Archive for the ‘doberman’ Category

DATING and MATING

May 18, 2009

DATING and MATING

 

[Short Fiction – A Love Story]

 

By

 

VIKRAM KARVE

 

(Earlier I had posted this story in parts. Here is the full story. If you’ve read the parts, do enjoy the full story once more.)

 

I am busy working in my office on the morning of the First of April when my cell phone rings. It is Sudha, my next door neighbour, so I take the call. 

 

“Vijay, you lucky dog, your life is made,” Sudha says excitedly.

 

“Lucky Dog? Please, Sudha, I am busy,” I say, a trifle irritated.

 

“Don’t switch off your cell phone,” Sudha says, “you are going to get a very important phone call.”

 

“Important call?”

 

“From the hottest and most eligible woman in town,” Sudha says with exuberance, “She’s fallen head over heels for you, Vijay. She wants to date you.”

 

“Date me? Who’s this?”

 

“My boss.”

 

“Your boss?”

 

“Come on, Vijay, I told you, didn’t I, about the chic Miss Hoity Toity who joined last week…”

 

Suddenly it dawns on me and I say to Sudha, “Happy April Fools Day…”

 

“Hey, seriously, I swear it is not an April Fools’ Day prank. She is really going to ring you up…she desperately wants to meet you…”

 

“Desperately wants to meet me? I don’t even know her…haven’t even seen her…”

 

“But she’s seen you…”

 

“Seen me…where…?”

 

“Jogging around the Oval Maidan…I think she is stalking you…”

 

“Stalking me…?”

 

“She knows everything…your routine…where you stay…that you are my neighbour…so she called me to her office and asked for your mobile number.”

 

“I’ve told you not to give my number to anyone…”

 

“I told her…but she said it was very urgent…I think she wants to come over in the evening…”

 

“This evening…?… I am switching off my mobile…”

 

“No you don’t…You’ll like her…she is your type…”

 

“My Type?… What do you mean?…Sudha please…”

 

“Bye, Vijay…I don’t want to keep your mobile busy…She’ll be calling any time now…Remember, her name is Nisha…All the Best…” Sudha cuts off the phone.

 

As I wait for the mysterious lady’s call, let me tell you’re a bit about Sudha. 

 

Ever since she dumped me and married that suave, slimy, effeminate, ingratiating sissy Suhas, Sudha probably felt so guilt ridden that she had taken upon herself the responsibility for getting me married.

 

Sudha was my neighbour, the girl next door; my childhood friend, playmate, classmate, soul-mate, confidante and constant companion. I assumed we would get married but she suddenly fell for Suhas who she met at a training seminar.

 

I hated Suhas – he was one of those glib, smooth-talking, street-smart, slick characters that adorn the corporate world – a clean-shaven, soft-spoken, genteel, elegantly groomed metrosexual type with an almost feminine voice and carefully cultivated mannerisms as if he had been trained in a finishing school.

 

At first, I was devastated and could not understand why Sudha had betrayed me, but when Sudha gently explained to me that she always saw me as a friend and never as a husband, I understood and maintained cordial relations with her, though I loathed her husband who had shamelessly moved into her spacious apartment after relocating from Delhi to Mumbai.

 

Probably Sudha thought I had remained unmarried because of her (which may have been true to an extent) so in order to allay her guilt conscience she kept on setting up dates for me hoping for the best.

 

The ring of my cell-phone interrupts my train of thoughts.

 

“Mr. Vijay…?” asks a sweet mellifluous feminine voice.

 

“Yes,” I say my heartbeat slightly increasing.

 

“Nisha here,” she says, “Is it a good time to talk.”

 

“Of course,” I say.

 

“I want to meet you…Is it okay if I come over to your place this evening…”

 

My My My! She comes to the point pretty fast isn’t it?

 

“Today evening…?” I blurt out a bit incredulous.

 

“It’s a bit urgent,” she says.

 

“Sure. You are most welcome,” I stammer recovering my wits.

 

“Six-thirty…before you go for your jog…or later after you return…or maybe we can meet up at the Oval…”

 

I am truly stunned… this Nisha is indeed stalking me…meet up at the Oval…as brazen as that… I have never experienced such blatant propositioning…Tocsins sound in my brain…

 

“Mr. Vijay…” I hear Nisha’s soft voice in the cell-phone earpiece.

 

“Yes, Yes, six-thirty is absolutely fine…I’ll wait for you in my house…you know the place…” I stutter recovering my wits.

 

“Yes, I know your place,” Nisha says, “I’ll be there at six-thirty,” and she disconnects.

