’ve dreaded writing. But without it Joshua’s story would be terribly incomplete.

***

At 4 months, Joshua was a ball of energy—wild, playful, and unstoppable. If you’ve seen Marley & Me, you’ll understand. That dog in the movie? That was Joshua. When we watched the film, Joshua was 6 months old, and we couldn’t believe how much he resembled the lead character. By the end of the movie, we were in tears, emotional wrecks.

We got home and hugged Joshua, apologizing for not understanding his boundless energy. He was completely unfazed. I think he knew his parents were the type to get caught up in stories rather than reality. With a ball in his mouth, he snapped us out of our emotions and pulled us back into playtime. That’s who he was—living in the moment, never burdened by our overreactions.

After that rainy night, we realized we needed someone to care for Joshua when we weren’t home. Luckily, our housemaid, Bhagyamma, stepped in. She wasn’t afraid of dogs—in fact, she adored Joshua. It was a perfect arrangement since she lived on the ground floor of our apartment, which made it easy for her to tend to her own matters if needed while still being available for him.

Over the next month, Bhagyamma looked after Joshua as if he were her own child. Every evening when we returned, she would excitedly share stories about his day—what he ate, how he played, and every little thing we might have missed. In those three or four months, if not for her, we wouldn’t have noticed how fast he was growing into an adult dog. She spoiled him without hesitation—massaging him, playing with him, and often hand-feeding him, something I’d scolded her for more than once.

But deep down, I knew Joshua was in good hands, and he loved her for it.

Then came the sly cat that changed everything. She appeared one day in our neighborhood, constantly lingering in Joshua’s line of sight. At first, we didn’t think much of it—just part of his socialization. We figured he’d get bored of barking at her. But one afternoon, everything shifted.

Kavita got a call at work. It was from our maid’s son, saying Joshua had bitten Bhagyamma, on the hand. Kavita rushed home, took her to the hospital, and ensured she got the medical care she needed. Bhagyamma, surprisingly, wasn’t too upset. She told us she had grabbed Joshua by the collar to stop him from barking at the cat. In his frenzy, he bit her without realizing what he was doing.

The guilt on Joshua’s face stayed with him all day. But for us, the event was a wake-up call. Was there something wrong with our dog? Could this have been the result of some hidden trauma? Or was it simply a mistake—an instinctual reaction, exacerbated by the maid’s decision to grab his collar when he was still building trust with her?

At the time, dog psychologists and behaviorists were almost unheard of in Bangalore. In 2008, we were mostly on our own. The little advice we got boiled down to being more vigilant and avoiding unnecessary risks.

That day, Joshua taught us another hard lesson: sometimes, even with love and care, things can go wrong. And it’s not always anyone’s fault. The thing that had me shocked was not the bite. But the violent nature of the act. No dog would bite the hand that fed it.

Taking Joshua for walks became increasingly difficult as he approached his first year. The moment we stepped onto the street, stray dogs would surround us, trailing behind until the walk was over. We couldn’t understand the issue. Joshua, on edge, would either mark territory every few meters or explode in rage if any male dogs got too close. In these fits of anger, he would sometimes snap at us, his frustration turning dangerously inward.

This routine became unbearable, so we sought help from a trainer. That’s when we learned our sixth lesson— a dog’s tail is more than just a part of its body; it’s a vital tool for communication. The way they wag, hold, or tuck their tail tells you everything about their emotions. Joshua’s half tail, which was always stuck in a horizontal position, made him an outcast. Other dogs couldn’t read his signals, which made them see him as a threat.

This was also when we learned our seventh lesson—the importance of understanding a dog’s breed. Every breed was created for a specific purpose. The trainer believed Joshua was a mix of a Labrador and a Boxer. Labs are retrievers, bred for their gentle nature, while Boxers are guard dogs, known for their protective instincts. But Boxers have another defining trait—a docked tail.

Things started to make sense. Joshua’s tail wasn’t lost in an accident with a door. It was docked by human hands in an act of cruelty when he was a puppy. This unnecessary trauma had scarred him for life, and the depth of that wound would become clearer in the months ahead.

Joshua was neutered the same year Kavita moved into a spacious two-story house in Koramangala with her batchmate and sister. The new setup seemed ideal—Joshua had more room and received plenty of attention. After the surgery, we noticed he seemed calmer. He wasn’t marking as much, and his frantic energy during walks had subsided. We thought we were past his behavioral issues, but then something unexpected happened.

