Where Are You Going, Pinky?
 |
| AI Generated |
All I wanted was to return—to a world where
happiness didn’t need reasons, where smiles were contagious, and where even the
silence had warmth. As I rolled over on my bed and drifted into sleep, a
strange peace pulled me in—like being carried gently into a dream not of my
making.
And then, I heard voices.
Not loud, not urgent—just soft murmurs,
like a conversation you accidentally overhear when walking past a quiet room.
Voice 1: “Good to see you again.”
Voice 2: “Where… am I going?”
Voice 1: “You have done well. You’re going to… hxxxxxn.”
Voice 2: “Oh… thank you.”
The words echoed in my dream like whispers across time. I started walking toward the source, unsure of what pulled me forward. Then, suddenly… I saw her.
Pinky.
She was standing there—bright-eyed, tail
wagging, her ears perked just like they always were when she spotted someone
she loved. My heart skipped. Wait… why am I seeing her now? Where exactly am I?
And more importantly—where is Pinky going?
Before I answer that, let me tell you who
Pinky was.
She wasn’t just a dog. She was family. She
was love. She was courage.
She was the one who stood guard when the monkeys came. The one who welcomed you
with a little dance of her paws and a tilt of her head. She wasn’t just a pet;
she was the heart of our ancestral home.
A white Indian local breed—strong,
stunning, graceful. Elder to me. When I was four, she was already grown,
prancing around the farm with my uncle like a guardian angel in fur. She was
there before mobile phones, before the internet, when the only network we had
was the human-animal connection—pure, unfiltered, and full of trust.
 |
| AI Generated |
The Forest Incident: When Pinky Became a
Hero
It was a calm day at my grandmother’s home
in the middle of a dense forest—jackals, snakes, deer, monkeys—it was their
land, and we were just respectful visitors. That morning, the milk had run out.
My mother left to fetch some from the distant neighbor (a good half-kilometer
away), leaving me and my little brother to play.
But, as fate would have it, my
three-year-old brother trailed behind her—unnoticed.
The path he took? A winding trail with
steps that rose and fell through the forest—an unpredictable route where danger
could lurk at every leaf rustle.
None of us knew he had gone.
But Pinky did.
She followed him quietly, keeping a
distance yet never losing sight. By the time he reached the gate—just steps
away from the forest shadows—Pinky was already there, standing like a wall of
protection.
Ten minutes later, my mother returned to a
sight that would remain etched in her memory: her toddler playing happily with
Pinky, unaware of the danger he was just saved from. My mother still speaks of
that day, often with a tear in her eye and a smile that says, “She was sent to
us for a reason.”
 |
| AI Generated |
The Snake Duel: Loyalty in the Wild
Why do snakes come out more often during
summer?
As temperatures rise, snakes become more
active. Emerging from brumation (a state similar to hibernation), they seek:
- Warmth from the sun to regulate their cold-blooded bodies
- Water and cooler hideouts like bathrooms, shaded gardens, or dense underbrush
- Food and mates, since the warmer season triggers their instincts
This makes farms, orchards, and rural
backyards their favorite haunts during summer—especially during early mornings
and late evenings.
We—me, my younger brother, and our
ever-crazy cousin gang—were on one of our typical fruit-plucking missions near
the cashew and mango trees. Laughing, barefoot, careless, we stormed through
the passage like we owned the place.
Then came the hiss.
A sudden flash.
A tail whipping through the dry leaves.
A rat snake—long, muscular, non-venomous
but aggressive when cornered—had slithered into our path.
Before we could react, Pinky leapt in front of us, barking ferociously.
The duel had begun.
Pinky vs. the Snake.
Protector vs. Predator.
What followed was a whirlwind—tail slaps
from the snake, fierce dodges by Pinky, her white fur puffed in courage. The
snake hissed, Pinky growled. She grabbed its tail, shook it, released, dodged
again.
We didn’t want Pinky hurt.
We didn’t want to see blood.
All we wanted was to get our mangoes.
So we picked tiny stones—not to harm, but
to distract—and tossed them. That broke the standoff. The snake slithered away,
bruised but alive. Pinky turned to us, tail wagging, a victorious spark in her
eyes.
She had done her job. Again.
 |
| AI Generated |
Time Passes, But Legends Stay
Years passed. We grew. Pinky aged.
She had pups—Pepsi, and a few more who
carried her legacy in their eyes. As time caught up, Pinky began to limp,
slowed by a tumor and age. But her spirit? It never dimmed. Even when she could
no longer chase snakes or guard the gate, her eyes followed us, making sure we
were safe.
We—me, my younger brother, and our
ever-crazy bunch of cousins—had changed too.
But in some ways, we hadn’t.
We were the kind of gang that laughed
before thinking and forgave before fighting was even over. My brother was the
quiet observer, always curious but calm, while I usually played the dreamer,
leading the pack into made-up adventures. Our cousins? Well, they brought the
spice—loud, loving, competitive, and full of mischief.
We’d split into teams and play cricket with
sticks, argue over who got to bat first, and then end the day under the mango
tree, talking nonsense and stealing unripe guavas. Pinky was always
there—sometimes lying in the shade, sometimes joining the madness with a bark
or a leap, as if she too wanted to be part of the team.
Even during those fights among cousins—the
ones that lasted all of ten minutes—Pinky would nudge in, trying to break the
tension with her eyes or just sit between us like a peacekeeper.
Those summers weren’t just holidays. They
were chapters in our lives—written with love, laughter, and the soft footfalls
of a white dog named Pinky.
One day, quietly and gracefully, Pinky left
us.
My uncle buried her beneath a tree at the
farm—her land, her world. We planted memories in the soil along with her,
watered by tears, and lit by the warmth she left behind.
 |
| AI Generated |
Back to the Dream… and the Message
As the dream faded, I realized what I had
seen.
Pinky wasn’t just walking away. She was
moving on.
That “heaven” the voice whispered about? It wasn’t just a place—it was a
celebration. For every time she protected us, loved us, stood by us… she earned
her place among the stars.
When I woke up, I wasn’t sad. I was…
grateful.
Grateful that in a world full of noise and
chaos, love like Pinky’s still exists—pure, protective, and permanent.
 |
| AI Generated |
Why This Story Matters
We all have stories like this. A dog, a
cat, a bird, even a cow—like Gopi (read that blog if you haven’t:-A Ride Down Memory Lane: Summers, Hills, and Gopi – The Gentle Soul ). Animals
don’t just live in our homes; they carve spaces in our hearts. They remind us
of what it means to love unconditionally and to stand by without words.
So if you’ve had a Pinky in your life,
share it. Don’t let those memories fade.
Comment below. Share this story. Let’s celebrate the silent heroes who made our childhoods magical and our lives meaningful.
Infographic on the Indian local breed Dog
Till the next story… stay kind, stay connected.
You can now read it in your local language
by clicking on Translate and selecting your preferred language. Do follow me
for more stories.