 

I go home early, shower, deodorize, groom, titivate, put on my best shirt and wait in eager anticipation for this mysterious woman who is coming onto me so heavily.

 

Precisely at six-fifteen the bell rings. 

 

I open the door.

 

“Hi, I’m Nisha,” the stunningly attractive woman in front of me says.

 

Sudha was right…Nisha is certainly very hot… oh yes, Nisha is indeed my type of woman.

 

“I’m sorry I’m a bit early, but I noticed you were in, saw your car below…”she says.

 

‘Noticed I was in’… My, My…She knows my car…about my daily jogs on the Oval…my routine…everything…she’s really hot on my trail…isn’t she?

 

I look at her. She comes closer towards me.

 

She looks and smells natural. No attempt to camouflage her raw steamy physical self behind a synthetic mask of make-up and artificial deodorants.

 

Her persona is tantalizingly inviting and temptingly desirable; her tight-fitting pink T-shirt tucked into hip hugging dark blue jeans accentuate the curves of her exquisite body and she radiates a captivating aura, an extraordinary magnetic attraction, I have never experienced before.

 

I cannot take my eyes off her, her gorgeous face, her beautiful eyes, her lush skin, so I feast my eyes on her, let my eyes travel all over her shapely body.

 

The frank admiration in my eyes wins a smile. She lets her eyes hold mine.

 

 “Aren’t you going to ask me to come in?” she smiles as if reading my mind.

 

“Oh, yes, sorry, please come in,” I say, embarrassed at having eyed her so openly.

 

I guide her to the sofa and sit as near her as politely possible.

 

We sit on the sofa. She looks terribly attractive, very very desirable.

 

Our closeness envelops us in a stimulating kind of intimacy.

 

Overwhelmed by passion I inch towards her.

 

She too comes closer.

 

I sense the beginnings of an experience I have dreamt about in my fantasies.

  

“Actually, I have come for mating,” she says.

 

“Mating…?” I exclaim instinctively, totally shocked, stunned beyond belief.

 

I look at her tremendously excited, yet frightened, baffled, perplexed, wondering what to do, how to make my move, as the improbability of the situation makes me slightly incredulous and bewildered

 

I notice her eyes search the drawing room, then she looks at the bedroom door, and asks, “Where is your daughter?”

 

“Daughter? I’m not married,” I say, completely taken aback.

 

“I know,” she says, “I’m talking about your lovely dog…or rather, bitch…” she laughs tongue-in-cheek.

 

“I’ve locked her inside. She is not very friendly.”

 

“I know. Hounds do not like strangers…but don’t worry…soon I won’t be a stranger…” Nisha says, gets up and begins walking towards the closed bedroom door.

 

“Please,” I say anxiously, “Angel is very ferocious and aggressive.”

 

“Angel…what a lovely name,” Nisha says, “I have been seeing you two jogging and playing at the Oval. That’s why I have come here…to see your beautiful hound Angel…” and then she opens the door.

 

Angel looks suspiciously as Nisha enters the bedroom and as she extends her hand towards her to pat her on the head, Angel growls at Nisha menacingly, her tail becomes stiff, and the hackles on her back stiffen, since, like most Caravan Hounds, she does not like to be touched or handled by anyone other than me, her master.

 

“Please…please…” I plead to Nisha, but she moves ahead undaunted and caresses Angel’s neck and suddenly there is a noticeable metamorphosis in the hound’s body language as the dog recognizes the true dog lover. All of a sudden Angel licks Nisha’s hand, wags her tail and jumps lovingly at Nisha who embraces her.

 

I am really surprised at the way Nisha is hugging and caressing Angel as not even the most ardent of dog lovers would dare to fondle and take liberties with a ferocious Caravan Hound.

 

“She’s ideal for Bruno. They’ll love each other,” Nisha says cuddling Angel.

 

“Bruno?”

 

“My handsome boy… I was desperately looking for a mate for Bruno…and then I saw her…they’re ideally suited…a perfect made for each other couple.”

 

“You’ve got a hound?”

 

“A Mudhol.”

 

“Mudhol?”

 

“Exactly like her.”

 

“But Angel is a Caravan Hound.”

 

“It’s the same…a Caravan Hound is the same as a Mudhol Hound …in fact, the actual name is Mudhol…”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Bet?”

 

“Okay.”

 

 “Dinner at the place of my choice.”

 

 “Done.”

 

“Let’s go.”

 

“Where?”

 

“To my place.”

 

“To your place?”

 

“To meet Bruno…doesn’t Angel want to see him?”

