Songs of Innocence and Experience

Don't get me wrong, I adore animals. But let me start off by reminiscing about my encounters with animals. I don't know when exactly it was that most animals started showing their displeasure at me for evolving into a human being, but here is a comprehensive list:

There were four dogs, and German spitzes (Spitze? Spitzen? What is the plural form?) at that, who lived in the building next door and took severe offense to me stepping into the balcony of my old house. I grew up with a white furrball composed of various limbs and tails hurling itself into the adjacent balcony every time I chose to push my nose out of the room, followed by vicious snarling and yapping. German Spitzes (Spitze? Spitzen?) don't bark. They yap. They're pretty, but that's about it. Drinking tea, reading the newspaper, and watering the plants in one's balcony are all basic human rights. There is absolutely no way you can take them away from a fellow human being. It is simply not allowed. Unless, of course, you're a canine.

However, I withstood it with fortitude, and found it possible to love animals still. Most other dogs have been very friendly, but there was this instance of a vile neighbour's cat assuming I was a lamp-post that must be urinated against. Now anyone who knows me will realise it is overestimation of the highest order to think of me as a lamp-post, but maybe I just look tall from a cat's point of view. Anyway, everytime I tried to climb up the stairs it would be waiting for me, graciously lifting its leg the moment I passed by.

No, I was faster than it's internal mechanisms, in case you were wondering. Honorary lamp-posts are like that.

But I said nothing. Each cat to his taste. Then there was the case of the bull chasing me down the Lakshman jhula in Rishikesh at age ten. I first thought it was because of a red frock that I was wearing, but I have been proved wrong; apparently they're colourblind. That didn't stop me from viewing bovines as miracles of existence.

But wait for this. In the concrete jungle that is Kolkata, in the middle of the epitome of urban savviness that is Shakespeare Sarani, a goat materialises out of nowhere, crosses the road to get to the side that I'm on, heads straight for my knee, butts it triumphantly, and heads back to the other side of the street. No, I'm not kidding.

I still love animals. No, I am not repeating this in order to escape a PETA lawsuit. I have been stung by bees, and hornets, and have had my blood depleted by leeches in Sikkim. I was very small when a monkey entered our hotel room in Ooty and terrorised the family, with the result that it looked bigger than me, but I remember the incident vividly. Rats have run over my feet at the temple of Karni devi in Rajasthan, and in Oly Pub in Kolkata (inevitable, really, both cases, but I've added them for effect), cockroaches have nestled in my ear in Himachal Pradesh, and pretty Pashmina rabbits have refused to pose with me, an honest everyday tourist, outside the Hadimba temple in Manali.

Additionally, everyone has had Crow Encounters, but how many of you have had one pooping right into your eye? Keeping public sentiment in mind, I am excluding a general description of what it felt like. And even though horses tend to like me a lot, and I'm pretty decent on horseback, there was this black horror I climbed onto on the way down from Vaishnodevi in Kashmir, and it peeled quite a few inches of skin off my posterior due to its love for galloping wildly down a decidedly sloping path.

I hold nothing against all of the above. I even fell madly in love with Gerald Durrell for a bit. I've always wanted a pet. I had a pet lizard called Nehru, and I'd like to think he loved me, but then he died.

I dare say there are other experiences that I have forgotten, or have chosen to forget. Finally, the cat at college that loves everyone decided to take a friendly nip at me this morning outside Milon da's canteen. Only, of course, it succeeded in grazing my skin a little. That is not a problem. The problem is that my mother happened to notice it, and my parents, being notoriously animal-phobic, insisted on taking me to the family doctor. Now the gentleman is a kindred spirit; he shot me sympathetic glances all through, but prescribed a tetanus toxoid and an anti-rabies course anyway.

I have just had two needles poked into me. But don't worry, Cat, I still love you. I will take five more injections for your sake and pet you later forgivingly. Let us here ignore the fact that I'm very worried about how I cannot react to injections. Isn't one supposed to be scared? Or apprehensive? Isn't one supposed to not feel kicked about more injections?

And while we're on the topic, I've been wasting time reading about vaccines online. Here is a picture of Dr. Edward Jenner, Pioneer of Vaccination, Killer of the Deadly Smallpox Virus:




Now I don't mean to be improper, but that looks horribly wrong to me. It just does.

See how tragic it is to love all creatures great and small? All things that are bright and beautiful and wise and wonderful will one day snigger and poke you in the eye. But since trust and forgiveness are such innately human qualities, I hereby declare that I shall be owned by two dogs and two cats when I am old enough and have a house of my own. And no, I did not say that to avoid a PETA lawsuit.

On second thought, if you're related to Edward Jenner, remember I'm only human.