Roger boy!

When I was little, I promised that I would become something like Dr. Doolittle who was my fictional childhood hero. I remember plotting how I might construct a squirrel playground in the woods by our house, and can only imagine my parents' relief when I became distracted by other activities. Such as playing "Rescue Rangers" with my friend Amelia (saving our stuffed animals from uncertain peril on the living room rug RE: stormy ocean while scooting around in child-sized plastic cars) or solemnly burying dead moles with my friend Alyson because we couldn't stand to see their bodies left to wild animals. Even if cows are holy here, I didn't think that I would reconnect with my great affection for animals while living in Tiruchuli.

Two weeks ago I was walking to the office and saw something very odd ahead of me by the school. A little moving something by a fence. It looked a bit like Gollum stuffed into a pink body the size of modest handbag, or some squirmy creature hailing from the red planet. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was a very skinny, very sick puppy who had contracted such an awful skin rash that he no longer had any fur and spent the better part of his existence practically nibbling his tail off. His skin sagged off of his starving body and his baby eyes looked at me with terror. The next day I brought him a fried ball of dough and pointed him out to the Director.

"Oh look at the poor thing" I said, feeling slightly guilty that I cared about quite possibly the world's ugliest puppy while I lived in a district where people's daily wage has plummeted below a dollar. The Director couldn't help but smile at my concern for the "thing" and promised him some free medical care.

I started sharing my lunch and dinner with the dog, the staff initially watching in horror. It was if they were all Frenchmen, watching me squat down in the Paris metro to share my nutella crepe with a sewer rat. Mon Dieu. As the little guy trotted behind me one day, I looked back and decided in an instant that he would be named "Roger."

Sunday I was sitting in the office when I heard the taunting voices of adolescent boys and the squealing of some animal. I don't know if I've ever had a true motherly instinct before, but I shot up from my chair, bolted outside and was horrified to see a group of boys surrounding Roger. He had a thick twine tied to his neck and while one boy tried to pull him via the very effective "if you don't follow me you will choke to death" ploy, another was viciously whipping his back with a stick. The Manager of the biodiesel plant stood just feet away from them, reading the newspaper. "Oh stop!" I cried. The Manager looked at up at me quizzically. "Why are they doing this, ask them to stop." I pleaded. He muttered a few words to the boys, glancing back at me as if I had lost all my marbles and slowly explained that they were trying to take him to the vet but didn't want to have to touch him. Roger was having none of the treatment and finally ripped the twine from the boy's hand and shot off down the road with the boys screaming after him. Ha. I was sorry to see that all the food I'd given him would be burnt up in his energetic flight for freedom. I also thought "This is one tough puppy."

Instead of allowing the boys to pursue the cruel "vet" treatment, I have been applying Neem oil produced at our biodiesel plant to poor Roger's skin and with great success. But not enough for one of the staff members to not note the other day, "That is an ugly dog." But when I look at him I have all the blinders of a mother on, and think he's just the most delightful, beautiful little pup. And everyone here is now calling him their "friend."