 

“Of course… me too.”

 

And so, the three of us, Nisha, Angel and I, drove down to Nisha’s home on Malabar Hill. The moment we opened the door Bruno rushed to welcome Nisha…then gave Angel a tentative look…for an instant both the hounds stared menacingly at each other…Bruno gave a low growl…then extended his nose to scent…Angel melted…it was love at first sight.

 

Nisha won the bet…we surfed the internet…cross checked in libraries…she was right… Mudhol Hound is the same as Caravan Hound…but not the same as a Rampur, Rajapalyam or  Chippiparai Hound.

 

But that’s another story.

 

Here is what happened to our “Dating and Mating Story”. 

 

Angel and Bruno had a successful mating and Nisha and Bruno would visit my pregnant girl every day, and then, on D-Day,  Nisha stayed through the night to egg on Angel in her whelping.

 

Angel gave birth to four cute little puppies, and every day the “doggie” parents and “human” grandparents would spend hours doting on the little ones.

 

Since Nisha and I could not agree as to who should take which puppy we solved the problem by getting married – strictly a marriage of convenience – but Sudha, her aim achieved, tells me that Nisha and I are the most rocking couple madly in love.

 

And so now we all live together as one big happy family – ours, theirs, mine and hers.

 

 

VIKRAM KARVE

 

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

 

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

 

http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

 

vikramkarve@sify.com

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Love and Joy

May 8, 2008

Please click the link and read the love story

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2008/05/a-bundle-of-joy.htm

regards

Vikram Karve

A Short Story – A Dog’s Life

January 15, 2008

Please click on the link below and read the short story

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2008/01/a-dog-s-life.htm

Vikram Karve

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

True Fiction

April 23, 2007

TRUE FICTION?[Believe it or not]ByVIKRAM KARVE  

  

I never reminisce. It makes me nostalgic, poignant, and melancholic. But there is one thing that happened; quite long ago – whenever I remember it – I always burst out laughing and it makes my day. Let me tell you about it. 

This is a true story. It happened – actually happened. I saw it happen many many years ago in far-off tea-estate country, in a remote corner of
India almost in the back of beyond – then still a relic of the Raj.
 

I shall not tell you the place, and I will also change the names; for we just want to have a laugh, not embarrass someone. 

There was a handsome planter. 30. Let’s call him Roy. And his beautiful wife. Let’s call her Helen. A dashing couple, and an ideal match – at least from the outside!  

“Please. I’d like to have a word with you,”
Roy sidled up to me at the bar in the Planters Club.
 

“Sure,” I said. “Join me for a drink.” 

“Not here. In private.” 

“Okay. Let’s go outside.” I ordered two whiskies; we picked up our drinks and went out on the lawns. It was dark, desolate and cold. 

“I don’t know how to say it,”
Roy hesitated.
 

“Just say it,” I said. 

“I want you to keep an eye on my wife,” he said. 

“Something serious?” 

“I think she is having an affair,” he said, “Someone visits her whenever I go out on my weekly tours.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Not really. But I suspect. There are those telltale signs.” 

“Telltale signs?” 

“She seems a bit too satisfied – especially when I return from a tour. And there is a strange gleam in her eyes. And now-a-days she is overly polite. I suspect she is up to some hanky-panky. ” 

“Well this is really your private matter. You know I really can’t ….” 

“Please,” he interrupted, “you’re the only one I can trust.” 

He seemed so desperate that I had no choice. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll need to see the place and meet her.” 

He told me the way to his tea-estate and next morning I was on my way, driving my jeep with my loyal Doberman, Bruno, sitting beside me. 

It was a lonely bungalow atop a hill surrounded by tea gardens.
Roy welcomed me and introduced me to his wife. “I’m Helen,” she said looking into my eyes for that moment longer than could be considered polite greeting. She looked so ravishing that it was with great effort that I could take my eyes off her.
 

No wonder he was so insecure – anyone with such a beautiful wife would be – especially a clot like him. I wondered why chaps like
Roy always got the most beautiful wives.
 

We indulged in some small-talk, and it was only after lunch that I brought up the subject. “Mrs. Roy, don’t you feel lonely out here? Especially, when he goes out on his frequent tours?” 

“Oh yes, she does,”
Roy interjected.
 

“I like my privacy,” she said. 

“Why don’t you drop her off at the club on your way and pick her up on your way back?” I suggested to
Roy. “She can make some friends, play tennis, cards, tombola, a movie – whatever she likes and then stay the night at the guestroom.”
 

“I like my solitude,” she said. 

