As Jane Austen observed in one of her celebrated opening lines: Anyone in possession of a Beagle puppy will sooner or later be desirous of finding a mate for their offspring.
Shiraz, our one-year-old Beagle, was raring to go. A three-coloured mutt — black, white and gold — he has the looks, the right family background and a white-tipped tail to wag.
“I agree with that Austen woman, it’s time I looked for a bride,” he indicated rolling over to have his satin-white tummy scratched. “A little more to the left, under the right arm please,” he murmured, as his hind leg started beating the ground automatically.
“Stop, Shiraz!” I whispered. “Knocking your knees together is a signal that only South Indian men indulge in when they are hunting for a bride.”
“Woof! South Indian men are losing it.” Shiraz muttered. “Before they left it to their mums to find a suitable girl, now they’re letting the learned judges decide whether “They” will be acceptable husband material or not.”
Shiraz rolled his eyes upwards. “First it was a jyothish who decided whether you were a suitable candidate, now it is a judge. I don’t mind giving up my horoscope but, pardon me, parting with bodily fluids to be measured by strangers in a laboratory is like giving up my manhood to the scrutiny of strangers. It’s not a marriage made in heaven, but a marriage made in a test tube.”
“That’s enough Shiraz. There’s no need to get melodramatic. Let’s find a girl ,first.”
When Shiraz rolls his eyes, the white of his eyes show like half moons. Even strangers stop and exclaim. “Does your Beagle use Revlon water-proof mascara? Where does he get those adorable rings around his eyes?” Followed by the inevitable question: “Have you had him mated? I know a charming female Beagle near my house. Will you consider an alliance?”
“No, kajal , Lakme,” I reply. “We’re still looking.”
Shiraz gives me a nip as though to say. “Remind them about my pedigree; it’s longer than anyone in your family. I’m an aristocrat.” He is nothing if not particular about his foreign ancestry; a Baron von Snoopy, late of California, being part of his genetic baggage,
“Finding the right companion will be no problem for him.”
Shiraz yawned. “The next thing you will want me to do is wear cooling glasses,” remarked Shiraz withdrawing into his basket and plugging on his iPod, clicking his toenails and singing: “Why dis Cocacolaveri, Cocacolaveri Di? Mai toh have no worri, have no worri Di.”
“Or what do you call them? Shades? Light-sensitive optical devices that can glow in the dark? Wrap-around accessories for politicians to ogle at their female counterparts? We heroes of the South Indian screen and political rallies wear dark sunglasses, not to protect our eyes from sun-strain, but to prevent our male gaze from becoming weak from staring too hard. Even the most self-respecting of statues wear dark glasses long after their idols have turned into cement concrete!”
“Shiraz!” I remonstrate. “There’s no need to become cynical. We can get you a pair of dark glasses when the need arises.”
“Nah,” said Shiraz. “We dogs can get turned on much more easily. For us the trunk of a tree, the carved rosewood leg of a chair, the soft satin-clad calf of a Marwari matron will do. It’s all in our mind.”
“Enough of that, now you’re being crude!” I remonstrated. “Besides, you are getting a visitor today. A lovely blonde female Beagle called Pushy, short for Pushnikai Halwa.”
Shiraz thumped his tail in a slow clap. “ Wah, arrey, wah, wah , bring on the bride,” he seemed to say. We took him to his favourite beauty parlour, to be shampooed, (Tips and Tails), nails trimmed, ears de-waxed. We took him to his vet to be de-wormed, inoculated against any tropical communicable diseases.
“You know, Shiraz,” she explained, “When the learned judges insist on pre-marital testing of blood, they may be looking for HIV-AIDS, which has become endemic in certain areas. So there’s no need to get paranoid about them.”
Pushy was an absolute stunner. She was pale blonde from nose to tail, lovely Champagne blonde. Shiraz stopped in his tracks. He stared. You could hear the violins playing in the background, T.M. Krishna singing seductively, reaching out beyond the invisible boundaries of the Carnatic tradition.
“Where’s your feasibility report? Have you had your male potency levels checked? Will you guarantee a perfect 10 on the performance scale, I need to know?” Pushy barked.
Shiraz turned tail and ran. He’s still running.
Romance, my dears, is dead for man and dog, alike.
