All over his office the discussion ranged from “Do you know what happened to poor Michael” to “His kids are now set for life”. The Comptroller did the calculation on how the settlement from the hospital should be handled for tax purposes. Of course they would settle – who wants to be known as the hospital that leaves behind swabs after surgery. Michael who fancied himself a bit of a comic said “I hope my lawyers are better than my doctors”. No one really ever found out how large the settlement was, but the only question was whether it reached seven figures, or did they stop in the high sixes.

We had our own “sue-able” moment a few months ago with Yoda. A scan in Bombay showed that he had some stones in the bladder. Not too big, but definitely there. They were still there in NYC a couple of months later, and we were recommended surgery. The doctors at NYC Vet are good, and Yoda’s care is always overseen by George – his vet and our good friend for the last 15 years.

Four days later, Yoda was operated on. We dropped him off the day before, and sought to ease our separation anxiety by going shopping. The doctor called us the next day right after surgery. I heard Mina respond to him with a series of strained ‘ Uhmmms’. When she said ‘So I guess the surgery was completely unnecessary’ I knew that this was not good.

Dr Greenberg is a nice enough young man, who explained it all to us. Yoda’s scan from 4 days before showed the stones in place. The X Ray they did right before the surgery did not show any stones, but sometimes these are not seen on X Rays. He and Dr Ferreri did a consultation and determined that they should go ahead with the surgery. They could not take the chance that the stones were still in there, since if they shifted, it could be life threatening for Yoda.

‘Why didn’t you take another scan if the X Rays didn’t show the stones?’ This was Mina at her incisive best getting straight to the point. ‘With the wisdom of hindsight, we should have done that, but we made a good faith judgment call. We asked ourselves what we would have done if Yoda was our dog, and the answer was to go ahead with the surgery’.

Ayesha was appalled when she heard the story. “The poor dog, to go through an unnecessary surgery, at this age” came first. Followed by “You should make the hospital return the money they charged you”.

Here’s the dilemma. We like the hospital, we like the doctors, and we feel that they may have made a good faith mistake of judgment. The larger dilemma – we come from India, where thanks to an extraordinarily powerful medical lobby it is almost unheard of cases against doctors actually succeeding. 95% of the suits filed never go through because no doctor is ever willing to testify against another. Suing doctors, or asking for your money back is not in our genes. Or maybe we’re just wimps who don’t want to confront unpleasantness.

“Mother, in all my experience when there is any medical malpractice, it is because the protocols either failed, or they were not in place. It’s common sense that if the X Rays on the morning of the surgery didn’t show the stones, they should have done a scan. The equipment is right there, it would not have taken more than a few minutes. Instead they put a 15 year old dog through unnecessary surgery, and made you pay a lot of money”.

“How can I ask for my money back?” “Mother, in plain and simple terms, Yoda is your asset, and they have damaged your asset. You should at least recover the money they charged you, even if you don’t want to ask for damages”.

We think Yoda is priceless, but to also think of him as an asset knocked us on our back. Specially when we are only too aware of his growing years, his failing eyesight, his diminished hearing. Is this what depreciation is all about?

Mina wears a big burden of guilt to this very day. ‘The poor boy depends totally on us, and I let him down. I should have found a way to protect him from this unnecessary surgery’. I don’t feel guilt, but a lot of anger. Every surgery takes its toll. I know. I had major surgery about 18 months ago, and I’m still not 100%.

So, what are we to do? Talk to the hospital, and ask for our money back? If we confront them, we can’t ever go back to them, and we think they are good, and what is more, they are nice people. Ayesha’s response “If they put Yoda through this, then perhaps they are not as good as you think they are. You don’t look for a hospital to be nice, you want them to be effective”.

If we do nothing, will we always be saddled with Mina’s guilt and my anger and frustration?

I know that if any surgeons had left swabs inside me, I would be introducing Ayesha as my lawyer to them, and not have any second thoughts. An unnecessary surgery is a lot worse than leaving swabs behind. So why are we being so nice and polite?

To speak up or not to speak up. To sue or not to sue. That is the question we are still wrestling with.

?

So, what is it about dog sitting that brings out this reaction in people? Obviously it’s not as manly as being an astronaut, or climbing Mount Everest, but surely it beats schlepping suitcases to people’s rooms. All you have to do is sit in the hotel room, watch TV, order (sparingly)from Room Service, and radiate kind thoughts towards the dog. Surely there is a very macho thrill in paid well to do nothing.

Is it because Yoda is a small dog? Would there be something far more macho about tending to a bull dog, or a fierce Rottweiler? Does a furry being under ten pounds not qualify for too much respect?

This is not just a bias in the canine race. There is a bias against short humans too. The conventional wisdom seems to be that short people don’t command as much respect as tall ones. Yeah, yeah, I’ve also heard the Napoleon example, but one Frenchman does not an argument make.