“She even sends the servants away,”
Roy complained.
 

“I told you I like my privacy,” she said, a tinge of irritation in her voice. 

She was quite obstinate, so I changed the subject. 

“You like dogs, Mrs. Roy?” I asked her. 

“I love them,” she said excitedly. “We always had pet dogs back home. I’ve been telling
Roy to get me one.”
 

“Your prayers are answered,” I said and took them to my jeep where Bruno was sitting obediently. “A gift for the charming lady,” I said holding Bruno by the collar and making him smell her. 

She was overjoyed.
Roy apparently was not too enthusiastic but I silenced him with a stern look.
 

On my way out, when I was alone with
Roy, I told him, “We will catch him now. Bruno is the best guard dog in our kennel. I trained him myself. Just leave him in the verandah when you go out at night. He is deadly ferocious – whoever is up to hanky-panky with your wife, well, he is going to be ripped apart from limb to limb. A wicked smile appeared on Mr. Roy’s face.
 

That evening many things happened. Mr. Roy left on his tour, viciously excited, for in his mind’s-eye he was imagining what was going to happen to the unknown “lover” that night. 

Later at night, after a bout of furious lovemaking, Mrs. Roy lying fully satiated asked her lover, “How did you manage? The dog didn’t even bark.” 

Her lover gently took her to the window, drew the curtains, and said, “Look!” 

In the verandah was an exhausted Bruno, coupled with a beautiful Doberman she-dog, both interlocked pointing in opposite directions, after vigorous bout of mating. 

The lover looked at Helen Roy naughtily and said, “Which dog can resist the charms of a hot-blooded bitch in heat?” 

“You hot-dog;” Helen Roy said lovingly, “every dog has his day.” 

 

True Fiction? Dear Reader – what do you think? Did this really happen? Is it true or just a yarn? Well, it’s up to you – believe it or not! 

  

 VIKRAM KARVE 

Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve 

 

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

 vikramkarve@sify.com 

 

 

My Name is Sherry and Sherry and her “Babies”

March 4, 2007

 

MY NAME IS SHERRY

(Part 1)

By

VIKRAM KARVE  

My name is Sherry. I am a naughty young girl, I’m over seven months old and I live with my family in a lovely spacious bungalow surrounded by plenty of greenery.

 

I wake up early in the morning, jump off my sofa, go to my father’s bed, rub my cold wet nose against his hand and give him a lick. He grunts and growls and opens his sleepy eyes, and the moment he sees me his face lights up and he lovingly caresses me and says, “Good Morning, Sherry,” and gets up from bed and opens the main door to let me jump out into the garden, do my ‘little job’ at my favorite place near the mango tree, generally dig in the soft morning mud a bit and sniff around to find out if there are any new morning smells, not forgetting to run and welcome the milkman the moment he comes on his cycle.

 

When I return I find that my father is back in his bed and my mother is up and about. She pats and cuddles me and goes about her business making tea in the kitchen while I loiter around the house. She surreptitiously sneaks to the bedroom and slyly hands over a tidbit to my half sleeping father under the blanket when she thinks I am not looking. I pretend not to notice, as I do not want to spoil their fun. Earlier, when I was small and impatient, I used to snuffle out the tidbit from my father’s hand, but this spoilt his fun and he became grumpy, and now that I am a mature young girl well experienced in the ways of the human world I have realized that it is better to act dumb and let these humans think they are smarter than me. So I go outside, sit down and put on a look of anticipation towards the gate and pretend not to notice my mother hiding and peeping through the corner of the window and giggling to herself.

 

The moment the newspaperman comes on his cycle and shouts ‘paper’, I rush to the gate and fetch the newspaper in my mouth, gripping it just right between my teeth, and hold it up to my horizontal father, who gets up, takes the paper from me and gives me the dog-biscuit he’s been hiding in his hand, as my mother, who has rushed behind me, watches me with loving pride in her eyes. My brother and my sister, who till now were fast asleep in the other room, call out my name, and as I dart between their beds wagging my tail, they both hug and cuddle me all over saying, “Good Morning, Sherry. Sherry is a good girl!”   Everyone is cheerful and happy and my day has begun!

 

I love my family, even though they are humans; and I love my house, my surroundings, the place I stay, the life I live – but before I tell you all that, let me tell you where I came from.

