People largely perceive that animals are incapable of communication. That they do not have a language. I beg to differ. It’s just one more of those shallow human prejudices; an extension of our inability to accept anything or anyone different from our own kind. Dogs can communicate far better than anyone who has never owned one can imagine. Leave a dog and a child alone in a room and watch them communicate. My mother has an inherent childlike quality. She has managed to retain, even after her six long decades, the innocence that separates children from adults. She still voices her opinion with the same lack of diplomacy and manipulative skill that a young child would. She is transparent. And un-bashfully judgmental. So far, it had been these qualities of hers that had made her quite vocal about her dislike for Bruno. But on a cold winter night, it had been her ability to see what other did not, that changed her view of the world in general and dogs in particular.

As she sat sipping her coffee, a faint whine made her sit up and look around. What she noticed, perhaps for the first time, melted her heart. In a corner sat Bruno, all huddled up, trying to escape the cold draught that sneaked in through his blanket. Something about the dog’s posture reminded her of an infant – helpless, beautiful. She sat there, watching, her coffee and book forgotten. She felt a pang of guilt, sitting next to a room heater. The dog looked tiny, pathetic. And lonely. It had been deserted by those he had trusted, and loved. And all this my mother saw as she sat there, watching a dog she had never really bothered to see before that night.

I don’t really know what happened after that, but I like to imagine, to recreate that moment. She must have called out. Bruno must have looked up, at once startled and happy. He must have jumped up and out of his bed, wagging the stump of his tail. He must have grinned. My mother’s face must have softened. She must have smiled. I know that smile very well. It heals. It makes everything seem alright when you are unwell and feeling low. It makes up for sunshine on a dark, gloomy, rain-drenched afternoon. It speaks volumes about the heart and soul of the one whose face it lights up. And no man or beast can remain unaffected by that smile. I know it must have made Bruno ecstatic. He must have jumped, given a brief bark. He must have trotted over to her, enthusiastic, but cautious, not knowing what to make of her sudden favour. She must have petted him, made him sit next to the heater. She must have talked to him; she is capable of having a conversation with anyone she wants to, provided she wants to. They must have sat there, an ailing child-woman and a lonely dog. New found friends. I love to imagine what must have happened that night.

It was my mother’s voice that reached us even before we entered the house. She was talking, no wait, she was laughing! We heard the pitter-patter of four feet prancing about enthusiastically. We heard a ball bounce and hit a wall. We heard the dog bark. It was difficult standing there, in silence. We at once wanted to run inside and see for ourselves what we thought was happening. And at the same time, we just wanted to stay out, to listen, to savour the sound.

Five minutes hadn’t passed when Bruno had all his playmates back. Five adults and a panting dog. And a half-chewed ball. There was some more coffee, lots of warmth, and loads of laughter. Strangely enough, and I sure hope you know what I mean, it felt like a family had reunited after a long time.