Not long ago, it seemed that dogs might soon be to Bengaluru what rats once were to Hamelin. At least the rampaging rodents of Browning’s poem were bad rather than mad. Their canine counterparts could be riddled with rabies!

My brother and I were brought up to dread the disease. Our mother used to relate an incident in a village, where her uncle was the only doctor. On one occasion, a boy who had been bitten by an infected dog was brought to the trusted physician, but the latter was powerless to help him. Mother recounted this tragic tale frequently, to impress upon us the horrors of hydrophobia. Unwilling, however, to believe that man’s best friend was man’s worst foe, we acquired a dog.

Pixie was a present from my music teacher, who wished to be rid of him. Forbearing to mention that he was unlikely to be welcomed by mother, I brought the dog home. Brother and beast squealed in unison, as mother stood speechless with shock. Father – partial to animals – urged mother to let Pixie stay. She agreed, because I hinted that if she didn’t keep Pixie as a pet, Mrs Rodrigues might not keep me as a pupil.

At his first meal with us, a bone got stuck in his teeth, and he went wild in a bid to dislodge it. He pawed and clawed at the offending object, foaming at the mouth and snapping at those who went near.

“This creature is rabid,” declared mother.“Just frenzied,” I protested, but mother was in no mood for semantic quibbling. Pixie went – first to the vet, who released him from bon(e)dage and then, back to my teacher. Mother had decided that if my playing the piano depended on her playing dog’s maid, her aspirations for me had best be abandoned.

Poor mother! Misfortune dogged her progeny. Shortly after Pixie’s precipitate exit, a friend’s sick pet licked my brother and me. As we bared our bellies to the dreadful needle, we cursed both pup and Pasteur.