Chief

I shall never forget the day my Rottweiler, Chief, was parted from me. He had been with me from the tender age of two or three weeks until his sixth year, yet owing to a compulsion beyond my strength, I was forced to entrust him to another. I dispatched him under the guise of a walk, for had he known of my betrayal, his unshakable loyalty would never have allowed him to leave my threshold. Between us existed a bond far deeper than ownership: he did not see me as his master, but as his very possession, whilst I regarded him as my guardian, my companion, my friend.

Though he understood four tongues-English, Urdu, Hindi, and Punjabi-our truest language required no words. His beautiful hazel eyes spoke with a clarity that outshone speech, and I heard his every unspoken thought: his anger, his mischief, his jealousy, his fear, his sulks, his reproaches, his grief, his quarrels and reconciliations with me, his coaxing me into play, his obstinate demands for chocolate, his pride when wearing a new collar, his insistence on going outdoors. Even when he spat out the bitter pill I had hidden in chocolate and ate the sweet alone, casting at me that mischievous glance as I scolded him-still there was no fear between us, only trust. I am certain he believed me his equal, though a little different in form; and to me… he seemed none other than my own reflection.

Once, a man asked, “Does he cost you an arm and a leg?” With a laugh I replied, “Not at all sir my dog is a vegetarian.” The man stared at me as though I had fallen from another planet. At times, acquaintances would ask in sharp, derisive tones, “So, we hear a dog lives with you?” And I would meet their scorn with quiet defiance: “No, a dog does not live with us-we live with the dog.” Never had I imagined that I myself would one day hand him over. That day, he trotted away happily, unaware, while I wept the whole day and night as though a house of mourning had descended. His toys lay scattered everywhere; his old collar rested by my feet while the new one gleamed at his neck. Gathering those playthings, I clasped the collar around my own throat, weeping torrents. Had Chief been there, he would have licked away my tears, borne my scolding, and forced me into laughter, into play, into the world outside. My sorrow he could never endure.

That night I sat by the window until dawn, shrouded in fear and loneliness; for the first time I understood the abyss of solitude. My protector, my friend, was gone. In the morning, unable to resist, I went to see him. From a neighbour’s back garden I spied him through narrow slats in the fence. He had his back to me, whining softly, calling for me. Soon, as though by scent, he traced my presence, patrolling the garden until he stopped precisely at the place where I watched. There he sat and began to cry for me. Overcome, I fled in tears, unwilling to deepen his sorrow.

For days I kept his collar-sometimes around my neck, sometimes upon the wall, sometimes hidden in my handbag, sometimes beneath my pillow at night-vainly trying to subdue the pangs of separation. Yet I never returned. I only consoled myself with the thought: he has not forgotten me. Whenever I saw a Rottweiler, I would rush to caress it, as though by touching another I might touch him. Days passed into weeks, weeks into months. Chief became within my mind a symbol of a love both innocent and profound. From him I had learnt-though I only realised years later-the art of non-verbal communication, the language of the body, lessons in psychology, trust, discipline, grief, and the strange bonds of companionship.

By now, perhaps, he has passed away. Yet to me he still lives. He remains a radiant fragment of my life, glimpsed in fleeting moments. Not long ago, a guest sat in sunlight streaming through my window. His hazel eyes fixed upon me with a look of hope, affection, and trust so familiar that I started; these were Chief’s eyes, eyes that once gazed at me with such love. I could not restrain myself and whispered, “The colour of your eyes is beautiful-just like my Chief’s.”

It must have been two years after our parting when fate brought us face to face again. I encountered him, aged and subdued, walking beside an elderly Englishwoman as her guide-dog. The mischief was gone; he had grown solemn. As they approached from the opposite direction, my heart hammered-every sound of the world was hushed, save for the beat of his paws upon the ground. When he drew near, he paused. For a moment he sniffed my clothes and hands, then walked on. Time had erased me from his memory. And yet, strangely, it did not wound me as deeply as I feared; for perhaps my friend, too, had learned-like me-the art of restraint, the discipline of conceailing pain beneath a composed face, a silent dignity, a gentle smile.