Destined to Survive
By Kumkum Ramchandani


Snoopy, a five week-old dachshund, came into my life when I was just beginning to feel the empty nest syndrome. Though my daughters, Mina and Tara, were still living at home, they had their own lives.

We had been living as expatriates for 15 years in Dubai, the Arabian Gulf’s most liberal Islamic emirate situated in the tiny oil-rich United Arab Emirates. Though life was far from uncomfortable, at times we felt the constrictiveness of an alien culture especially one where a dog is considered the most unholy animal next to the pig.

My heart melted when I saw the rat-sized wriggly little black and tan pup for the first time. After we brought him home he became almost exclusively mine bringing out the dormant maternal instincts which had been lying fallow for so many years.

Snoopy had been the runt of the litter and I suspect was often bullied by his more aggressive siblings. He responded readily to all the love and attention he got in our home but never managed to get over his timid nature. Coupled with this was the fact that in the Gulf, one is always careful to screen one’s pet from the more overtly fundamentalist people.

Some times, during walks, we were pelted with stones particularly from Arab boys. We had also heard terrible stories of how dogs were captured and tortured and even starved to ferociousness and used for dog fights.

Then one day, February 5, 1996, when Snoopy was just 8 months old, disaster struck. I was out on work when I got a frantic call on my cell phone from Mina, my older daughter. “Mom,” she sobbed, “Snoopy has run away!”

My heart constricted with fear as I rushed home to confront two hysterically distraught daughters. This is what had happened:

Mina had taken Snoopy for a walk to an empty plot just next to the apartment building where we were staying. There was a lot of construction going on in the area which was in the central business district. She had let him off the leash for one second when some people approached him in a determined manner. Sensing danger, he bolted and was chased by my daughter and subsequently lots of other people who had decided to have some fun.

The terrified dog ran round and round the building which was familiar to him but seeing that he was being chased by hordes of strangely shouting people, he veered off course and disappeared in the direction of the busy main street. That was the last anyone saw of him.

The next two days were a nightmare. We searched every nook and corner of the neighbourhood which was mainly dominated by high rise apartment and office buildings.

People around got used to four very distressed people scouring the streets for their beloved pet. We put advertisements in all the small and big supermarkets close to us and even in the newspapers. “Please help us find our dog,” was the cry on our lips every second of the day.

I called K9 Friends on the third day. This was a non-profit organization run mainly by expatriate British women with the sole aim of homing dogs who were abandoned or cruelly treated. These poor women had their hands full with this very thankless task.

The ladies at K9 told me to send a fax to the government vet hospital where Snoopy was registered and given his token number which he wore on a metal tag around his neck. I did this promptly though I was numbed with grief. In my fax I wrote down Snoopy’s registration number, our home telephone numbers and I explained that the dog was lost.

However this was the third day since he had disappeared and hope was fading fast. We couldn’t eat or sleep thinking the worst. What if he was hurt or hit by a car? What if some street boys had got hold of him and were torturing him?

To top it all, it started raining cats and dogs on the fourth day. It poured all day and all night. And this in a country where it doesn’t rain for years at a stretch!!! My heart was broken and I sobbed myself dry of tears. Slowly I was beginning to accept that I would never see my sweet little dog again.

We were getting some very weird responses to our advertisements in the newspapers by this time. One man called and said in a heavily accented voice that he had seen a dog’s head in a garbage bin and it fitted the description we had given.

Another man called and said we had no business keeping a dog as it was anti-Islam and this was what we deserved. All this made us even more miserable.

On the fifth day I was alone at home when I got a call from a man who could speak only Arabic. He said that he had got our dog “Snooby” and we should meet him at the Sheraton Hotel roundabout.

Now the Sheraton Hotel was about three busy main streets away from our house and it made no sense. However I called my husband immediately and pleaded with him to accompany me to the assigned place. He was reluctant at first as we had got so many wrong leads.

“This is the last time,” he said firmly and I promised that after this I would rest my case and take up the threads of my life once again. It was still raining when we approached the Sheraton roundabout. My heart was pounding in anticipation….

In the distance I saw three men in green uniforms holding a rope and standing right on top of the traffic island. At the end of the rope was a sorry looking small black dog. He looked the picture of dejection. My heart leapt. Could it be?

It was! I couldn’t believe my eyes! As I hugged my shell-shocked sopping wet dog to me, I had tears of gratitude falling down my face. “How can I thank you?” I asked Ali and his gang, a group of municipality garden maintenance workers who had seen the animal and saved him from sure death.

Since I couldn’t understand much of what they were saying, I probably lost out a lot but I was so happy that it didn’t matter. From the little I did manage to understand, it transpired that Ali had seen the token number attached to Snoopy’s collar and called the vet hospital.

Some one at the hospital had received my fax and given Ali the telephone number. I couldn’t believe that I had actually found my dog after five full days of agony! Moreover my faith in humanity was restored.

Though Ali was from Yemen and also a Muslim, he had the compassion to realize that some person had lost their pet and would be pitifully grieving. He said that he had stopped several people and asked for their help in finding the dog’s owners but had been scoffed at and ridiculed.

After this incident I have realized that there is still some kindness in this world. As a former agnostic I had often questioned my existence but this experience taught me that some times there is no explanation. Every time I look at my dog now I know that there is someone above who heard my prayers.