Biting the Hand that Feeds

Oh boy, do I know that one! Not because I have ever done that to anyone, but because I have had it done to me. And not just the hand, mind you...feet even! And boy, can it be painful! (well, maybe not as painful as lisening to a song called 'Hand That Feeds' by some band called 'Nine Inch Nails', but pretty close. Drive those nine inch nails through my head, why don't you! In fact, I started thinking about this when the darn song started its 'biting' this morning, when I was working to the sounds of LaunchCast)

What am I talking about? Well, m'dear, if it ain't evident by now, I guess I'm-a just gonna have to spell it out for you. Charlie. And Bruno. My Dogs. My honest-to-goodness pedigree Great Indian Street Dogs.

Sweetest, funniest, friendliest dogs you ever played tickley-tummy with! The kind that pull long faces and teary eyes when you are not in town, and greet you with great big grins and a tongue-full-of-drool face slather the minute you hove into sight. The kind that howl 'Good Morning!' and curl up on your feet when its time to go goodnight. The kind that will chase their own tails around the bend, and look extremely hurt when they actually manage to catch up.

But come mealtimes, you better have a darn good reason for hanging around the food bowl! That's when the porki-kanthri-naayee surfaces and drowns out the powder-puff you were playing ball-toss with an hour ago. It starts with the tail swishing low, and the eyes looking up at you from under the brows. If by then you haven't got it into that lump you call a head that you should be atleast a couple feet away, if not in the next room, then you will probably try something totally imbecilic like reaching down, scratching the ears and saying 'Goo' boy! goo' baby! eatcha food!'. And 'goo baby' will promptly attach to whichever appendage happens to be closest (we, girls, definitely have it safer where this is concerned! OUCH!).

In my case, that turned out to be my hand. Once, when Bruno was a puppy. And another time it was my foot, when I didn't realise that the idiot was under the table and eyeing a slice of bread that some homicidal maniac had dropped on the floor. I know my brother got nipped somewhere on his calf, atleast a couple times. And the maid got a headstart on the next year's marathon, once!

Funny thing though, was that neither dog ever seemed to realise that they actually bit someone. Right after breakfast/lunch/dinner, or whichever meal you happened to season, you were sure to get a lick and a cuddle. Duh? What was this?! Tough Love?! Good Dog, Bad Dog?!

Whatever it was, Bruno lived a fairly long, happy and well-seasoned life. And Charlie, who came after, has grown out of meal-time biting. Now he just nibbles whenever he can, and its always done while he is gazing soulfully up at you. Sort of like doggie-style Anaesthesia....the dopey look to make sure the teeth don't hurt. Don't we wish!

And so Life goes on...with Charlie biting not just the hand, but the foot (especially the toes and the heel!), the ear, the nose, and then migrating onwards to the slippers, the carpet, the rocking chair, the doorstop....

You get the picture.