Height is always something we fudge up. I’ll never forget the early days of our courtship when Mina bounced up to me with great excitement, and proclaimed that she was now 5 feet 3 inches. I thought that all her growth spurts were behind her, but you don’t argue with the love of your life – not on something as important as a quarter inch of height. I have also agreed to ban the word short from my vocabulary – it’s always people of diminutive stature.

I pondered over Yoda’s smallness all the way on our trip in Spain, and as we hit New York – Wham! It was all over the news. All dogs are identical. Fifi the high strung beauty that peeks out of designer handbags is the same as the 200 pound behemoth that can be seen from outer space. Not exactly, but almost. It’s just one little teeny weeny bit of DNA which suppresses a growth gene – and that makes all the difference. Or so the scientists say.

It’s not just an accident of canine biology. Humans seem to have stumbled on this gene over 10,000 years ago, while breeding small dogs. Why breed a dog to be small? This was way before Paris Hilton, designer handbags, and furry arm candy. Because the little tykes are useful. What kinds of uses? Mark Derr the author listed them – they have turned mills and spits in their time, pursued game into teir den, destroyed rats by the bucketful, done triple duty as foot warmers, and stood guard over home and hearth while the big dogs patrolled the yard.

Whew! I knew it all along, but there’s nothing like a bit of science, a reference to the “Insulin like growth faction 1″ gene to add heft to intuition. Small dogs are small, because they are meant to be. Small is not just beautiful, it is useful.

Is this understanding going to make Paolo feel any better, any more macho? Will he feel more mano, now that he knows that Yoda could have been 200 pounds if we wanted him that way – it is we who have chosen his weight class, and for very good reason too. I don’t think so. Paolo will still have to run the gauntlet of sneers and snickers, still listen to the not so muted taunts about his manhood as he goes off to do his Yoda duty. We are all size bigots, racists of the ruler, and bigger is always better. If you don’t believe me, just look at the size of portions of French fries.

I could try flinging a few clichés into the mix, to see if that will influence the argument. It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of fight in the dog. Don’t judge a book by its cover, and a dog by its size. David and Goliath. But I know that it’s no use.

Size does matter. Ask any man lined up in the stalls of a public toilet.

These damn dogs are getting ahead of themselves. Every day there’s a story about some new skill they acquire, some new trick they learn to perform. I read about a dog who saw his master choking on some food,jumped up on him from the back, pushed him down on the ground, and in the process performed a Heimlich maneuver. The errant bit of food shot out of his master’s mouth like a bullet, he didn’t even wait to recover from his wheezing, before he was out proclaiming the miracle.

What’s going on? Have the dogs of the world appointed Hill and Knowlton to front all these stories? They say flacks will work for anyone as long as they get paid. How do they get paid? Surely kibble wont do the job. Whatever the currency, dogs are getting great value. I dare you – open the pages of any newspaper, and see if you can escape the inevitable dog story. No one is immune – not even the NYT or the NYer. The latter will at a minimum cough up a dog cartoon, if not an entire profile or a Talk of the Town piece.

How about this for the warm snugglies? School kids ae learning to read aloud to dogs that cuddle up beside them, settle into a steady rhythm of non judgmental breathing, and listen with great affection. The kids don’t feel under pressure or the threat of being evaluated, presumably the dogs feel no need to provide any input, and a good time is had by all. There are now 16,000 therapy dogs participating in reading assistance programs in schools and libraries all over the US. I kid you not. I read it in Newsweek. It must be true, right?

We’ve all read stories about dogs visiting people in hospital, helping people recover from surgery, cheering up the lives of terminally ill children. Seeing eye dogs, dogs who can defuse landmines, and don’t forget, it was the Russian dog Laika who went up into space way before the astronauts. Did she say ‘One small step for man, a giant step for dogkind?’

So, I have a question to ask of some prominent dogs, who have recently dropped the ball big time. When it really mattered, some of you did not step up to the plate. Are you guys just hype, mere flash, studying opinion polls and carefully triangulating public opinion? Where’s the beef?

Let’s start with Tinkerbell. Where were you when Paris Hilton was DWI? Even if the lawyer did not read the fine print to her, and a fat lot of good it did him trying to fall on his sword in court with his mea culpa, where were you? How come you didn’t reach for the court order, allow the wind to blow it open to the right page, use your paw and a few well timed barks to draw her attention to what the judge said? Instead you allowed her to draw the ‘Go directly to Jail card’. How come you were asleep at the wheel? Slacker!

