Hatchi: Life Lessons From A Wise Furry Friend

It was not once upon a time or many years ago. It was just yesterday that Hatchi (I always spelt it with a ‘t’ despite being serially corrected by my family) was alive. Our third dog, in fact my children’s dog and to be very precise, my daughter’s dog. On his first visit to Jalandhar on January 13th this year, he was indeed delighted to have the space of the large bungalow with its garden to himself, undeterred by the looming presence of the two older Alsatians. Fully appreciating the uniqueness of this opportunity, he ran and paced and rolled over the length of the greens, simultaneously chasing away the birds from the branches, the fence and our patch of the sky above the home. That he was thoroughly satisfied with his escapades was evident from his gainly posture even to those not initiated in interpreting canine communication.  

An Indie from the Mussoorie hills, separated from his mother and the litter early after birth, the resilient pup roughed around till he landed in the Happy Valley grounds of the Academy straight outside the badminton Courts. That is where the two young daughters of my colleagues found him hungry and thirsty and so vulnerable. Having nothing on hand but a packet of Lays chips and a bottle of Coke, the empathetic girls fed him with these. Given the enterprise and unstated but pervasive influence of the Academy kids gang, the pup was committed to the care of the guard at the main entrance to LBSNAA. He was officially christened as Hachi (inspired by the Japanese film seen together by the gang a few days earlier in the Academy auditorium) and formally accorded the status of THE PET of the Academy. Dietary and care schedules were drawn up and duties rostered amongst the gang. Joining the gang were several Officer Trainees and also my 30-year-old daughter, Megha, then taking a sabbatical after five years as Senior Manager with Godrej Properties at Hiranandani, Mumbai. 

That Megha and Hatchi (I revert to my spellings of his name) were to meet was destined. Some beings have such a connection, deep and inevitable, as if in a continuum from a past. A ferocious snow and hailstorm in February 2018 brought Hatchi to ‘Himshikhar’, the Director’s bungalow, avowedly till the return of fair weather. Though the sun shone bright after a week and winter progressed to spring and subsequent seasons, Hatchi continued to be a resident of Himshikhar. He rode into Delhi with us after I was transferred to Delhi as Secretary to Government of India and became the youngest member of the family.  

Friendly, amiable, sprightly: he delighted not just the kid’s gang at Mussoorie along with his friend, Lily (the Himshikhar housekeeper’s cat) but our staff and friends as well. Till he started to show clear patterns of a personality change at the flat in CWG Village that grew stronger at New Moti Bagh. Snarling, aggressive, hyper: he was putting people off, including us. In fact, he was becoming unmanageable having bit Megha twice and her sibling, Mohit, thrice over with the latter having escaped a major eye injury in one of such attacks. Driven to the brink by his behaviour, we tied up to shift him to a farmhouse on the Delhi border, albeit with great reluctance and even resistance on Megha’s part. Hatchi was transported to the farmhouse but for exactly a day less than a week. Megha was tormented by a guilt a having abandoned him, being a person with a deep though often misdirected sense of integrity. Her turmoil intensified when an animal communicator engaged by her (I did not know of such professionals till then!) revealed Hatchi’s grand plans of running away from the farmhouse and his deep remorse at his conduct and how desperate he was to get back to US GOOD FOLKS. So, the imp was put into a dog correction facility at an exorbitant cost paid for by Megha from her tiny savings where he was under instruction on minding and mending his behaviour including socialising with his and our tribe. 

It is then that he was also diagnosed with having idiopathic epilepsy leading to seizures possibly genetic and not curable. Those episodic bursts of electrical storms in his brain left him confused, scared (he could sense it was coming on), blurry (jumping around and banging into things), convulsing, drooling, losing control of his bladder and bowels. Hatchi had to be home with his family. Megha, the Mom, took full charge enlisting the very willing support of Mohit, especially after we shifted to Punjab post my retirement. They read and research on the condition; communicated with people handling such pets; consulted an array of doctors; continually tweaked his medication and diet ( sparing no expense on that); trained themselves to gauge onset of a seizure; cope with it in-house with Megha holding him down while Mohit prepared the diazepam shot and injected it rectally. Socialising, family functions, travelling, stepping out, ‘chilling’ were curtailed to prioritise Hatchicare. Covid was no deterrence if Hatchi had to be hospitalised or taken for a consultation even at the peak of it with them being masked thrice over and face masked over it besides being gloved in. And the siblings enjoyed his presence between epileptic episodes: taking him for vacation, ordering his favorite keto pizzas on Friday’s, driving him to New Moti Bagh for his walks ( he loved that space) and much else. 

If a child is the parent of Man (a gender-sensitive adaptation from the original saying), I learnt a lot from my children and their relationship with Hatchi. We have always had dogs as pets in the house after my marriage. But Hatchi was not just a pet. Hatchi was a child with a condition. That there is no limit to doing and trying and continuing to do so for those you care for. That life is dynamic and we can shape it to fit purpose of the time(s). That caring is not a compulsion or restriction but what you want and wish to do. That caring can improve a condition: Hatchi was doing better, slightly and slowly, adapting to being with our inner circle of friends and relatives.  That loving and nurturing are equally if not more important than medication and consultations. That coping with a condition and situation is what human endeavour is about and should remain: and not to allow oneself to be sunk under. Most importantly, he brought us four even closer together bonding us deeper at a life-stage where parents and children tend to move further away into own ways.  

But most important is the value he brought to my children’s lives. They stuck together for his sake to share accommodation in Green Park and then in GK I despite personal differences. He enabled them to become more responsible, empathetic, co-operative and caring. Most importantly, to prioritise another’s needs and urgencies over own. The life lessons that Hatchi left to us: the four-legged imp’s resilience in the face of twice-a-month convulsive traumas is a takeaway. He was happy and sunny and bouncy and playful in between. So, the pint-sized wolf (as my son described him) was sermonising to us to take and make the best of what life deals to each.  

The animal communicator called him an old soul. He was also a lovable soul. The outpouring of grief from the circle of friends and family, in person and on social media, has been comforting hand-holding for Megha Mohit.  At age four-plus and having moved from Mussoorie to Delhi to Chandigarh, he chose Jalandhar on his very first visit to breathe his last on January 14, 2022, held by both Megha and Mohit. Despite his condition, he did not suffer in his last minutes though his breathing was heavy for a while. While we are distraught, especially at not being able to understand the cause of his death, this brings us some relief. As during his life, the effort to revive him continued that midnight with video call to his doctor in Delhi, oral resuscitation, CPR etc. Prophetic soul too: he had told the animal communicator in last November that he did not have much time left. He knew perhaps that his earthly stay was going to be short but for the life lessons to us, his life was so purposeful as if repaying some sort of karmic debt. He rests in the open space of the garden of my husband’s parental home in Jalandhar with a few treats, his cushion, the daily dose of medicines and his favourite chewy bone buried with him. Rest in peace, Hatchi.