Ronnie & Me

In June 2000, our old family friend and neighbour offered to give us one of the puppies his German shepherd had just given birth to. So I went along with my grandfather, dad and my brother to see the newborns.

My grandpa saw the 6 puppies, and to everyone’s surprise, he picked the smallest and weakest of the young canines. He had a theory. The pup’s ears were straight, unlike the rest! “Never pick a dog with drooping ears,” he explained. And that was that. Considering he had kept about 12 dogs as pets in his lifetime already, no one argued.

We named the little one Ronnie. Ronnie Junior, technically, because he was christened after Ronnie Senior, a German shepherd who had been with our family earlier.

I was petrified of dogs. I found them very cute, but I was afraid of getting bitten! Ronnie, obviously, did not even have teeth, but my fear remained. My dad had put a small red collar with bells around his neck, to keep track of where he was! I loved watching the tiny black furry thing run all over the house with the jingling bells.

The bells were particularly useful for me. I would know exactly where Ronnie was, and stupidly, I would run in the opposite direction. Sometimes he even followed as fast as he could, bells jangling, to play with me. But I would quickly shut the first door I came across behind me, blocking his path.

Soon enough though, I learned the little dog really meant no harm. He was used to having me around, so he wouldn’t bite or bark at me. That eased me up a bit. But I still couldn’t muster the courage to even pet him.

I will never forget the seemingly insignificant situation that made Ronnie and me best friends, and took away all my fear.

A few months after we brought him home (he had grown a little in size by then), we had to move into a new house. We had hired packers & movers to help, and the whole house was swarming with people packing and carrying cartons and furniture out into the trucks. All the grown-ups were extremely busy, and Ronnie was getting restless and scared. I was the only one left who had no other use, but to hold him by the collar and make sure he didn’t snap at any of the strangers so freely roaming about!

So there we were, Ronnie and me, sitting together in a corner, a little scared, watching a scene unfamiliar for both of us. Nothing really happened, but in that one hour, my dog and I bonded, silently, as if some connection was being made between his collar and my fingers. I felt he was afraid, afraid we would leave him behind. I somehow overcame my fear and bravely pet his head, trying to keep him calm. It worked.

There was no looking back then. I became his favourite playmate, and in our new home, we used the big garden and driveway to play every evening. It was our daily ritual. I would literally put my hand right through his teeth to pull out the ring he so stubbornly clamped on too, and he was extremely careful never to hurt me.

Ronnie is 11 years old now, which is very old in dog years. He can barely walk, let alone run. But I would like to think he remembers, and misses, the summer evenings he and I spent together. I sure do.