The year was 2009. Tito had passed the age of ten. He was over 70 years old in terms of human age. Dumpy began working in April 2008, after graduating from IIM Bangalore with an MBA. His visits to Ahmedabad had become more infrequent, and Tito had fewer opportunity to spend time with him. Tito had clearly slowed down. He wanted to stay on the ground floor because he found climbing the stairs difficult. He required a lot more attention. We hired Sanjay, a young man in his twenties, who stayed with us primarily to look after Tito.
Tito had been losing his zest for life since the beginning of the year. While he was willing to go for morning and evening walks, he had been increasingly hesitant to run and fetch the tennis ball thrown for him to get some exercise. Even when I was able to persuade him, he would run and catch the ball, then settle down wherever it was and not bring it back to me. He’d also start panting from the exertion of the run. He used to leap into the car when he was younger. He would now place his front paws on the car floor in front of the back seat and wag his tail for someone to lift his hind legs and help him into the car. Sanjay was a huge help during this time because Tito clearly needed a lot of assistance to get through his daily routine.
Tito, a lifelong glutton, had to be persuaded to finish his meals by the summer of 2009. Tito’s doctor, Chirag Dave, had warned us that if Tito ever became disinterested in eating, we should be concerned. So, we went to see him to find out what we could do. He examined Tito. Tito, for once, did not resist and allowed the examination to proceed. Dr. Dave assured us that Tito was well. The lack of interest in food was attributed to ageing. He also warned us that we needed to brace ourselves for the possibility of losing Tito in the coming months. “But, Doctor,” I objected, “he’s only ten. Don’t Labs live for 13 years?” “Yes,” the doctor answered, “while the life expectancy of large dogs like Labs is 12-13 years, a specific dog may die sooner.” We returned home with a heavy heart.
Tito’s health deteriorated dramatically by July 2009. He could no longer walk. We would carry him to the garden, where he would sit or lie down. Even wagging his tail appeared to take a lot of effort. He had a continual faraway expression in his eyes, indicating that he was not entirely aware of his immediate surroundings. He needed to be fed because he couldn’t eat on his own. We would liquify his meals to reduce the need for him to chew, which had become tough for him. Tito’s ability to get up and maintain his equilibrium made it difficult for him to relieve himself without help. I tried giving him vitamins. I even gave him Gatorade, Pepsi’s famed sports energy drink. Tito’s condition did not improve. His body was retaining more fluid, and he was becoming more lethargic by the day.
We asked Dr. Dave to come to our house and evaluate Tito seven weeks after he stopped walking. It was early September. He arrived, examined Tito, and said, “Tito is in a lot of pain. There is no hope of recovery. I think you should put him to sleep. That would be the best option for Tito at this stage.” I was half expecting Dr. Dave to say that. I was devastated. I called Dumpy and informed him of the situation and Dr. Dave’s advice. There was silence at the other end. Dumpy was aware of Tito’s illness but had not considered the idea of having to put him to sleep to free him from his suffering. “Would you like to come home and meet Tito?” I asked. He did not say anything. I knew his answer.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I sat with Tito and stroked him. He didn’t say anything. He was sick and infirm. The doctor arrived at 8:30 a.m. the next morning. He would inject Tito with a huge dosage of pentobarbital, rendering him unconscious and shutting off the heart and brain activity within a minute or two. We carried Tito outside and placed him on the grass for the last time. He gazed at me with the same trusting eyes he had for the past ten years. I couldn’t look at him. Did he sense the inevitable as the doctor knelt by his side? I’d never know.
We buried Tito in the backyard corner that received the first rays of the sun. We planted a Christmas tree on his grave and encircled it with flowering and decorative plants so that the corner would always be decorated with flowers and greenery. Tito would always be woken up by the first rays of the sun and the chirping birds in his own garden, surrounded by flowers and plants.
It took a long time for me to come to terms with Tito’s passing. For months after he died, whenever I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, I would take care not to trip on Tito, who was always next to my bed. When I worked on the computer, my feet would unconsciously seek the warmth of Tito’s body beneath the table.
I still occasionally see Tito in my dreams, bounding towards me with his tail wagging furiously. Is it ever possible to forget someone who had been unconditionally yours?