Bambi, Chops and Wag: How three dogs trained a family

By Ranjit Lal

Bambi, Chops and Wag: A madcap story of how three dogs trained a family is a first-person account of author Ranjit Lal's love for his three pet dogs and how the family cared for the two Boxers and a Labrador. A book for everyone from age 10 to 100, this is a fun, easy-to-read book that will keep the readers hooked to their antics, and their different personalities. At times funny and at times touching the core of your heart, this book celebrates the family's commitment to the three adorable dogs: Bambi, Chops and Wag.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roli Books
• Release date: Jul 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9788174368669

Ranjit Lal

Ranjit Lal is the author of around 45 books for children and adults . He was awarded the Zeiss Wildlife Lifetime Conservation Award for 2019 for writing 'with exceptional literary skills' on the conservation of wildlife, especially birds. As a journalist, he has had well over 2000 articles published in the national and international press. He lives in Delhi.

Book preview

1

The Great Boxer Rebellion

My parents, my two sisters Meena (then 20) and Mala (12) and I (17) were holidaying in Mahabaleshwar, a hill-station near Bombay in the winter of 1972, walking around the lake, when the conversation turned to dogs. If – and this was a very, very BIG if – we were to keep a dog, what breed would we choose? Alas, several breeds got terribly maligned in the ensuing discussion.

‘Not Pomeranians,’ was the unanimous verdict. ‘They’re so yappy and snappy and look more like cats than dogs. Yipyap, yipyap, yipyap all the time!’

‘And certainly not those Silky Sydney things! More like rodents than dogs!’

‘And they only eat chicken mince…’

‘Dachshunds are out, too. Poor sausage dogs! When they get fat they look like caterpillars!’

‘Gross!’

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‘How about Poodles?’

‘You can’t be serious! They have to be taken to the hairdresser every month!’

‘What about Alsatians? They’re proper dogs. Keep an Alsatian and no on will dare come near you. Can you imagine an Alsatian walking by your side? Wow!’

‘But they’re supposed to be one-person dogs. And they need firm handling when they’re pups.’ Instinctively we knew we would be unable to ‘firmly handle’ any dog, even a Chihuahua, forget about an Alsatian. More likely they would ‘firmly handle’ us.

‘What about Dobermans, then? They’re excellent guard dogs and used by the police!’

‘But treacherous!’ we agreed, denouncing poor Dobermans forever. ‘There are so many stories about Dobermans turning on their owners. No thanks. We can’t have one of those.’

‘Golden Retrievers are really beautiful…’

‘But they have so much hair. Can you imagine giving them a bath? You’ll have to dry them off with a hair dryer and brush out their tangles three times a day. (We all turned to look at Mala who had very curly hair and had a tough daily battle untangling the knots.) And they need to be kept in air-conditioned rooms.’

‘I suppose you’ll have to do the same for Cocker Spaniels. You have to pin their ears over their heads when they eat.’

‘And that Kim is such a foolish fellow. Always tries to climb up on my leg.’ (Kim was a golden cocker that lived in our building in Bombay.)

‘But they are a convenient size. Especially for flats.’

‘I think big dogs are better.’

‘How about Labradors, then? They’re supposed to be very intelligent.’

‘And stubborn!’

Somehow Labradors didn’t strike a chord with us.

‘Boxers! They’re perfect! They have such sweet, worried-looking faces and big soulful eyes. And they have all those wrinkles. They look ferocious but are such softies. Like Cherokee…’

‘I don’t think he’s a proper Boxer. But remember how he chased that cat? With Mrs T charging after him screaming Sherokeeee! Get back here! and going all purple in the face! It was so funny!’ Mrs T was a formidable Englishwoman who lived in our building and who had confiscated several cricket balls from my friends and me, with which, needless to add, we had broken several windows.

‘They probably need a lot of exercise. They’re so athletic.’

‘But they don’t have hair so will be easy to look after.’

At this time, not for a moment did we consider the possibility of acquiring a ‘pie’ dog; all we knew was that we loved the way Boxers looked and wanted one.

The conversation lapsed into wistful silence and probably went on to other subjects.

Unknown to us, a seed was sown… It lay dormant until the following March. Then our immediate neighbours in Bombay acquired a Boxer pup, which their driver, (who often brought her to the garden) called ‘Lechmi’ (Lakshmi). Envious inquiries revealed that there was still one pup in the litter that needed a good home. And suddenly there was a Boxer Rebellion brewing in our own house, which came to the boil at the dining table one Sunday at lunchtime.

