The people in their house call him Vodka. When they call that name, he comes running. He and I have no particular bond, no quarrels either. Let there be no bond or quarrels—still, I love him. But he doesn't know about this love of mine. Nor do I make the slightest effort to let him know. This love of mine keeps me well—that's enough. Loving Vodka keeps me happy. Love finds fulfillment in love alone, not in loud proclamations. What creates noise and commotion—whatever else it might be—is certainly not love. Silent love is the most beautiful emotion in the world.
There are many other dogs in the neighborhood, but there's only one Vodka. The barking of the neighborhood dogs nearly splits my ears, but when Vodka calls out, it's like honey raining in my ears. I'm telling the truth—I find Vodka's voice deeply pleasing. There's a certain sweetness in his voice! The other ten dogs don't have it. This small dog, mixed white with a touch of black, has his own distinctive quality. You can easily pick him out from the rest. His fur isn't very long, but it's thick and glossy. There might be many dogs more beautiful than him. But as I said, he has his own distinctive quality—something that can't quite be explained or described. His eyes are also very beautiful. It's as if his soul comes and reveals itself in his eyes—I can tell because he sometimes glances at me sideways. I find him so appealing because I love him.
From our house, that straight road that goes south past the church—Vodka's house is just four houses down that road from ours. When I open the south window of my room, I can see him. (Perhaps I keep the south window open just to see him.) I see Vodka either wandering around in front of the house, or sitting alertly on the veranda in a proud posture, and whenever he spots a stranger, he barks out as if to say... "Who are you?"
When he sees someone with a particularly unpleasant face, his voice rises sharply, and as long as that person remains visible, Vodka doesn't stop expressing his opinion in his canine language. Other dogs can't come near their house boundaries—such is the authority of little Vodka—authority isn't always measured by size. Not only that, if somewhere a bicycle tire bursts or some other jarring noise occurs, or if the neighborhood people start a quarrel somewhere, immediately Vodka snaps back—"Hey! What's going on? Can't you see I'm resting!"
When I go to church or the dining room, I pass right in front of their house. He looks at me calmly, doesn't make any fuss. Vodka's sense of self-respect is quite noticeable. One day I was returning from the dining room with food; I saw that somehow he had followed me and was sniffing the food bag. A small scolding sent him away. No, I've never given him even a piece of bread. After seeing the food bag in my hand, Vodka never came close again.
I didn't give him bread because if all of us started feeding the city's dogs bread, our dining room would go bankrupt. The dining room's rule is that each person should take only as much food as they can eat, no more. Of course, not all of us follow this rule. Among us there are some who try to run a charity on the Son of God's account. We're staying and eating in God's house for free—that's already plenty—some conscience and common sense must be spent here!
I've given Vodka only my heart's silent love. Vodka won't die if I don't give him a piece of bread. Just looking at him I can tell that he's getting the necessary food from his master. I assume the master chose his pet dog's name after his own favorite drink. And yes, I expect nothing from Vodka—not even a wag of his tail. Even if Vodka doesn't wag his tail, I love him; just his existence gives me joy. Vodka is well, so I am well too.
I want him to occupy his own place and express the joy of his dog-life through his barking. Many people get annoyed by dogs barking. I don't. Compared to all the hideous sounds that man has created in the world's atmosphere in his pride of civilization, a dog's barking is much sweeter. The microphone torture that goes on day and night everywhere—a dog's bark is far more pleasant than that.
Human life cannot be conceived separately from dogs and cats. When some lost traveler seeking shelter hears a dog bark in the distance, he feels reassured thinking that there's a settlement there. And thieves get scared thinking that there's a vigilant guard there. A dog's devotion to its master surpasses that of humans—is there any other creature that loves its master's life more than its own? Dogs have abilities that humans lack. That's why nowadays we see police using dogs to identify criminals. Dogs' intelligence and sensitivity are very sharp. So considering dogs unnecessary is a grave mistake. Without their domestic animals, human life would be extremely incomplete. It's because humans don't find shelter with other humans that they keep dogs and cats.
