A dog named Charlie Brown— we didn’t actually name him. He was christened by a good friend who, thinking we would be good parents, handed him over to us when he was just five weeks old. The little ball of fur would just fit into my wife’s palms, snuggling beside her to get a mother’s warmth. Charlie Brown, much like his namesake from the “Peanuts” comic strip, was a bit wishy-washy, awkward, yet highly optimistic.
For those unfamiliar with these remarkable dogs, Lhasa Apsos are like walking clouds of silk—light and completely draped in a double coat of hair that almost obscures their eyes. They are natives of Tibet and have been spiritual and faithful companions to monks and princes in the high altitudes of the Himalayas.
Honestly, every pet owner has frequent conversations with their canine companion, and almost all of us are candid enough to admit it. We talk both verbally and physically. Like the warm, wet tongue sloshing all over your face, declaring, “Love is back in the air as if we’ve met after a day’s work!” Dog lovers know that we can talk, and the adorable dog sits with a calm expression, seemingly asking, “How can I help?” To me, talking to Charlie was like breathing fresh air. And my wife’s favorite expression? “Dogs are way better than having your own kids.” Loud barks for a dog of his size, but no bite, as he loved everybody— his bark was an inviting signal.
Talk to me, I’m here for you
When he fixed his steady gaze on me as I dressed for the office, the monk’s companion seemed to say, “Can I also come along?” But he knew by habit that his mom was there for him, and all would be well. The household help would arrive, and Charlie would follow her around the house—not to keep a check on her, but to tell her that he loved her.
Every evening, as he heard my car turning inside the gate, his ears would perk up, and he’d be at the door, waiting for me to pick him up and give him a kiss on his pink nose. Ignoring the wife was a privilege he accorded to me. When our sons came back from school, their bags were cast aside, and they were on the floor with Charlie, who seemed to ask, “Why can’t I come to school with you?”. After all the rolling and licking was done, a tired dog would jump on the sofa, showing his happiness and contentment, his eyes peering through the “meditation shawl” that was his hair.
Fur Wisdom
Then there were the serious moments. As all of us have experienced, it is not always hunky-dory between husband and wife. Plates and saucepans may not fly (an assumption), but thunder threatens, and harsh words are exchanged . At these times, our friend would position himself between the two of us, looking forlornly as if to say, “Can we have some peace, please?” The contemplative mountain priest would force us to settle down to a more candid and meaningful conversation.
Dogs don’t judge; they only offer unconditional acceptance. Like their monastic companions up in the mountains, they understand that just being present is enough. They are not only hearing you; they are witnessing your moves and moods.
Does he need to bark at the sound of every door opening in the building? Sometimes, yes, he is telling you that may not be the neighbor, but a stranger. Why did he have to drool and stare longingly at the food on your plate? He wants a participative meal. The way his tail moved was a language he used to communicate.
There are times when he reminded us not to take life too seriously, like when he went round and round chasing his tail, or when he almost swallowed your handkerchief, as if claiming ownership.
Is he Human, after all?
The years he lived with us taught us to be masters of canine language, especially that of our guy. A tilt of the head through his flock of hair: “Did you just say something about me?” A fast and furious wag of the tail: “Am I not coming with you?” The way he positions himself, without a gesture or movement, is sometimes a silent language about his mood or intentions. Come Diwali, he’d first try barking down the noise of firecrackers, but then realize he had lost and sneak under the bed or the last shelf of our cupboard and mope.
We were fortunate to be connected to a breed specifically for companionship and joy.
The final conversation
But perhaps the most sorrowful conversations we had were when we realized he was fading. He started slowing down, needed to be fed like a baby, his snow white coat started turning a pale white, and his steady gaze was more sad than watchful. His eyes and demeanour held a different kind of wisdom—the weight of years and the quiet acceptance of the finality of life. These conversations became more precious, more intentional. You find yourself saying things you’ve always felt, but never voiced, sharing gratitude for all the silent support, the patient listening, the unconditional presence.
“The final conversation was heartbreaking. Tears flowed from four eyes as memories mixed with the inevitable reality of life ebbing away. His once-bright eyes, now clouded with age, still held that familiar expression of patient love.
The farewell at the electric crematorium for animals, donated by the Godrej family, felt unreal —watching that tiny form, once so full of life and mischief, turn into ashes. It was a trauma that even time finds difficult to heal.
Twenty three years later, we find the sofas without life, but Charlie Brown taught us that love and bonds transcend physical presence. We’re still talking to him, knowing he’s somewhere within us.
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By
Mr V Krishnan
Covai S3 Retirement Community