‘You know, the Dhars have got a new Boxer pup…’

‘She’s really very sweet…’

‘She’s called Lechmi and plays in the garden downstairs every morning…’

‘They say that there’s one last pup still left… Lakshmi’s sister.’

‘We’ve never had a dog…’

‘No family is complete without a dog.’

‘You don’t know what you’ve deprived us of, by not letting us keep a dog.’

‘We’re willing to forgo all pocket money and birthday presents this year and next…’

‘We don’t want any birthday presents if we cannot have the pup…’

‘We’re not hungry…’

Parental defenses went up at once, like umbrellas in a sudden thundershower.

‘How can we keep a puppy? Who’s going to look after it while you all are at school and college and gallivanting about town?’

‘It’s only in the morning that we’re out. We’re back home by lunch… And someone is always at home anyway, so it won’t be left alone or anything like that.’

‘We don’t think it’s such a good idea. It will be a lot of work. Besides if it’s a female she’ll come in heat and have puppies and we don’t want to get into all that.’

‘They say it’s better to keep a female rather than a male as your first dog. They’re gentler and easier to handle.’

‘It’ll be too much work. When she falls ill you’ll have to take her to the vet…’

‘We’ll do all the work. We’ll take her to the vet and for walks and feed her and exercise her and brush her.’

‘Oh yes! We know what that means.’

But faced with three united, mutinous faces, the first cracks in the defense appeared.

‘How much do they want for the pup?’

Whoops. We found out. The prospect got bleaker.

‘Umm… only six hundred rupees.’ (Probably worth three years’ pocket money and birthday presents combined at that time.)

‘Six hundred rupees?’

‘She’s very pedigreed.’

‘But six hundred rupees for a puppy?’

Grim-faced we went back and spoke with the Dhars – who knew (and got back to) the owners. The scenario remained pretty dismal.

‘They’re willing to give her to us for only five hundred and fifty…’

‘A bargain.’

‘But we have to tell them quickly or she’ll be gone.’

‘By this evening.’

Our combined wealth at that time totalled around four hundred rupees.

‘If you can make up the rest, we’ll forgo birthday presents and pocket money until it’s recovered…’

And so, on April Fools Day, 1973, while Neil Diamond sang ‘Song Sung Blue’, Bambi made her appearance at our home, trembling and tremulous, and blessed the floor with her first tiny puddle. She was about six weeks old and smaller (the smallest of the litter) but prettier (we thought) than Lakshmi, with a more worry lines on her face and neat white socks on her paws, and a white map on her chest. She fitted comfortably in the hand and weighed just 5 lbs. I don’t remember now what other names we considered, but ‘Bambi’ seemed to suit her best, as she seemed timid and graceful as a deer and it didn’t matter that the original Walt Disney ‘Bambi’ was a he. A few days later we received her official pedigree papers from the Kennel Club of India and were completely blown away.

‘Will you just look at this!’ Meena said, shaking her head in wonder and then dissolved into giggles. ‘Her official name is Plucky Pandora, her sire was called Honest Iago (more giggles) and her mother was called Sabrina.’ She looked at Bambi. ‘Sweetie dog, do you know who your daddy was? But look – there’s a Brutus Von Tootus too – he must have been an honourable dog… and also a Lady Portia so all is not lost!’ (Meena was a student of English Lit.) We gazed at the certificate in awe. It traced her ancestry five generations back, and was full of such noble (and often ‘champion’) souls as the English Champion Burstall Jazzaway, Ch Masterpiece of Jonwin Von Prinzstadt, Queen of Dahanu, Brutus Von Tootus, as well as more plebian doggies called Neeta Beena, Sally the Stylish, Jock, Banshee, Rob Roy and Dolly.

‘Who gives these dogs their names?’ Meena wondered, still giggling helplessly. ‘I mean are they nuts or what?’ She picked Bambi up, ‘Did you know one of your ancestors was Champion Wardrobes Wild Mink and another Wardrobes Tafetta Bow?’

‘Maybe we should frame this certificate and put it up on the wall,’ I suggested. ‘I mean she’s got a better pedigree than we have!’

She really did; I later discovered that the Burstall boxers belonged to a very famous German kennel, while the British ‘Wardrobe’ boxers, starred at least two famous ‘Champion’ sisters, Miss Mink and Miss Sable. (Ah, now the names began making sense!)

