Our friendly neighbourhood dog at Vannarpet, Coonoor, lives on the streets and is fed on leftovers offered by housing colony residents. Piloo Nazir buys rice from the fair-price shop only to feed the dog. She isn't a rice-eater. The only leftovers she uses are those of fresh vegetables, which she boils along with rice to be served to the dog. I wonder how it tastes, but I haven't asked him.

But then he is not finicky about food as is Prince in Mysore. He would wait on an empty stomach for my co-brother Raghu to come home from the club with the customary packet of chicken bones. Our Vannarpet dog is not as fussy as Shadow in Bangalore who would want his fresh milk and rice served on stainless steel, preferably hand-fed by my niece Bubly. Our dog is not as pampered as Tuffy of Perungalathur, who prefers his food on time and feels lost when left alone in the house, particularly at night.

Nor is our Vannarpet dog as sheltered as Joey of Adyar who is being brought up as a pucca vegetarian. When my nephew Kartik had to leave Joey in the care of the SPCA at Vepery for a few days, the handler was instructed to serve him only curd and rice. The handler told him that he would have to order it from a nearby restaurant. Kartik left with him a hefty advance to cover the food plus a little something for the curd-and-rice care.

Yes, we are a dog-mad clan. I must say I married into one. Before our wedding, my wife had a dog named Bhutto. Whether or not Bhutto is remembered in Pakistan, the name is part of our family history. I am not sure what prompted my wife's sisters and brother to name their dog after a signatory of the Simla Agreement. But then there need not always be a method in one's madness.

Speaking of dog-madness running in the family, I would cite an instance where I was a victim of my niece's misplaced concerns. Prince of Mysore has this habit putting his nose into other people's handbags. He once fished out of my bag a strip of blood-pressure tablets and made a meal of it. My niece Kavitha seemed unworried about my loss. Her concern was for the well-being of Prince who wasn't under medication for blood-pressure!

Unlike pet dogs that are taken out for daily walk by their owners, our Vannarpet dog walks people in the neighbourhood. He escorts school kids to the Orange Grove bus stand. He takes our neighbours, the Ramans, to the temple, and my wife and me for our morning walks. Which is why we call him Walker - Brownie V Walker, to call him by his full name.

That 'V' in the middle sorts him out from other Brownies in town. One should not confuse our dog with Brownie A Walker of Aruvankadu or 'B' (for Bedford) Walker. I don't know why, but most street dogs I find in Coonoor are brown.

As our Walker takes my wife and me for a walk we run into his friends on Orange Grove Road. They wag tails, sniff at one another and run about the street in a group. Before long we have a gang of brownies walking us to the TANTEA kiosk. At times Walker follows a jogger for a few yards to sniff him out. There are a few morning walkers he doesn't particularly fancy. There is this lady with the hairdo of the hero of Kadhalar Dinam. When she happens to overtake us on the street, Walker always barks. She is not amused; we look elsewhere in embarrassment. The lady once asked why we don't have him on a leash. My wife had to admit that he was not our dog.

Even if we want to get rid of Walker because of such minor embarrassments with the 'KD' hairdo lady, there is no way Walker would disown us. He has no ego. Shoo him away and he would be back wagging his tail with added vigour before you could say Brownie V Walker.

Sometimes I get put off by his prancing, pouncing and licking at my forearm as soon as I step out of my house in the morning. Walker, who spends the night out in the cold, would miss you for nothing the morning after, rain or shine. Trouble with us humans is that we are so full of ourselves and too self-obsessed to appreciate Walker's selfless cheerfulness after a night out in the cold and the exuberance with which he greets us in the morning.

But then I can't bring myself to admit Walker into the family fold. You see, we once had a dog, Bitsy, who was picked up from the streets in Bhopal. We took Bitsy along when I was transferred to Chandigarh and then on to Chennai. He died at the age of 13, of kidney failure. Bitsy was an adorable rogue and undisciplined to the core. The only person he ever listened to was Dinkar, our office assistant. But then Dinkar could not come with us to Chennai. Fortunately, we had a spare bedroom in our Pantheon Road residence and we locked Bitsy in there whenever we had visitors.

Those who have done work on dog behaviour would have one believe that they are allergic to khaki. Walker doesn't like our postman - he barks at him whenever he comes on rounds. I could ask him not to wear khaki, if only to appease Walker. But that would be against regulations. But then Walker doesn't like my newspaper delivery boy either. And he doesn't wear khaki.

We really don't understand dogs, do we? My junk mail the other day had this to say about dogs:

They follow you around with their tongues out;
only respond to simple commands;
their needs are basic and predictable;
they whine when such needs are not met;
they scratch a lot, and sometimes drool;
make loud noises and sometimes smell bad;
they are rude and rowdy, especially when they are with others like them.

What does it all add up to? Dogs are men that wag their tails. In some respects, they are better than men. For instance, I have never seen a dog throwing stones at stray men. Amen.
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