 

My ‘ birth-mother’ is a ferocious Doberman who lives in a bungalow in Kothrud and my ‘dog-father’ is unknown, though they suspect it may be the Labrador next door (but the vet wanted proof, so in the column against breed he wrote ‘Doberman X’). I was a sickly weakling, hardly a month old, the only girl, last of the litter of eleven, and the owners were wondering what to do with me. Nine of my handsome brothers had already been selected and taken away, and the owners wanted to keep the tenth, the most beautiful and healthy of them all. They had kept me all alone separated from my ferocious Doberman mother who was growling menacingly in a cage nearby. No one wanted me and I could hear people whispering how ugly and weak I was and I wondered what fate lay in store for me. It hurt to be unwanted and when I heard people wanting to send me away to a farmhouse, or ‘dispose’ me of, I felt frightened when I wondered what was going to be my destiny.

 

One evening a few people came over and a gentle woman with kindness in her eyes looked at me, and on the spur of the moment lovingly picked me up, and the way she tenderly snuggled me I felt true love for the first time. This was my new mother. They got into a car and drove across Pune, past Aundh, across the river, till they reached a bungalow. The kind woman was wondering what her husband’s reaction would be. It was dark. I was scared and cuddled up snugly my mother’s arms to feel safer.

 

Suddenly I found a tough-looking bearded man staring at me. Shivering with fear I looked back at him in terror as he extended his hands towards me. But the moment he held me in his large cozy hands, caressed me lovingly, and put his finger tenderly in my mouth, I felt protected, loved, safe and secure. This was my new father and he had already decided my name – Sherry – the same name of his earlier canine ‘daughter’. [‘Sherry’ means ‘beloved’ – not the wine drink you are thinking about!].

 

“She was destined to come here,” my mother said.

 

“Yes,” My father said feeding me warm milk.

 

They made a nice warm bed for me in a basket and put it below theirs. And as I drifted into sleep, they both fondled me with their hands. I felt so wonderful and happy for the first time in my life. I had found my true home and my family.

 

I am feeling quite sleepy now and I’ll end here and have a nap. If you want to know more about me, my delightfully mischievous life, and the naughty things I do, please let me know and I’ll tell you all about it!

  

To be continued

 

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve

 

vikramkarve@sify.com

vikramkarve@hotmail.com

 

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

    

MY NAME IS SHERRY

(Part 2)

by

VIKRAM KARVE   

On Christmas Day, and when I fetched the Times of India from the paperboy early in the morning and gave it to my father, he began reading to my mother something about a new pet saloon started in Pune at Salunke Vihar where dogs are pampered, groomed, massaged, styled, pedicured and everything else like the beauty parlours you humans go to. It’s run by a girl called Pooja Karve, and that’s good, because I am a ‘Karve’ too – Sherry Karve – and I’m sure Pooja Karve will give her canine namesake special care and treatment and also a hefty discount. I’m going to tell my father and mother that I need some sophisticated exotic pampering and they must take me Pooja Karve’s grooming parlour soon for the complete works and I’m not going to tolerate their rustic style rough and tough bathing and brushing anymore. After all I’m a delicate girl and I want to look and feel good.

 

Now my father is calling me for playing the “bone-game” but before that let me tell you about my home. In front is a huge garden, or rather an orchard, with all types of trees and bushes, and a lush green lawn on which I love to frolic, prance and roll upside down, and lots of flower beds which I love digging up to my mother’s horror. I love digging up the mud – it’s so tasty – and there is plenty of it in the spacious kitchen garden behind the house where I create havoc digging up to my heart’s content, and the only thing I’ve spared are the tomatoes and some horrible tasting leaves called Alu because they itch.

 

I’m lucky – they don’t tie me up but leave me free to roam and play around as I please. And there is so much to explore and investigate, in the nooks and corners of our verdant garden with plenty of trees, bushes and hedges. There is so much to sniff, so much to dig, and so much to chase – squirrels, mongooses and birds to chase. The cats have disappeared though; ever since the day I almost caught one.

 

When I want to go out I tap the front door with my paws and they let me out, and when I want to come in I peep through the windows, and if no one notices I bang the door from the outside or make entreating sounds.

