The Inheritance of Loss - Kiran Desai [135]
He knocked on the doors of Mrs. Thondup, Lola and Noni, anyone who might be kind, if not on his behalf, then for Mutt, or for the sake of their profession, position, religion. (He missed the missionaries—they would have understood and would have been duty-bound to help.) Everyone he called on responded with immediate doom. Was this a hopeful time? They were already reconciled to Mutt’s fate, and the judge wished to strangle them as they spoke.
Mrs. Thondup: “Was she expensive?”
The judge never thought of her that way, but yes, she had been expensive, delivered from a Calcutta kennel specializing in red setters. A certificate of pedigree had accompanied her: “Sire: Cecil. Dam: Ophelia.”
“La ma ma ma ma, must have been stolen, Justice,” Mrs. Thondup said. “Our dogs, Ping and Ting—we brought them all the way from Lhasa, and when we got here, Ping vanished. The robber kept him captive to breed pups, mated and mated him. Good source of income, no? Just go to thirteenth mile, you’ll see watered down versions of Ping running about everywhere. Finally he broke away and escaped, but his whole personality had changed.” She pointed out the victim, drooling out of his old man’s mouth, glaring at the judge.
Uncle Potty: “Somebody must be out to rob you, Justice Sahib—getting rid of obstacles. That Gobbo, he poisoned my Kutta Sahib, years ago now.”
“But we were just robbed.”
“Someone else must have decided to do the same….”
Afghan princesses: “Our dog, Afghan hound, you know, we were traveling with our father and one day she went missing. She was eaten by the Nagas, yes, they eat dogs—they ate Frisky. Even our slaves—yes, we had slaves—we threatened them with their lives, but still they didn’t manage to rescue her in time.”
Lola: “The trouble with us Indians is that we have no love of animals. A dog, a cat is there just to kick. We can’t resist—beat, stone, torment, we don’t rest until the creature is dead and then we feel very content—good! Put it down! Destroyed it! All gone!—we feel satisfaction in this.”
______
What had he done? He hadn’t been fair to her. He had put Mutt in a place where she could never survive, a rough, mad place. Bhutia hill dogs—battle-scarred mastiffs, grins disfigured by violence, ears stiff from having been bloodied over and over—might have torn her to bits. Nightshade grew in every ravine, flowers crisp and white as the pope’s robes, but hallucinogenic—she might have imbibed the poisonous sap. The cobras—husband-wife, wide as the biscuit jar, living in the bank behind Cho Oyu—might have bitten her. Rabid, hallucinating jackals, unable to drink, unable to swallow, might have come from the forest, thirsty, so thirsty…. Just two years ago, when they had brought a rabies epidemic into town, the judge had taken Mutt for a vaccine most people could not afford. He had saved her while stray dogs were rounded up and slaughtered by the truckful (mistaking the only ride of their lives for a new life of luxury smiling and wagging away) and whole families too penniless to pay for the three-thousand-rupee vaccine died; the hospital staff had been ordered to say they had no medicine for fear of riots. In between the madness of rabies came moments of lucidity, so the victims knew exactly what was happening to them, exactly what lunacy looked like, felt like….
He had thought his vigilance would protect his dog from all possible harm.
The price of such arrogance had been great.
He went to see the subdivisional officer who had visited Cho Oyu after the robbery, but trouble had upset the SDO’s good nature. He was no longer the gardening enthusiast who had complimented the judge’s passionflower.
“My dear sir,” he said to the judge, “I am fond of animals myself, but in these times… it’s a luxury we can’t afford—”
He had given up his special cherry tobacco, as well—it seemed an embarrassment at a time like this. One always felt compelled to go back to Gandhian-style austerity when the integrity of the nation was being