'His-dog'

Mum and I greeted stepdad's decision to let the nameless stray dog – which we have started to refer to as 'his-dog' – spend the nights in the driveway with angry protests.

We both resorted to reason, teasing and every possible way to talk him out of it to no avail; from mean remarks, "what are you afraid of anyway, burglars could easily poison or shoot your dog and break into the house!" to outspoken Freudian mumbo-jumbo, "Pet lovers are actually making up for complexes dating back to childhood," to premonitions that could hopefully strike on stepdad's hypochondriac cord "there will not be any doctors to see you when you will have those fluids in your lungs and remember hospitals are teeming with militiamen these days, eh!" Nothing seemed to work.

I could not adjust to having a canine creature wading around the place. To voice my anger, I refused to fill the heater's tank with kerosene, which has been my winter season job for years on end. I kept commenting on the now poo-strewn garden, the sleepless nights I had because of 'his-dog's' barks and the microscopic hairs I started noticing on the doormat, to name but a few. I could not make up stories of her attacking me, the poor thing was so nice actually, she kept wagging her tail and giving me those innocent looks that almost said, "I'm harmless you idiot phobic human".

One night I heard a very funny sound, I could not tell what it was until I remembered stepdad's words about his-dog's pregnancy. Overnight, the backyard has become an official maternity hospital and pigsty. She gave birth to eight puppies.

When I hollered at mum and stepdad to confirm the news for me, their faces lit up. It reminded me of the day my nephew was born. That day, the three of us stopped bickering about the dog and rolled up our sleeves. I started my online search for tips and facts about nursing dogs' diets. Mum was in charge of cooking her Majesty's food, whereas stepdad did the serving. The whole world heard of the news, grandma who lives overseas, my sister in Amman, my Iraq and overseas friend, who all were kind enough to fill us in about what a dog in her state should need. The neighbours too were so generous; a lot of them brought her bones and leftovers.

In a week's time 'his-dog' was back on her feet, and she seemed to have longed for her natural surroundings, the street. Stepdad let her go back to where she belongs, with their bond as intact as ever.




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