 

My father has warned me not to leave the compound, but sometimes I can’t resist the temptation, and slither under a gap I’ve discovered under the barbed wire and go across to meet my neighbour Sigmund, a five year old pure breed Golden Retriever, in case he is tied outside. He’s an old fogey, quite a boring condescending pompous fellow, and I hate his snooty and snobbish manner, but he’s the only canine company I have so I really don’t have much of a choice. Also, the poor guy is locked inside or tied up most of the time so I have to do my bit to cheer him up. If he’s inside I bark and sometimes he returns my bark, but most of the time he is quite stuck-up and gloomy. The only time he seemed to be all excited and active, and was desperately chasing me all over, was when I had my first chums a few days ago, but he had no chance as my suddenly overprotective father was guarding me like a shadow, never taking me off the leash when I was outdoors. Those were the only few days he totally restricted my freedom, and when I managed to slip away across the fence once, all hell broke loose, and I was located, chased, captured and soundly scolded for the first time. I felt miserable, and sulked, but then my father caressed and baby-talked me and I knew how much he loved and cared for me, and it was all okay. And during those sensitive days he used to specially pamper me and take me for long walks, on a tight leash, keeping an eagle eye and stick ready in his hand for those desperate rowdy rascal mongrels who suddenly appeared from nowhere and used to frantically hang around and follow me, looking at me in a lewd restless manner. Once they even had the gumption to sneak into the compound at night, and growl outside, till my father chased them away.

 

When I was small, and my gums itched, and my milk teeth began to break through, I could not resist chewing up anything I could lay my teeth upon – like shoes, slippers, clothes, toothbrushes, furniture . I especially loved my father’s favourite Kolhapuri kapshi chappals which were so soft and yummy. So my father bought me a chewy bone which, it said on the wrapper, was guaranteed to save everything else. I don’t know why, but I secretly buried the bone in a hole I dug below the Mango tree, and I used to dig it out when I thought no one was looking, chew it a bit, and bury it in some other secret place.

 

One day my inquisitive mother found out, and she dug up the bone when I was sleeping and hid in under the pomegranate tree. When I didn’t find it, at first I was confused, maybe it was my neighbour Sigmund, but then he was too old for chewy toy bones. Then I tracked the bone down with my nose, and when I spied my mother giggling and grinning like a Cheshire cat, I knew who was the culprit. This started the “bone-game”. First they (the humans – my mother and father) would give me the bone, and after I hid it they would rush out into the garden and dig it out – then they would hide the bone (after locking me in the house so I could not see) and make me find it, which I did using my nose.

 

I wondered how they found the bone so fast, and one day I caught them spying crouching behind the hedge when they thought I wasn’t looking and the mystery was solved. So now I first let them see where I’m hiding the bone, and when they complacently and confidently go inside thinking they know everything, I dig out the bone and hide it some other place which they do not know and then watch the fun as they search in vain. Then when they go inside, and my father asks me to get the bone, I run out and get it, for which I earn a tidbit.

 

The way these humans act sometimes, I really wonder who is more intelligent – they or I? Apart from my mother and father, who I’ve told you about, there are some more humans who live in my house – my sister, my brother, grandmothers, and a grandfather – and I’ll tell you all about them next time. And I’ll also tell you about the long exploratory walks I go on with my father in the jungle near Mula River, and more about my childhood pranks. And if you’ve missed my first writing about my early life, I’m putting that piece below for you to read.

 

Happy New Year,

See you soon,

Sherry

   

To be continued

 

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve

 

vikramkarve@sify.com

vikramkarve@hotmail.com

 

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

http://karve.wordpress.com

    

SHERRY AND HER “BABIES”

By

VIKRAM KARVE

   

“I think Sherry is pregnant!” my daughter says.

 

“What?” my wife screams aghast, in consternation.

 

We are all comfortably settled for our customary after-dinner lounge in our living room, sitting comfortably in our sofas watching TV, while Sherry sits majestically on her “throne” near the door, where she will soon curl up and go to sleep.

 

“Look at her belly, it’s swollen, and her teats,” my son says, walking up to her, turning her on her back, exposing her femininity.

 

“Don’t do that, “ my wife shouts at my son, “It looks disgusting!”

 

But I’ve had a look and I am concerned. Any father will be – if his ten month old girl gets pregnant! Doesn’t matter even if the ten month old girl is my pet Doberman Sherry. She’s just a baby. So I too walk across, examine her thoroughly, and hope that it is just not possible. She’s just finished her first heat during which I had guarded her zealously, keeping her under my eagle eye at all times.

 

“Look, Sherry is digging a hole,” my daughter says next morning.

 

“So what’s new?” I say. “She’s been digging away to hide her bones so many times.”

 

“But she used to cover it up putting soil and mud with long sweeps of her nose once she hid the bone,” my daughter says. “Look at this hole she’s digging – it’s huge, and deep, and she’s going on and on!”

 

In the evening I notice that Sherry is still digging vigorously, throwing out mud, cement pieces and soil all over the place, and the hole is so big that she has almost disappeared inside and only her tail is visible.

 

“See, Sherry is building a nest?” my daughter says.

 

“Nest?” I ask.