Without Vodka, their house somehow doesn't seem right; neither does our neighborhood. Their house used to be a thatched hut covered with coconut palm leaves. Now their luck has turned. A new brick house is being built; the house is almost finished. I often see Vodka now sitting on the steps of the new house... as if guarding it. I like to wonder how Vodka feels about the new house being built, but thinking about it gets me nowhere. It seems he's taken the whole thing quite naturally. In his eyes there isn't much difference between a thatched hut and a brick house. He's the guard, whether it's a brick house or a thatched hut. What does a guard care about what kind of house it is?
That morning I heard many dogs barking. I could hear Vodka's voice quite clearly too. Looking out the window, I saw the municipality's dog-catching cage truck with several dogs inside it. They catch the street and stray dogs and take them away to kill them. This arrangement is for the city's health protection. But I see they also catch many good dogs. And how cruelly they catch them! It's painful to watch. They make a noose with rope and throw it around the dog's neck. Then they jerk it and drag the dog into the truck and shut the door. If it can't be lifted easily, if the dog resists too much, then they beat it half to death with iron rods before putting it in the truck. Such cruel scenes are often seen in the middle of the city. They take the dogs away piled up like sacks in a truck.
They're supposed to catch only street strays, not house dogs. But I saw that when Vodka was standing in the street making a strong protest, they also put the rope noose on Vodka and pulled him into the truck. Some people from Vodka's house were standing on the veranda then. They didn't listen to their objections; instead they said, "If it's a house dog, keep it tied up at home, why did you let it loose on the street? If you interfere with our work, we'll file a case against you."
The truck drove away. Fearing a lawsuit, no one came forward. They stood there with long faces. I felt terrible for Vodka. But what could I do? Is my love more powerful than the government!
Vodka's barking was still reaching my ears from inside the truck. A prayer arose from within me: "Lord, don't let them kill Vodka." I did pray, but my mind remained shrouded in sorrow. Dogs that get on that truck don't come back. Proving my prayer futile, Vodka never returned. My soul found momentary peace in prayer—that's all!
Every time I pass in front of their house, not seeing Vodka makes my heart heavy. Poor Vodka! Everything seems somehow empty. Day and night, Vodka's voice can no longer be heard. Everything is there, yet just Vodka's absence makes everything feel empty. Vodka was what kept the neighborhood lively. Just as a single morning star fills the dawn sky, Vodka was like that in this neighborhood. The neighborhood is dead today.
Again and again, only thoughts of Vodka come to mind. Vodka's tiny life has merged with the infinite ocean of life. Alas, poor Vodka! Sometimes I think, what if by chance Vodka returns? Such things happen, so many have happened! Miracles occur... don't they? But no, one day, two days—several days have passed, Vodka hasn't returned.
Still I keep looking. I keep the south window open. Vodka used to lie on their new steps lately. Won't he ever come and lie on those steps again? Won't Vodka ever call out again in his beautiful voice?
No, futile hope! Those who leave—do they ever return! Oh Lord, did you not hear my prayer? Was this then Bhadka's unbreakable destiny? I gained neither the power to hold onto what I loved, nor the power to make my prayers come true! I have but one ability—I can lie prostrate at the Lord's feet, just as Bhadka used to lie at his master's feet.
Gazing intently at the stairway, I often think,
Who can hold onto life? Each star in the sky calls to it! Its invitation spreads from soul to soul, In new eastern dawns, through light upon light.
Still the emptiness won't fill, the ache remains. What greater philosophical truth is there than emptiness? Could all the philosophy in the world fill even the smallest void?
Many days passed. Even today, absently, I open the southern window for a bit of air. Instead of air, memories drift in…
One day. Oh! What do I see! Is this my dream, or some mystical delusion! There—Bhadka lying on their stairway. When did Bhadka return? How did he return? Is this even possible? Lord! Then did you hear my prayer after all? Let people believe or not believe, I know that by your grace all things are possible. But how did this impossible thing happen? Has God finally shown me mercy!
I don't want to know any of this; I only know that today Bhadka and I are well together.