Must love dogs*

The first dog in my life was Danny, aunt I.'s and uncle H.'s giant collie. He was a huge jumpy fur ball that was obviously not aware of his size. Full of energy and excitedly curious about every visitor, he fascinated as well as scared little me, no more than 4 years old at the time. So after some high-speed patting and cuddling each time we visited, I became overwhelmed and aunt or uncle would put Danny back into his den.

Different village, different dogs: My mum's cousin and her husband, also known as aunt and uncle M. - coincidentally, both their first names began with the same letter -  had Daisy and her son Blacky. Daisy was an adorable white spitz, Blacky (no points for guessing here) her black fuzzy-furred son. They both lived in aunt's and uncle's large yard and garden, without permission to enter the house at any point. The closest they ventured were the few steps that led up to the entrance door where they used to settle down peacefully.
Believe it or not but in the first years of visits there that I remember, I haven't been  - just like the dogs - inside the house even once. We used to visit for no more than an hour or two, a time span not remotely long enough to get enough of these two creatures who, while announcing every visitor with menacing barks, turned into the sweetest pooches on earth as soon as the door opened and they were patted hello.
I was so taken with them that I begged to take one home with me. 'Okay, if you manage to carry him to the car, you can take Blacky home.' Never underestimate the willpower of a 5-year-old who really wants a dog: I picked up the 20 kilo canine and half carried, half dragged him to our Dacia. To my major disappointment, my parents had only been joking and I had to leave him behind again.

Somehow, there was never a right time for me to have a dog of my own. Not when we lived in the village because we all were out of the house for a big part of the day. Not when I was a university student because I always lived in shared apartments and spent a year studying abroad. Not now that I'm renting a place by myself because it is on the fourth floor (nope, no elevator, it's an older house) and tiny and the dog I envisage to get is at least knee high (my knee). And not even in India where there is no dearth of dogs in all shapes and sizes - not colours though: four out of five Indian street dogs are biscuit coloured, probably to be camouflaged in the dust where they spend their days. If I bring back a dog after my stay there, it would have to go into quarantine for four (!) weeks .. and I could never do that to a dog. Of course, I can't leave it behind either, so no dog for me in the foreseeable future.

My parents on the other hand never showed any particular interest in owning a dog. So when one day during my semester in Geneva, I received a letter, containing a piece of half-melted candy that had a bit of light brown and grey fluff stuck to it and the words 'we have a surprise for you', I was not sure what to make of it. Turns out the surprise was my parents' brand-new puppy, a cuddly little Havanese by the ferocious name of Zorro.
Cute thing but somehow, our relationship never evolved beyond friendly-polite with a dose of respect from his side and a pinch of indifference from mine. There are probably two reasons for that: the fact that I wasn't 'home' very often and so couldn't spend a lot of time with him. And then I blame my mum. Ok, 'blame' is a bit of a strong word but the problem is that she sees dogs as humans. Free will and freedom of choice included. However, if you don't train a dog and show him who's the boss, he takes this role, and so Zorro more or less ruled the house. But not with me, mutt! I will not let a dog walk all over me, as dinky as he may be.

Since then, a good number of four-legged ones crossed my path .. students' dogs, friends' pets, strays. The latest addition to the canine parade is my parents' new pup, Miro, formerly known as Eduard:

*PS: The title of this post was borrowed from the movie by the same name.