Blind not blinded by

 

"Woof! Woof!” Betty, darling take care. Oil spillage has made the pavement slippery.

"Thanks, Romeo. Your timely warning barks are exactly what this blind, bonny mass needs to reach eighty! Good dog, Romeo!"

It is appreciation and pats like these that keeps me going. The pain is excruciating, but Betty and I have been through a lot, and this feels like a needle in the hay. We have broken our limbs together, seen the inside of an operation theater, confined to our room in a neatly-wrapped bandaged bundle, and many others atrocities conferred upon us. But to be the blind Betty's helper dog, is what brings me to my paws every day. 

Dark times necessarily do not end with light. They just turn a little less dark. Oh, forgive my fur! Like me, it sheds philosophy these days. Old age, you see. ‘You see’ is such an overused phrase that the ones who can actually see, can't see what harm it inflicts on those who are deprived of it.

Now, you see, I'm a philosophical, old-school follower dog, using long, tyrannical sentences, so try putting up with my mess. 

Let's begin from the beginning. Not from Betty's beginning, but mine. I wasn't present when she was born, but rather was presented to her when she turned blind. I am being modestly superfluous about my welcome into Betty's life. Initially, she was reluctant to have me around. 

"What if I lose him in the park? What if I stamp on his furry, little tail? What if I fill his bowl with detergent and not dog food?" She stormed at her son. 

The son busy with his life in the city, with deep faith in my premature, puppy abilities, had he left me at her feet, but certainly not at her mercy. I was a smart pup. In fact, I'm a smart septuagenariun till date. By human standards, I'm seventy, but by canine standards I'm twelve. Old enough to tell you my story. Oops! Sorry! Our story- Betty and mine.

So, I was a smart pup. My day would begin much after Betty had ambled into the kitchen. The aroma of fresh coffee beans would tell me that Betty was ready for her morning walk. She would call out to me in her quivering voice. 

"Romeoooo…" 

The 'o's breaking at places before reaching my ears. On my paws, I would rush in a haste to reach out to her. Tumbling quite a number of times, forgetting about my own situation!

Once next to Betty, tugging at her skirt, I would escort her to the nearby park. Betty couldn't walk much. After a few kilometers, she would settle on a bench and start questioning the state of her life. 

"Romeo, why did God take away the beauty of seeing this beautiful world? Why did he paralyze my sight when I was to see my grandson? What good does blinking my eyes amidst the ever-expanding darkness do? The colour of black is dark, it sucks you in. It gets darker with each passing day. Oh, silly me! With each passing night. There are no days in my life, only nights …always present nights."

This would go on, but I would get busy sniffing out rabbits disappearing in the burrows. Missed buck! Hard luck! The chirping of robins would calm my over-active brain. The cool wind would lull me to sleep. By the time, Betty would reach the last chapter of her autobiography, I would have enjoyed a thousand snores.

"Romeo, lazy dog! Let's go home."

Her hard kicks onto my snoozing belly could scare even the rabbits in their holes! We would then wobble our way to the cottage. The cottage was a tastefully done home or that was how I had imagined it to be. The fragrant lilies in the backyard gave hope of a better tomorrow. The woody smell of pine assured a steady life. The sound of pitter-patter rain spoke of the corrugated roof. The doorway from the main gate was paved with tiles. As soon as we entered, Betty's heels would tick-tock on them. 

Once in the house, Betty would get to the pots and pans and I would attend to scaring the pigeons. Rabbits, pigeons, and postmen are my true enemies. Why? I will tell you the story soon.

Betty, though blind, would cook a fabulous, paw-licking meal. Years of dedication to the kitchen had done magic to her sixth sense. 

SHAK! SHAK! Her nimble, wrinkled fingers while fiddling for the rosemary tin, would stop fidgeting right next to it. Her lanky legs would stretch for just a meter to fetch the rice container from an upper shelf. CHICK! The soles stuck to the sweaty slipper would raise themselves. TANK! TANK! The laddle would stir the curry before the knob was turned off. CLACK! Lunch would be ready.

She would always make it a point to cook something that suited my palate. Mild, but not sweet. 

Evenings were a long, cumbersome stretch of time, with both of us fearing to go out in the dark. The darkness outside bit into her personal darkness. Many a times, I wonder what difference would it have made. But Betty preferred to sit on the sofa with a wine glass and the television blaring in the background. On most of occasions, Betty would fall asleep on the sofa while her loud, boisterous snores kept me awake all night. 

In the mornings, realizing her folly, she would burst laughing, "Oh, I have turned blind in love with you, you, mad dog!" Thus, her warm, spongy fingers dived deep into my fur and scratched me till we felt pleasantly satisfied about our existence. 

Betty had learned to cope up with this dim situation. She was lighting up to see the brighter side of life with me around.

One day, the postman rang the bell loud and hard. What I still fail to understand is being blind a precursor to being deaf? Yet, most people visiting Betty behave as if she were to lose her other senses as well. 

The postman handed a letter and there was absolute pin-drop silence. Then, Betty's gentle sobs filled the air, a foghorn of grief. The postman had the nerve to read out the letter for her. Betty's son had been murdered under suspicious circumstances. She interrogated the city police station for news. She called the lawyer. Betty's inability to leave her home, typed on a document, was mailed back. There were a series of postmen encounters post this, troubling Betty and me with loud rings and mean letters. REPHRASE

That's why I had mentioned earlier. I hate postmen!

My life was far more adventurous than any other Labrador in my family. I was the black sheep born in a litter of six. Before, I could lose the scent of maternal saliva, I was sold to Betty's son. I remember the sound of thumping fists and exuberant joy when Betty's son had found a cheap deal in me. I vividly remember the way the word, scoundrel is spelled, when Betty's son discovered my reality. But it was too late by then. 

Time rolled on. Betty's son got married, divorced, arrested, and then released, to ultimately die a mysterious death. All in a time frame of human thirteen years. Betty stood strong. She had me, a faithful friend, a careful caretaker. I confer these degrees upon myself. Life has taught me to be my own cheerleader. 

But life can be cruel at times. How? By injecting a tumour into an otherwise heathy Lab. The tumour doesn't disturb me. Tumour or not, I would have died either ways. But what will happen to Betty after me? Like spouses, married for an eternity, we count our days. We bet on who will go first. We curse each other for the darkness of loneliness that lies ahead. We love each other for the light and heavy moments spend together. We just can't do without each other.

In the twilight of our life, we laugh at how doubtful we were about our companionship. We cry that one of us will be left alone in this darkness. If I go first, which I'm certain, I will be her guiding angel with a halo of light. What else can a blind dog wish for?

Luckily, we are blind, but not blinded by prejudice that two blind people can never see light!