In memory of Roger

roger, originally uploaded by mincaye.

On 24 November, a little stray mongrel puppy set foot upon my grandparents' garden next door. George was all excited at first, but they warmed up to each other very quickly and became friends.

We decided to keep the puppy until its rightful owner came to collect it.

After a few days, it became apparent that the owner either did not exist, or wasn't bothered about the missing charge. So we decided to keep the puppy and named him Roger.


He had really sharp teeth, though not quite the jaw strength to work them. I still remember when we were playing one day; I very quickly moved my hand across his mouth, and my thumb slid across his teeth, leaving a minor skin-deep cut there.

Roger loved playing with George, and I daresay our Dachshund was equally fond of the pup. Roger would frequently gnaw on George's coat, with special preference for the neck.

In the mornings, Roger would be sitting expectantly outside the house door, so that he was the first sight to greet whomever opened the door that morning. Above all, he loved to eat.


The day before I left for d'NA, we took him for his vaccination, choosing the 7-in-1 course instead of the 6-in-1; it cost more, but offered better protection. We also picked up a food bowl, water bowl and dog shampoo for him.

Then, on 15 December, eight days into camp, I received an SMS from Kevin, saying that Roger was sick and in hospital (the vet's clinic happens to be called a hospital, by the way). "Please pray for him," it ended.

The next day, Roger died. It had something to do with a case of tick fever and a relatively soft object that wound up in his intestine. It wasn't hard enough to prevent x-ray penetration, and apparently took on a roundish shape.

They offered to do a post-mortem, but it would've been expensive and wasn't really worth it. (For the record, George once swallowed a pebble from the garden, and was operated upon successfully. That was some years back; I think in late 2003).


He was so small, that he could easily slip out of the house through the spaces between the gate's vertical metal bars. So, we fixed a netting across the lower portion of the gate using twistine wire.

Yesterday morning, I set about undoing the twistine to remove the netting. George had taken his bath earlier (while I was asleep), and was drying near the gate. I told him, "We don't need the twistine anymore; Roger's gone home."

Immediately after saying that, I realised it was true. When Roger first came, I told myself that we would look after him as if he were our own (that would only be standard hospitality for any stranger or guest under our roof), and until his owner came to claim him.

That person, it is now clear, did come. He said, "I am the master of this dog. From my hand he came, and to my hand he will now return."


I look forward to meeting Roger again.