 

“Yes. A nesting site! I read in the library today. She is getting her den ready to deliver her babies.”

 

“She’s going to deliver?” my wife panics.

 

“Please. Hold it. Relax,” I say. “Dogs deliver more than two months after mating; 63 days I think.”

 

“She’s mated? So early? ” My wife’s dog-lover friend, appearing from nowhere asks. She’s already booked Sherry’s pups, whenever they come.

 

“No. No,” I say. “It’s not possible. We had kept her strictly indoors during her heat. And whenever she went out, I kept her on a tight leash all the time.”

 

“Except once, when she disappeared for half an hour,” my daughter says.

 

“When?” I ask.

 

“That day. Remember? When you were desperately looking around for her all over the place!”

 

I glare at my daughter, but it’s too late.

 

“It’s all your fault. I told you to be careful. Must be that Sigmund. Lecherous rascal, I knew he would do mischief, the way he was hovering around desperately,” my wife says.

 

“Sigmund?” her friend asks.

 

“The Golden Retriever next door,” my wife answers.

 

“Hey, fantastic! A Golden Retriever and Doberman cross – just imagine how cute the pups will look! You must give me one,” the dog-lover friend is exultant.

 

“Please. Sherry is not pregnant,” I assert firmly, and go inside.

 

After some time, I call Sherry for her evening walk, but she is nowhere to be seen, so I look around, and then towards the hole she has dug, and there she is, ensconced snugly deep in her “nest”, only her cute black nose and two shiny brown eyes visible!

 

She comes out of her “nest” and I look inside – it’s quite huge, and deep, T-shaped, so she can comfortable sit inside. And Sherry – she’s not behaving like her usual self whenever I call her for her walk, jumping, prancing, cavorting, and vigorously shaking her lead in her mouth. In fact her demeanor is demure.

 

At night, I’m woken up from my deep sleep by a strange whining sound. I put on the light. It’s Sherry, holding her favorite yellow crab squeaky toy, looking restless, giving me a loving compassionate beckoning look. I get up from my bed, and she indicates I follow her, and she leads me to her sleeping place in the living room. I put on the light. Oh my God! Sherry has collected all her soft toys and squeaky toys – the green frog, the red porcupine, the blue rabbit, the fluffy ball, and, of course, her favorite yellow crab – and she curls up around them and tries to mother them as if they were indeed her babies! It’s amusingly poignant to see her trying to nurse her inanimate “babies”.

 The moment I extend my hand towards them she gives me a warning growl, so I just stroke the top of her head, and baby-talk her to sleep. The moment I try to leave, she whimpers, pleads, moans, and I have no choice but to spend the rest of the night caressing and comforting her as she snugly curls around and protectively mothers her “babies”.  

We observe her with amusement as she moves restlessly, searching for her “babies”, collecting new “babies” like my socks, a tennis ball, a sneaker, carrying them to the nest she has built outside, and then back to her sleeping place inside, and to secluded corners of the house, trying to mother them. She’s changed, become more mature and lovable, acting like a true lady, and I wonder what’s happened to the naughty girl she was once. No more the playful bow pose of hers, now it’s just an affectionate tender look. No more the insatiable round-the-clock hunger, but a sophisticated food-faddiness I cannot comprehend – she wants to be pampered, fed lovingly. And her maternal instincts aroused, like a good mother she’s always protecting her “babies”. 

 

My wife is anxious, “Look, she’s filling up. I think she’s got real pups in her womb. Let’s take her to the vet.”

 

The vet examines Sherry and says, “She’s not pregnant. It’s a ‘false pregnancy’. Pseudocyesis.

 

“False Pregnancy?” my wife asks.

 

“Her body, her mind thinks she is pregnant. All the hormones are present; only the puppies are missing.”

 

“What should we do?”

 

“Nothing much. It’s best to let it run its normal course and wear out. But if you want, I’ll give her a hormone injection.”

 

“No. No,” I say. “Let nature run its course.” Actually I’m enjoying Sherry’s false pregnancy – it’s been a delightful experience so far, and am curious for more amusing things to happen.

 

I’ve read somewhere that once a dog has had a false pregnancy she’s likely to have it again. No sweat! I’m waiting for her next false pregnancy, and then when she’s had enough “dry runs” we’ll go in for the real thing.

 

Meanwhile Sherry and us are going to savor every moment of this intriguing experience with Sherry and her wonderful “Babies”.