‘We need to open a file for all her documents,’ my father decided and proceeded to do just that.

Impressive. But we knew she came from a good, caring family when we received phone calls from the owners of her parents, followed by postcards, inquiring after her well-being, and listing the shots she needed. They even suggested that in the future we should seriously consider entering her for dog shows – she was that classy. And they hoped that ‘the pup was happy’.

We hoped so, too. We certainly were. We had no idea how to bring up, let alone train a pup – and that I think made Bambi very happy indeed. She spent her first night at our house in Meena’s bed and by the morning had piddled on her pillow and in her hair.

2

First Pup

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Everything changes when there’s a new (and especially first) pup in the house. Suddenly your whole life and routine revolves around it from the moment you wake up to the moment you go to bed. It’s rather like what happens when a new baby comes home. First and foremost, perhaps, is the matter of rolled up carpets and acres of newspapers spread everywhere (usually you don’t have to do this for babies). Even though we were only on the first floor, it was not practical to take Bambi down into the garden every half hour or so – as she seemed to require. Mishaps could happen en route and without notice and in your lap as you carried her down. Besides, other residents in the building could object to the garden being used for this purpose, and taking her out on the road while she was so tiny and tremulous was out of the question. So we earmarked a small verandah for her, for use as her ‘ladies’, and would plonk her there when we thought she needed to go and let her back in after she’d done her job. But of course we had to buy a big ragged mop, lots of phenyl and cut up millions of pieces of stiff cardboard for use as poop scoops, because accidents happened with alarming frequency. It took her quite a while to realize what the verandah was earmarked for, though once she did she would often suddenly stop playing or whatever she was doing and scamper off there, looking as if she was being chased by hundreds of piddling (or worse!) demons, and would get very upset if the verandah door were closed!

Our own morning routine changed completely. Luckily the summer holidays started soon after we had got her, so we didn’t have to rush off to school or college and could spend the whole day with her. After her first memorable night, she was given her own bed, at the foot of our beds, into which she could snuggle up cozily. But invariably we’d be woken up at the crack of dawn by this wailing, whining little pup staggering about the room, like an abandoned waif in the aftermath of an apocalypse.

‘Oooi-oooi-oooi!’

‘Oh, heck Bambi’s woken up!’

‘Mmmm… Bambi go to sleep!’

‘Shh… pretend you’re asleep. She might go back to sleep. So damn early.’

‘Ooooi-ooooi-ooooi!’

‘Bambi! Shut up! Go to sleep! It’s too early!’

‘Oooi-ooooi-oooi!’

‘Maybe she wants her blanket!’

‘Bambi come here sweetie, come to your bed. Here’s your blanket… Come on, good girl!’

‘Ooooi-Oooi Ooooooi!’

‘She must be hungry.’

‘Poor thing!’

‘Uhh… what’s that smell?’

‘Maybe she wants to pee!’

‘Ooooi-oooi-oooi!’

‘Oh, okay, we’ll get you your breakfast. Hold on!’

‘Take her to the verandah first.’

Groggy ourselves, we’d have to take care not to step into big damp patches of newspaper, or worse. One of us would now have to play with her and distract her, while another sneaked off to the kitchen to make her Farex or daliya and put in her medicines. Of course she soon realized what was going on and would paw madly at the door, whining like she was in the last stages of starvation. At last the all clear would be sounded.

‘Okay, you can open the door! Bambi! Bambi, come on. Breakfast!’ With a frantic scrabbling of paws on the smooth floor (‘Hey Bambi, look you’ve got wheelspin!’) she’d be out and hurtling along the corridor towards the kitchen. Often her brakes would fail and she’d plunge headfirst into her bowl of Farex, upsetting it all over the floor. Needless to say, it would all be licked up spotless.

One of the first things you do when you get a new pup is to take it to the vet to have it checked out, praying that it is healthy and doesn’t have any terrible, insidious disease, which will rear its ugly head and kill it in a week’s time. And also, since this was our first pup, we had about a million questions we wanted to ask about what and how much and how often to feed her and brush her and de-tick her and exercise her and… Dr Doshi, who looked after the Dhars’ dogs, had his clinic in an old house in Tardeo – a rather congested, noisy locality of Bombay – and that’s where we took Bambi for her first ‘medical’.

As we climbed up the creaky wooden, almost spiral, steps that led to his clinic a stern,