Yo Barney! Yeah you. Just because you were the White House dog, personal property of the W-ster himself, doesn’t mean you get to skip this inquiry. Okay, I know he dropped you on the head so we have to cut you a little slack. But, are you telling me that you just sat there and ate kibble while Baghdad burned? Didn’t you at least channel Milly’s spirit, she of the steady hand who guided 41 through Iraq 1? You should be grateful that Michael Moore loves dogs. Otherwise he might have used footage of you instead of Wolfowitz in the opening sequence of Fahrenheit 9/11. I bet you too spit on your brush before you slick your hair back.

J’accuse – Marty Richard’s dog – how could you allow Kramer to descend into Gibson world? Our Kramer, he of the Geeddyaaaaap, the face that charmed the Soup Nazi, and the finger in socket hair.

J’accuse, the President of Kazakhstan’s dog- you should have told him that Borat was the best thing that happened to the country since sliced bread, or naan. Every time he fulminated, DVD sales of the Borat movie went up. What were you thinking? How come you didn’t tell him to make Sasha Baron Cohen the Tourism Minister for Life.

Since I am in the mood – J’accuse Yoda. There’s a small matter of 3 shirts from H&M that you should never have let me buy. You wre there, and you let me indulge myself in a post mid life crisis moment. Slim fit shirts – hah!

You see, we have a wonderful Social Contract that we signed with dogs a long time ago. We would provide them with food, water, shelter, leash and harness, and good grooming. If circumstances permitted, other things were also written into the Contract. Spa treatments, designer treats, holistic manicures, and brand name gear. Some would even have adoring books written about them.

In return they would only have to do one thing. Save us from ourselves. Most times they do. But when they don’t, it gets my goat.

We saw an ad for Little Lotus Hearts in a dog magazine, and were entranced with the idea. A Buddhist monastery in upstate New York – an opportunity to get Yoda blessed by a monk, a little driving adventure for us – what more could we ask for? For some reason, we were convinced that the monks of New Skete were either part of or next door to the monastery. We called, spoke to Ani Kunga who is a wonderfully benign nun with the most soothing voice I have heard in a long time, and got directions to feed into our GPS.

The directions were easy enough – Walden is the the next exit after Harriman, our favouritest place of them all – home to Woodbury Commons – the premium outlet mall that now attracts global tourists by the bus load. So, our pursuit for Buddhist bliss had the frisson of being next door to a source of guaranteed bliss – big time retail therapy at a discount.

We got there shortly after prayers had begun. The Lama Gyaltsen has the most wonderful sonorous voice, and he led the prayers with great energy and gusto. The chanting was in Tibetan and Chinese, with an English translation declaimed by a young Tibetan novitiate with a very East Coast accent.

We settled down at the back, the helpers saw us struggle with the Lotus position and got us chairs to sit on ( bless their souls forever). Every time the gongs were struck, Yoda poked his head out of his bag, causing a few of the worshippers to smile.

In Hindu pujas, the food that is to be served is offered to the Gods as ‘Neyveidya’, before it is given to the celebrants. We have been used to the Neyveidya being brought out on a silver or stainless steel platter, delicious goodies that have been cooked in pure ghee, a feast for the taste buds and catastrophe for cholesterol. The young assistant brought out Neyveidya Upstate New York style - a couple of bottles of Schweppes Ginger Ale, Tropicana Orange Juice, a basket heaped with fruit, and a huge big gift box of biscotti and Ferrero Rocher chocolate.

We wont deny it – we are very shallow people. It was obvious that we would have to make an excuse if we were invited to stay for lunch. Just one exit away was Applebee’s with ribs gleaming in their special sauce. No contest.

When the prayers were over, the Lama came over and spoke to us with great warmth and kindness. We showed him Yoda and requested a blessing. He picked him up and cuddled him in his arms, chanted a beautiful verse in Tibetan, patted him lovingly and gave him back to us.

We saw the plans for the new monastery and looked at the foundations that had already been laid. It will be a beautiful structure, set in serene surroundings and we made our small contribution to the building fund.

We were graciously invited to lunch, Mina looked at the lama and said that we were fasting that day. He twinkled back at us, fully aware that he we had ribs on our mind, and the white lie passed into the ether.

As we drove out, we had one question – where were the monks of Skete? Where were the dogs being trained? Had we totally screwed the pooch? Thank God that we had not dragooned any of our friends with the promise of a thrilling canine experience.

One look at the Little Lotus Hearts website again and all was clear. The monks were on a linked site, and New Skete was miles away from Walden. They had nothing to do with the monastery, except in their philosophy of being. And what a philosophy. The question ‘ what does it mean to be man’ led the to ‘what does it mean to be dog’. A way of life, a thriving dog breeding business, three best selling books – nirvana with a cold nose.

Over a crisp glass of Pinot Grigio and a bountiful platter or ribs we made a resolution. On our next trip to the US we would take Yoda to new Skete. Maybe they have T shirts with monks in hooded profile. Maybe I could buy a cassock and stride down the streets of Manhattan looking very cool, and just a little menacing.