One day, Kavita’s mother, seeing him resting on the sofa he now considered his territory, tried to pull him off by the collar. In an instant, Joshua lashed out. The bite was vicious, tearing into her flesh—his boxer instincts and strong jaws making the damage severe. When I arrived, there was blood on the floor, and Joshua was hiding behind the TV cabinet, shaking. I rushed her mother to the hospital, and though her physical wounds healed in a month, the emotional scars were deep. For the first time, I felt afraid of him, unsure if he could do more harm. Yet, we still didn’t fully understand what had triggered this.

A few months later, another incident occurred. I was at Kavita’s place one Saturday, waiting for her to return from work. Her roommates were in their rooms when suddenly, I heard two screams—first Joshua, then Aditi, Kavita’s sister. I ran upstairs and found an all-too-familiar scene: blood on the floor and Joshua looking guilty. Aditi had accidentally stepped on him while he slept beside the bed, and he had bitten her leg in response.

At the hospital, as I sat reflecting on everything, it finally made sense. Joshua’s violent reactions weren’t out of aggression—they were from fear. Something terrible had happened to him as a puppy, likely while he was asleep. I began to suspect that his tail had been cruelly docked during sleep, leaving him traumatized.

In the wild, a fearful animal can be far more dangerous than an angry one. We had to help him, face this fear with him—there was no abandoning him. He had only us.

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 his articles, essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

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Written by Siddhartha Krishnan | 4-Min Read

“You don’t own a dog. You have a dog. And the dog has you.” – Unknown

Joshua was around 35 days old when we brought him home. At the time, Kavita and I weren’t married yet; that was still two years away. He was my Friendship Day gift to her. Since she had a dog growing up, I was sure she’d be the better pet parent in those early days. Plus, she had a roommate who was just as eager to spoil him.

From the moment he stepped into her flat, Joshua acted like he already knew the place. He sniffed around, explored every corner, used the bathroom for his first pee, then came right back to sit beside us. It was seamless. There was no hesitation, no fear—it felt like he was always meant to be with us.

In the coming weeks Joshua’s bond with Kavita grew stronger. She pampered him, often treating him like a human baby, which led to arguments between us. I always believed in respecting the animal for what it is, but that idea never quite stuck with her. It still doesn’t!

My 25th birthday passed by. We had a gala time. Joshua was the center of attention that day. No surprises there. But our lessons as pet parents were still due.

Three weeks after bringing him home, we faced our first hard lesson as pet parents—puppies may look sturdy, but they can be as fragile as human babies. He ate something bad, and by nightfall, he was vomiting repeatedly. We consulted a vet we knew, but it didn’t help, and somehow, we made it through the night. The next morning, Joshua was barely conscious. We rushed him to the vet and were told that if we had been just half-an-hour late, he wouldn’t have survived. “A dog doesn’t die of hunger, but it can die of dehydration within hours,” the vet explained.

Thankfully, we were just in time. Joshua was put on drips, and after a few hours, he came around. As soon as he recovered, he was back to his usual self, getting into everything he could. That’s when we learned our second lesson—dogs don’t dwell on what happened. They live fully in the moment, no matter what they’ve been through.

A month passed, and Joshua’s vaccinations were complete. He was ready for his first real walks. Until then, we’d only taken him to the terrace of our building, where he smelled the world from afar. Now it was time for him to truly experience it. Feisty as ever, he was eager to explore. But there was a problem. None of the dogs—stray or otherwise—would tolerate him. He’d go into a frenzy at their rejection, and we couldn’t understand why. The truth would reveal itself much later.

But before that, we faced two unforgettable shocks. The first came on a night when the rain refused to stop. Joshua had been staying at my apartment for a few days, as he often did on weekends. I figured he’d be comfortable even when I was at work. But, of course, he was still just a puppy.

Here’s the third lesson we learned as pet parents—dogs have a far better sense of hearing than humans. To Joshua, every thunderclap must have sounded like a bomb. I discovered this the hard way when I returned home late, around 10 p.m. As soon as I opened the door, I was greeted by a terrible stench. I frantically searched for Joshua, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Finally, in the bedroom, I found my king-sized mattress lying on the floor, a large chunk of it chewed to pieces. There were paw prints on the walls, streaked with dog poop—the source of the smell. Great artwork! But where was the little rascal? After a frantic search, I found him hiding beneath the mattress, his mischievous eyes gleaming even as he lay exhausted. It took Kavita and me two hours to clean up the mess he’d caused. That night, we learned our fourth lesson—a three-month-old puppy can cause an astonishing amount of damage, and Labradors suffer from separation anxiety. Joshua needed company when we were out.

We soon found someone to look after him, but that led to our fifth lesson—the psychological scars of his half-tail. We discovered that dogs, too, carry trauma. And sometimes, their wounds run deeper than we can see.

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 his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).