animals – Hearts Still Care

This evening, while walking in the compound with a few members of the building, I found myself in a conversation that stayed with me long after it ended.

One of the ladies asked about a puppy I had rescued — Drizzle. I told her I had fostered the sweet fellow and then found him a good home. Another mother, who had just joined us who had a young son — a boy of eleven or twelve who adores dogs and kittens — quickly said, half-laughing, “Oh, don’t tell my son that. He’ll want one. And I don’t want that happening.”

I understood what she might have meant. Often, when children ask for pets, the adults become the primary caretakers. Feeding schedules, vet visits, cleaning up, supervision — it is work. Real work. And not everyone is prepared for it.

But as she spoke, my mind wandered elsewhere.

In our very own building, there is a dog reared by two boys who were then in the eighth and ninth standards. They were young, still children themselves. Today, years later, those boys are in college. The dog is fully grown. And they have cared for him beautifully. Consistently. Tenderly. Responsibly.

It made me think about what animals actually do for children.

Animals Teach the Value of Life

The first lesson is simple and profound: life matters.

When a child feeds a dog, refills a water bowl, or sits quietly with a frightened kitten, they begin to understand that another being’s survival can depend on them. Responsibility stops being abstract. It becomes embodied.

They learn that hunger is real. That thirst is real. That comfort is real.

And that their actions — or inactions — have consequences.

Animals Teach Empathy Without Language

Children are not taught empathy through lectures. They learn it through experience.

A limping dog.

A frightened cat hiding under the bed.

A pet recovering from surgery.

In these moments, children begin to understand pain — not intellectually, but emotionally. They see vulnerability. They witness fragility. They learn how to sit beside suffering without turning away.

No textbook can offer that.

Animals invite children to feel.

What Animals Teach Our Children

Human relationships are layered with expectation, negotiation, ego, reciprocity. We love — but often with conditions attached.

Animals are different.

They ask for food, water, shelter, companionship. In return, they offer loyalty, presence, joy — abundantly. Freely.

For a child, this is transformative.

They experience giving without bargaining. They experience receiving without performance. They learn that love is not always a transaction.

And perhaps, somewhere quietly, that reshapes the way they grow into adults.

Learning About Loss

There is another lesson that is harder to speak about, but equally important.

Animals introduce children to the finality of life.

If a pet falls ill or passes away, a child encounters loss in a contained, intimate space. They may not articulate philosophical ideas about mortality, but they feel it. The absence. The ache. The silence.

They learn that life is ephemeral. That presence is precious. That time is not guaranteed.

This awareness — however painful — deepens them.

It teaches them to value the present.

Becoming a Citizen of the World

When a child loves an animal, something expands inside them.

They begin to understand that the world is not built solely for human beings. That other creatures share space, air, vulnerability.

It dismantles the illusion that we stand at the top of some moral pyramid.

It softens the ego.

A child who grows up caring for an animal often grows up more aware — of suffering, of environmental impact, of kindness beyond their own species. They become, in the truest sense, a citizen of the world.

The Tragedy of Suppressed Kindness

I do not dismiss the practical challenges of having a pet. They are real. Time, money, commitment — these are not small matters.

But I wonder if sometimes, in protecting ourselves from inconvenience, we also protect ourselves from growth.

If a child shows kindness — genuine, unprompted kindness — towards another living being, is it not something to nurture rather than silence?

In a world that feels increasingly cruel, hurried and indifferent, the impulse to care is sacred.

When a child says, “I want to love this being,” they are revealing the softest and strongest part of themselves.

To deny that entirely — without even exploring the possibility — feels like a small tragedy.

Because animals do not only enter our homes.

They enter our conscience.

And sometimes, they help raise better humans than we ever could alone.

The other day, I visited my cousin’s house, and once again, I was reminded of the silent wall that often stands between how people say they love animals, and how little they actually see them. I understand that in many families, dogs are appreciated—even adored—but rarely do they cross that invisible line that transforms them from ‘pets’ to ‘children’. But for me and my sister, that line was crossed long ago. Our dogs are our children.

We’ve made a conscious choice to not have human children. As a gay man, I never felt the inclination or desire for biological parenthood. Biologically, I cannot reproduce with another man, and philosophically, I am what many would call an antinatalist. I look at the state of the world, the cruelty, the suffering, the apathy—and I know I couldn’t bring another life into this chaos in good conscience.

Instead, I chose a different path: to love, nurture, and raise animals. Not just the ones at home, but also the stray ‘kiddos’ I meet on the streets. I feed them, care for them, look after their health, and do what I can within my capacity. My home, however, belongs to my three kids—my dogs. They sleep on the beds, lie on the sofas, and follow house rules. They listen, they understand, and they love. They are gentle, warm, kind, and patient—qualities we often hope to cultivate in human children. But with these little ones, it comes naturally.

That’s why it hurts when people fail to see the depth of that bond. In my residential colony, I am often pulled up for the smallest things—a drool mark in the lift, a strand of fur on a step, a missed spot I forgot to clean after a late night. People look at us with disgust, as though we are encroaching on their pristine human world with something unclean. It’s funny how tolerant we pretend to be of differences—until that difference is actually different.

Children from our building often play with our dogs. They’ve never been harmed. In fact, it’s the toddlers who embrace our dogs most naturally, without prejudice or fear. But the adults? They carry biases so deeply embedded, they don’t even realise how cruel they sound. “Every dog bites,” they say. Just like they say, “Every man is a predator,” or “Every gay man will try to convert you.” It’s this knee-jerk vilification—of communities, identities, or species—that reflects something broken in the human condition. J.K. Rowling’s comments about trans people trying to erase women’s rights is just one such example of this prejudiced, uninformed thinking.

During my cousin’s gathering, there was a small incident. My sister poured some used water—water that our dogs had drunk from—into a sink where used utensils were kept. The vessels were already dirty, but the reaction was instantaneous. My cousin objected. She didn’t want the ‘dogs’ water’ to fall upon the humans’ dirty vessels. My sister took offence. To me, it was understandably so. For her, our dogs are family. They share our space, our lives, our routines. They’re not ‘less than’. But I tried to mediate—I told her we were in someone else’s home, and we had to respect their discomfort, even if it came from a place of “othering”.

But it’s these little moments that sting. Like when my cousin, on hearing that my partner and I were also celebrating 25 years together, said, “Oh, but ours is official.” As though two and a half decades of shared life, struggle, and love somehow means less because we don’t have a marriage certificate. As though our relationship is a placeholder, not a permanent bond.

For many people, I suppose it will always be: Your dogs aren’t children. Your love isn’t real. Your life isn’t equal. But for me, none of that changes what is true in my world. My children have paws. My relationship, though unofficial in the eyes of the law, is rooted in commitment and resilience.

We must learn to see with eyes wider than our biases, to feel with hearts larger than our traditions. Because love—be it between humans or between humans and animals—is never less valid just because it doesn’t fit a template.

If you’ve ever loved a dog, or any animal, bird, fish, like a child, you’ll understand. And if you haven’t, I hope one day you will.