Tag: Dogs

My Children

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

They are my children — each four-legged canine.

I am human; they aren’t, but they are mine.

Each came to my life, made it softer;

Each has brought its share of love and laughter.

Each pup has known my embrace and promise,

And saved the hope life wanted to tarnish.

They shone — white, or fawn, or tiger brindle —

Each brought a flame that’s forever kindled.

They pulled me back from death, I confess, twice;

Leaving them without me was not a choice.

So they stave my depression with their walks;

Most nights, they engage me in play or talks.

Xena is the smartest, Diana the kindest;

Rolfe often brought my temper to the test.

Zoe, my shadow, I loved the very best;

Bonzo was my first, and Zach’s my first-born,

And each passing gets my heart ripped and torn.

I lost my faith in God when Zoe died,

And when death comes to each, how I have cried.

They taught me early how grave loss can be,

And death seems now almost like family.

My kids have helped build all my empathy,

And love, and valour, and brave sympathy.

They have no clue of hardship, death, and life;

They have indirectly taught me a stray’s strife.

I see and judge the world through their pure eyes,

Because no one in it ever lies or dies.

I give them all the love I have and can,

And each of them makes me a better man.

The Lift, the Law, and the Limits of Human Decency

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I am tired.

Not the kind of tired that a night’s sleep fixes, but the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from having to fight—again and again—for the most basic decency.

We’ve just taken possession of my mother’s new flat in a Cooperative Housing Society. A Bank of India colony, no less. Two lifts: one passenger, one service. And already, the managing committee has decided that pets are not allowed in the passenger lift. We are to use the service lift—the one meant for goods, for furniture, for trash.

Apparently, our dogs are objects now.

When I heard the news, anger wasn’t my first emotion—it was weariness. I had expected this, of course. The script is always the same. First comes the suspicion, then the whispering, then the notice on the board. “Pets not allowed.” Always the pets. Always the easiest targets.

It took a week in my current home. When we first came in, in 2019, someone immediately complained that a bit of my boxer’s drool had fallen on the lift floor. A couple of small gobs of saliva—nothing more. We cleaned it, naturally. Since then, we’ve been cleaning the lift every time we use it. Fair enough. But when greasy fingerprints line the walls of the lift or the corridors, nobody blinks. When food wrappers are left behind, when someone’s child drops chocolate, when oil marks stain the walls—silence. But dog drool? Outrage.

And now in the new building, a notice appears. Without the secretary’s consent—without even her knowledge. My mother is the secretary, incidentally. Certain members of the managing committee went ahead anyway, decided on its own, and printed that smug, illegal diktat.

She was furious. I was furious. She tried reasoning with them, but words faltered. So I spoke. I told one of them that this was illegal—that no society in India can ban pets from passenger lifts or common spaces. The Animal Welfare Board of India has made this clear. He brushed it aside. “Other buildings do it,” he said. As if illegality becomes law through repetition.

When I pressed him, he cut the phone.

Cut. The. Phone.

That’s what bullies do when logic corner them—they run.

I called a friend, who put me in touch with a lawyer. The lawyer told me I had been too respectful. He was right. He said I should have demanded they put their order in writing. Because once it’s in writing, it’s actionable. Illegal. Enforceable—in court, against them. He was ready to take it up if they dared formalise their prejudice.

And then I realised what this truly was: not about dogs, not about hygiene, not about drool. It’s about control. About people desperate to assert dominance over what they don’t understand.

They will tolerate drunks, loud music, cracker noise, domestic violence, gossip, hypocrisy—everything that corrodes the soul of a community. But not dogs. Not love. Not innocence.

It made me wonder why I even bother calling this place home.

I’ve fought my whole life—since I was a child—for the right to exist, to love, to be. I’ve been beaten, bullied, spat on, mocked—for being gay, for being different, for daring to be myself. I fought then. I fight now. And I will keep fighting.

Because this isn’t just about my dogs. It’s about what kind of people we have become. We cage compassion and call it order. We humiliate empathy and call it discipline. We dress up cruelty as “society rules.”

But I refuse to shrink.

I will speak up—for my dogs, for the voiceless, for those who cannot explain that drool dries and hearts break. I will call out hypocrisy when I see it, even if it’s etched in a printed notice on a lift door.

Yes, I’m tired. But I’d rather be tired from fighting for what’s right than be comfortable in the company of cowards.

So here’s to the next battle.

Because peace, apparently, must always be earned from the people who fear kindness the most.

My Kids Have Fur

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

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.