   

VIKRAM KARVE

 

Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve

  

vikramkarve@sify.com

 

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

         

MY NAME IS SHERRY

February 13, 2007

MY NAME IS SHERRY

ByVIKRAM KARVE 

 

My name is Sherry. I am a naughty young girl, I’m over seven months old and I live with my family in a lovely spacious bungalow surrounded by plenty of greenery.  

I wake up early in the morning, jump off my sofa, go to my father’s bed, rub my cold wet nose against his hand and give him a lick. He grunts and growls and opens his sleepy eyes, and the moment he sees me his face lights up and he lovingly caresses me and says, “Good Morning, Sherry,” and gets up from bed and opens the main door to let me jump out into the garden, do my ‘little job’ at my favorite place near the mango tree, generally dig in the soft morning mud a bit and sniff around to find out if there are any new morning smells, not forgetting to run and welcome the milkman the moment he comes on his cycle.  

When I return I find that my father is back in his bed and my mother is up and about. She pats and cuddles me and goes about her business making tea in the kitchen while I loiter around the house. She surreptitiously sneaks to the bedroom and slyly hands over a tidbit to my half sleeping father under the blanket when she thinks I am not looking. I pretend not to notice, as I do not want to spoil their fun. Earlier, when I was small and impatient, I used to snuffle out the tidbit from my father’s hand, but this spoilt his fun and he became grumpy, and now that I am a mature young girl well experienced in the ways of the human world I have realized that it is better to act dumb and let these humans think they are smarter than me. So I go outside, sit down and put on a look of anticipation towards the gate and pretend not to notice my mother hiding and peeping through the corner of the window and giggling to herself. 

The moment the newspaperman comes on his cycle and shouts ‘paper’, I rush to the gate and fetch the newspaper in my mouth, gripping it just right between my teeth, and hold it up to my horizontal father, who gets up, takes the paper from me and gives me the dog-biscuit he’s been hiding in his hand, as my mother, who has rushed behind me, watches me with loving pride in her eyes. My brother and my sister, who till now were fast asleep in the other room, call out my name, and as I dart between their beds wagging my tail, they both hug and cuddle me all over saying, “Good Morning, Sherry. Sherry is a good girl!”   Everyone is cheerful and happy and my day has begun!  I love my family, even though they are humans; and I love my house, my surroundings, the place I stay, the life I live – but before I tell you all that, let me tell you where I came from. 

My ‘birth-mother’ is a ferocious Doberman who lives in a bungalow in Kothrud and my ‘dog-father’ is unknown, though they suspect it may be the
Labrador next door (but the vet wanted proof, so in the column against breed he wrote ‘Doberman X’). I was a sickly weakling, hardly a month old, the only girl, last of the litter of eleven, and the owners were wondering what to do with me. Nine of my handsome brothers had already been selected and taken away, and the owners wanted to keep the tenth, the most beautiful and healthy of them all. They had kept me all alone separated from my ferocious Doberman mother who was growling menacingly in a cage nearby. No one wanted me and I could hear people whispering how ugly and weak I was and I wondered what fate lay in store for me. It hurt to be unwanted and when I heard people wanting to send me away to a farmhouse, or ‘dispose’ me of, I felt frightened when I wondered what was going to be my destiny.
 

One evening a few people came over and a gentle woman with kindness in her eyes looked at me, and on the spur of the moment lovingly picked me up, and the way she tenderly snuggled me I felt true love for the first time. This was my new mother. They got into a car and drove across Pune, past Aundh, across the river, till they reached a bungalow. The kind woman was wondering what her husband’s reaction would be. It was dark. I was scared and cuddled up snugly my mother’s arms to feel safer.  

Suddenly I found a tough-looking bearded man staring at me. Shivering with fear I looked back at him in terror as he extended his hands towards me. But the moment he held me in his large cozy hands, caressed me lovingly and put his finger tenderly in my mouth, I felt protected, loved, safe and secure. This was my new father and he had already decided my name – Sherry – the same name of his earlier canine ‘daughter’. [‘Sherry’ means ‘beloved’ – not the wine drink you are thinking about!]. 

“She was destined to come here,” my mother said. 

“Yes,” My father said feeding me warm milk. 

They made a nice warm bed for me in a basket and put it below theirs. And as I drifted into sleep, they both fondled me with their hands. I felt so wonderful and happy for the first time in my life. I had found my true home and my family. 

I am feeling quite sleepy now and I’ll end here and have a nap. If you want to know more about me, my delightfully mischievous life, and the naughty things I do, please let me know and I’ll tell you all about it!  

 

To be continued 

 

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve

 

vikramkarve@sify.com 

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com 

http://karve.wordpress.com