^{Yoda in tow, we got there thirty minutes ahead of time, staked out our claim to prime seats and I scurried off to the Starbucks for my hit of decaf cap, and a hot choc for Mina. Next stop the sales counter, to pick up a brand new hardcover, ready for signing. Fully prepped, we sat back and took stock of the room.}

The space was filling up with retired people. Half of them probably belonged to reading clubs. Some creaky bones, a couple of walking sticks, lots of solicitous ‘ are you okay dear’, ‘ can I get you something’, and a couple of testy ‘I’m fine, just leave me alones’. Book cred was also on display. ‘I’ve read all his books’,’I heard him last year, and he’s very funny’,‘Are you going to the De Lillo reading?’

Big question? What constitutes a prime seat at a signing? An earnest young book person made it clear. ‘If you want to get your book signed, please sit on this side’. A mad rush to the choice rows – this is how those ferries in Europe or the Bay of Bengal capsize. She then came around with Post Its, and wrote down how we wanted the signing personalized. All very industrial and production line.

Yoda decided to make his presence felt, and instantly got his due. I guess book readers who attend signings are also 100% dog owners. None of the usual frivolous queries about grooming, meds or food. There was a Zen-like dedication to his hisness - his essential poochness, and some loving tickling. Yoda always inspires the ‘I wish I’d brought my dog along’ reaction. Never fails.

The second wave of booklovers hit. Young busy looking people, who looked like they had just finished solving some of the world’s problems. Some rolling of eyes as they realized that all the good seats were taken. They did the NYC theater shuffle, vigorous stepping over feet, insincere apologies mumbled as they headed for the lone seat in the centre of the aisle.

Two slightly burly guys walked in, toting bags laden with books. Ah, the indie bookseller contingent. Someone had saved seats for them at the front of the signing row, and our hearts sank. At least forty books would have to be signed before anyone else got a look in. A scruffy fellow marched up with a bag full of Lee Child paperbacks – ‘I bet he’s going to sell them on E Bay’ muttered in not so sotto voce.

We were set, Lee Child marched up on time, and was charming, witty, and very very Brit. He fessed up to the usual writer’s anxiety – ‘What if the first 11 books were just a fluke?’ After a very clever reading – he took some of the dialogue and converted it into a ten second TV commercial for the book – he answered questions with flair.

We took Yoda up to him, got the raised eyebrow, exchanged some India conversation – his British agent knew the Gandhi family – and walked home clutching our freshly signed book, squabbling over who would get first dibs at reading it.

Quick cut to CUNY and a New York Times panel discussion. ‘Do we obsess to much over our dogs?’ Duh. Of course. Why else have a dog? Isn’t that the whole point? I believe that a famous Think Tank once spent some serious money and time exploring the question ‘How much is enough?’ Duh again. Remember the old graffiti ‘Wanking is not a town in China’?

We snuck Yoda in, camouflaged in his carrying case. Our fellow audience members gave us the wink and nod- they knew what was going on. I was in fear of the Uni police coming up and ejecting me from my $ 22 seat, but I needn’t have worried. The four panelists walked in, each with a dog in tow, and the afternoon was off to a great start. We let Yoda out of his case, he found a friendly group of people further along the row, curled up at their feet, and went to sleep.

Yes, we do obsess over our dogs. No, there was nothing wrong with that. The discussion was about to degenerate into a Doggy-Kumbaya set of platitudes. Then Claudia – Editor of bark magazine and creator of ‘Dog is my Co-Pilot’ took off against Cesar Millan the Dog Whisperer. ‘He has single handedly set back Animal Training by 50 years’. Wow. It’s not often that you see people on a public platform haul back and deliver the sleeve in the windpipe, but she did, and unleashed a floodgate. For a few minutes there was a distinct anti-Cesar vibe in the room. Vets and behaviorists weighed in, and you really had the sense the Poor Cesar would have been tarred, feathered and ridden out of town on a rail had he been there. Ever since I read Huck Finn, I’ve always wanted to use that phrase.

William Wegman who produces abominable photographs of dogs in ridiculous poses – and has created quite a niche market for himself- showed us some slides. It’s an insult to a dog to show him mugging with a saxophone, or dressed in Victorian frills. Some people dig his stuff, and a couple in front of us proudly spoke of their Wegman collection. They were quite anxious to let me know how much they had paid for their trove.

As we left, I wondered whether Yoda was getting just too much of an eddication. He is a sentient being alright, but is all this input likely to blow his synapses? No fears. He has the ability that I envy deeply, to just turn over, go humph, and fall asleep. If there’s a subliminal process taking place, I hope that he’s picking up pointers on how to conduct himself at a reading. It’s coming Yodie, our moment in the sun is coming.