Three Black Spots

A Hard Day’s Night

Monoo was one of my college buddies, and his mother ran a combo literary-commie salon in Bombay in the late 60s. She was a famous writer, more famous for controversy than her actual writing, and a very loving mother and welcoming hostess. There was always an extra bowl of spaghetti and bright red tomato sauce at her dining table, and conversations filled with ‘deep thoughts’ in her living room.

One day, the commies turned on me. ‘ You’re a young chap. Who are the better communists - the CPI or the CPI(M)?’  The Party was going through one of its regular alphabet soup splinters, and I was asked to pronounce judgment. I had neither the intellect, nor the gumption to take sides. What if I offended one of them, and was shot down like Trotsky? I ducked and weaved… ‘ It all depends on how you define communism, doesn’t it?’  ‘Good point’ and the conversation moved on.

Most lefties I know have a very black and white view of life, and a very grey demeanor. Not grey as in this year’s black, but grey as in sackcloth and ashes, grey as in a winter’s evening in Cleveland. My brother Sridhar is the only one I know with a rollicking sense of humor, and a joie de vivre I have ceased to expect from ideologues of any ilk.

He christened Leia our Dalmatian the Running Dog of Imperialism. Since Leia could work up a good pace when we took her for runs at the race course, this was quite appropriate. When we got Yoda, Sridhar came over, gave him a loving, careful examination and then pronounced that he was the Lap Dog of Capitalism.

I am sure that Marxism has many other labels for canines. Pomeranians are the chattering vassals of the bourgeoise, Rottweilers the attack dogs of reactionary forces, Alsatians the tools of the State’s oppression, Huskies the Beasts of Burden laboring under the Iron Hand, Pie Dogs the Lumpen Proletariat, and dog shows of course are the vulgar indifference of a decaying society to the class struggles raging outside.

Dogs have made it into our language, but at the lower end of the totem pole. I’ve been working like a dog. He was shot like a dog. They’re all dirty dogs. She was treated like a dog. Oscar Wilde was hounded to his grave. Dog days of Summer. Even a dog deserves a better death. His bark is worse than his bite. Bitch. Our prose has been quite dog-a-phobic.

The quality  we attribute most to a dog is loyalty, and faithfulness. His Master’s Voice is the ultimate expression of this conceit. The devoted dog, ear cocked, awaiting his lordship’s pleasure.

When Ayesha was young we read a story to her about Australia. In the outback when it got cold, they  used to cuddle up to their dogs for warmth. The colder the night, the more dogs were pressed into service. When the temperature really dropped, they were called three dog nights.

Yes indeed, dogs are meant to serve us. It really comes home to you when you see dog walkers in Manhattan. It’s always almost a young man, with rippling muscles, tight black T shirt, very club worthy jeans and shoes, being led by at least a dozen dogs. The dogs are carefree, no thought of being of service, no thought of devotion or loyalty. They are obsessed with only thing – The Spot. Once they find it, the entire pack has to wait. And each member of the gang has to find its own Spot. No sloppy seconds for them.

The walker usually finds his own rhythm, balancing brood in one hand, cellphone in the other, and a whole bunch of plastic sandwich bags clipped to his waist. The pooper scooper laws must be obeyed. He reaches down with the agility of a gymnast, and does the pickup and toss in one graceful movement. Its all very well choreographed.

Jobs done, they all wend their way back home. The pooches are happy. They have been walked. The walker is happy. At ten bucks a canine, he’s earned more than the minimum wage- tax free, and can now go off to meet his drama coach.

Marx would have approved. Every dog must have his day.