IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 119- DOG THAT SMELLED A SYCOPHANT Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

 

“These sycophants are a pain in the neck. Fortunately, I was often saved by my dog from their clutches when I was at home,” said a very senior retired officer, leaning back with a faint smile.

I looked at him in surprise. “Isn’t it bad to unleash your dog on someone, Sir?”

He laughed. “The dog never barked without reason. It would lie quietly when my subordinates came for genuine work. But the moment a flatterer entered, the tail would stiffen, the ears would rise, and a low growl would begin. As if it sensed my irritation before I myself could put it into words.”

“That’s intelligence,” I said.

“More than intelligence,” he replied. “It was emotional awareness. It knew my moods better than most humans. If I was tired, it would not even allow my wife or the house help to wake me up. It would sit near the bed like a sentry on duty.”

This conversation had taken place nearly thirty years ago. At that time, I had smiled politely but inwardly dismissed it as exaggeration. In those days, I disliked dogs. Their fur on the sofa, the drool, the smell—everything about them seemed inconvenient and unhygienic. I could not imagine how a disciplined officer could tolerate such disorder in his house.

Life, however, has its own ways of teaching.

Years later, due to what I can only call divine intervention and persistent insistence of my family, a puppy entered our home. A tiny bundle of fur with oversized paws and eyes that seemed to ask questions all the time. The moment I sat down, it climbed into my lap and licked my hand with such trust and affection that something inside me softened. My long-standing dislike melted away without argument or logic.

Very soon, it became clear that the puppy knew who the head of the family was. It would follow me from room to room, sit near my chair during meals, and wait for my return in the evening as if counting minutes. Dogs, I later learned, can recognise human routines better than clocks. They read footsteps, door sounds, even the rhythm of breathing.

For the next eight years, our household emotions revolved around this four-legged member. He would refuse to go for his evening walk unless both my wife and I accompanied him. If one of us lagged behind, he would stop, look back, and sit down in protest. A complete family inspection was mandatory before departure.

Car rides were his greatest joy. The moment he heard the car key jingle, he would jump like a spring and run in circles. Windows down, nose in the wind, tongue out—pure happiness. Scientists say dogs experience a surge of dopamine during such moments, the same chemical that gives humans a feeling of pleasure and reward. I didn’t need science to tell me that; his shining eyes were proof enough.

Bath time, however, was a different story. The brave guardian of the house would suddenly develop the talent of an Oscar-winning actor. As we guided him toward the bathroom, he would collapse dramatically, limbs spread, eyes half-closed, playing dead. Lifting him felt like lifting a sack of cement. The performance was so convincing that even the tap seemed to hesitate before running.

Time, like a silent thief, moved on. Kidney disease took him away one quiet morning. The house felt strangely hollow. His bowl lay untouched. His leash hung on the hook like a forgotten promise. The silence was heavier than noise.

That is when I understood what the old officer had meant. The loss of a dog creates a vacuum that cannot be filled by logic, routine, or even another pet. It leaves behind an absence that has a presence of its own. That is why I often say, half-jokingly and half-seriously, that I will never own a dog again—not because of dislike, but because of the pain of goodbye.

The other day, during my morning walk, I saw a man carrying his dog in his arms. The animal looked perfectly healthy, just comfortably settled like a child.

Concerned, I asked, “Is he unwell?”

The man smiled and said, “No problem. Aaj iska chalne ka mood nahin hai.”

(Today he is not in the mood to walk.)

I understood immediately. No explanation was needed.

These four-legged angels have a language of their own. They do not use words, yet they communicate moods, loyalty, irritation, love, and even dignity with astonishing clarity. They know when you are sad, when you are tired, when you are pretending to be strong.

And sometimes, as that old officer’s dog once proved, they even know when a sycophant is at the door.