Of winter mornings and crashing doors

Her first night at home was traumatic - for her, she missed her mother dreadfully and cried through the night, for me because it was my first all nighter ever and I never imagined she wouldn't be overjoyed to be home with us. Even though we had decided it was important to teach her early on that she couldn't sleep on our beds at night, I dragged her basket into my room and kept her company that night.

Lyka was brought home just as winter was setting in for us in Tripura. Once she got over her initial homesickness and learned to trust us, to feed her and be nice to her, she started to explore the vast compound where our house was situated. We used to have a little drain running around the house that was meant to catch rain water. In her initial few days, Lyka's legs would never reach across and she would come to a screeching halt in the midst of an after meal run out of the house. She then learned the fine art of jumping and thereafter, there was no stopping her and her floppy ears that would bounce along happily.

My dad once brought home a chewable chocolate bone from one of his trips that Lyka promptly buried in our sandpit with glee, having accomplished something instinctive. It was different matter when her instincts never led her back to the buried bone, though she searched for it high and low, and looked completely puzzled at how it seemed to have just disappeared.

Winter mornings and exuberant puppies bursting with energy make for a deadly combination. Lyka had her own special way of waking me up. Once my parents were up and had let her out for her morning chores, she'd run back into the house and make a beeline to my room. We soon realized that it was prudent for my parents to give me a warning yell so that I could hang on to my blanket tight and prepare myself for the onslaught of affection ahead. I'd wait for the door to crash open and the bundle of golden fur to leap directly onto my bed. Within minutes my face would be covered with puppy drool and Lyka's ever shedding fur. I'd be reduced to incoherent giggles and she would be satisfied at having woken up her sister in a way that a true canine sibling should be. With a good morning's work behind, Lyka would then lope off my bed and saunter off in the direction of the kitchen, with her face saying "She's up! Now, where's my food?"

We did this for the two winters we were in Agartala.