The Eyes that held Winter

I remember the winter of 2020—when my quiet fear of being bitten first took root. Lockdown had clenched the world in its grip. COVID-19 was no longer just news; it was life. Do you remember those days? Somehow, surviving then felt strangely human.

It was a terrifying time for the world, but for me, oddly, it brought reassurance. A strange sort of calm in isolation. Not everything I wanted came true, but I had time—quiet, unexplainable time. And in that time, something inside me softened. The Lockdown tamed my otherwise restless nature.

That was the season of doom-scrolling, and I was mostly caught in its current.

But beyond the screens and silence, something real stirred in the lane outside.

Have you ever been chased by a dog? I imagine you have—if not chased, at least stared down by one. That silent challenge in their eyes, the fear of life. For me, that dog was Blackberry.

By appearance, she looked like a tiger—sleek, black, and dangerous. But in spirit, she was timid, reserved. During my morning walks, she'd edge away from the lane, always watching. I wore a mask then—not just for the virus, but to stay unseen. I often wondered if she saw me as a threat, just as I feared her.

Blackberry wasn’t the barking kind, but neither was she gentle. She lived by her own terms—apart from the packs of strays that roamed mindlessly. She believed in non-alliance, I think. A kind of silent pride. That made her fascinating.

Truthfully, I wasn't free then. I could always hear my mother’s voice echoing behind me: “Wanna be bitten by a dog?” But oddly, that only added to the thrill. I spent hours trying to get closer—testing her with barks, clicks, and gestures. It was more comforting than being safe inside.

Often, I’d watch her in the empty wasteland, undergoing what seemed like training—snaps, bites, lunges at invisible enemies. She moved like she knew what she was doing.

Eventually, I realized something: Blackberry wasn’t dangerous at all. She was, in truth, a friendly soul. I’d flung stones at her more times than I could count, and each time, she’d lower her tail, ashamed. Those moments sting now—but back then, they fascinated me, the stuck tail added more delight. And later, when I began offering her biscuits, she’d leap at me in joy, her tail thwacking my shins. She’d sneak up with that comical sprint, her back swaying like a toppled ink-pot. I learned that dogs wag their tails not just in happiness—but when they feel safe. With me, she felt safe.

She never had a home, but she had a neighborhood. Everyone knew her, even if not all appreciated her. The child next door named her Blackberry. She belonged to the street, to us, to the strange stillness of that time.

She wasn’t perfect. Some days she ignored my calls, stubborn and rude. Once, in April, she climbed onto the neighbor’s car roof and sat like royalty, barking commands at every unfamiliar dog that passed below. Another time, she leapt from the car’s boot into the neighbor’s yard—unseen and unwelcome, but always sure of herself.

And then, one winter— cold, and quiet—Blackberry had two puppies. One of them, a tangy brown little thing, is still alive. That winter held one of my favorite memories.

I saw her lying in the wasteland, resting. I had some time, so I walked up quietly to greet her. The puppy saw me first—slithered low to the ground, crawled toward her, and seemed to whisper in her ear. Blackberry jumped up, barking sharply at everything in sight. But not at me. She looked straight at me and paused. She remembered. She knew I meant no harm. That trust—that invisible thread between us—was enough. She followed me home. That day, she earned another biscuit.

I think animals do have their own language. And sometimes, we learn to understand it.

But time passed. The wasteland turned into towering buildings. Blackberry grew older. By winter of 2024, the cold seemed to drain her strength. I never knew her age, but her coat had dulled, and her eyes looked tired.

One afternoon, after school, I saw her lying near the construction site. I clicked and clapped, called her the way I always had. She didn’t move. I walked toward her, half-afraid she might leap—but she didn’t.

From behind, my mother’s voice rang out: “Get back! She’s dead! Do you hear me? DEAD!”

I threw my bag to her and ran forward. I wrapped my handkerchief around my head like makeshift armor. There she lay—still, surrounded by blood, filth, and the harshness of her final moments.

She had died painfully. Alone.

That day, I missed just one thing—the quiet safety in her eyes.

Even now, I remember how I could see my reflection in them, soft and full of trust. Those eyes were the most precious thing I’ve ever known.

Those were the precious thing…

Which reminds me of few lines...

Journeys long and far, Time short and star.