My Shadow , Nala

Beverly Hofstadter: Well, it sounds like he may be grieving.

Penny: Really? Over a theory?

Beverly Hofstadter: Of course. You can grieve over any emotional loss. The more you care about something, the greater the trauma of losing it.

Leonard: Oh, boy. He cared about this a lot.

Penny: Yeah. What can we do to help him?

Beverly Hofstadter: Well, grieving is a process. Every culture has its own rituals and traditions to facilitate mourning. The ancient Egyptians had their mummification; the Tibetans had their sky funerals.

I am not too sure how people in my culture grieve, I can only tell you how we grieved. We are my two boys and Tandi, our beautiful Labrador.

Everyone had their own timing, the inevitable breakdown.

The Last one was Tandi 's loud howl into the night. This was very unusual for her. Tandi is a mild-mannered Labrador. She hardly barks.  So, one night when I was having my usual “night cap” staring at the beautiful clear night sky, she sat by the gate and let out a long loud howl. I was surprised, the night guard surprised came out of his guard house to check what was wrong. I was sitting on my usual bench. I observed her and did not stop her. So, what if the neighbours complained. It was a sight to behold. She let out a howl and then another and another. I sat my there mouth slightly ajar. And one last one!

It didn't hit me then until later why she was howling. She was grieving her friend and letting all the neighbourhood dogs know about her grief. You know what was strange about that night as she was howling into the night sky? No other neighbourhood dog barked! Usually, the neighbourhood has all manner of night sounds.  One dog barking in a rhythm as if he is telling a story and almost immediately another dog responding with melodious barks and then it’s a full-blown conversation amongst them. On this night it was dead silent as though every dog, animal was at a loss and were simply letting Tandi express her pain and loss.

 Nala, Nala Bala & My Shadow are some of the names we would call Nala. She wasn't always ours you know, but from the moment she joined our family it’s as though she always belonged. Like she had always been with us from when she was a puppy.

I first met Nala when she was roaming the streets of another neighbourhood, she was friendly with the kids although she always seemed harassed. To be honest in our first encounter, as she had all the attention of the neighbourhood kids, she didn’t really pay much attention to me when I was trying to pat her. She was well groomed & cute! Clean, white fur and gorgeous.

The next time I met her it was obvious all was not well. She still roamed the neighbourhood streets, walking past the parked cars and trying to dodge rather unsuccessfully the kids. This time they were not so kind. Her tail was down as though she was scared. I didn't think too much about it although I was a little sad.

One day I told my sister-in-law who lived on this neighbourhood that I would “kidnap” her. By this time, she was pitiful. Totally mistreated, kids bullying her throwing small stones at her all the while she was trying to cozy up to them, it’s as though she was trying to remind them that they once loved her. She was dirty, her fur matted, full of fleas. Her little eyes were tired. My SIL, a vet herself, had taken it upon herself to treat her, give meds for the fleas and try to clean her occasionally.

Every month, if not every week I'd ask her if I could dognap her if her owners did not want her anymore. And so, we hatched a dognapping plan.

It broke my heart to see her in this state.

Lockdown consequences

One day, during the infamous lockdown a call came from my SIL, she told me that she had talked to the Nala’s owners, and they were willing to let her go. It turns out the boy had had enough or gotten bored. The novelty of having a pet had worn off. His mother was not a pet person, let alone a dog. How she was convinced to keep a pet still makes me wonder.

We did not have to execute our dognapping plan. Phewx! She quickly brought the dog over. She didn't have a name, rather none that she could remember apparently the neighbourhood kids simply called her Puppy.

She was so meek when she was let out of the cage. Her tail and face perpetually down, every so often peeking. She was trembling. As we let her settle and explore her environment, we were left with the task of naming her. Then my eldest son suggested we name her Nala. You can guess his childhood was filled with Lion King movies and series. 

The name stuck almost immediately.

I'd like to believe I imprinted on her, although my youngest son claims the same. Nala would follow me everywhere.

Wherever I was, she was literally hot on my heels. It’s a wonder I never toppled over her. Within a short time, I started calling her my shadow. Yes, she was always that close. Whether its cuddling, lying at the base of the couch, in the kitchen while I was cooking or washing dishes.

I must confess, I wasn’t so great at taking her for walks.  I outsourced that; however, I loved the way she would run back almost immediately looking for me. Oh, she loved how I would toss her along the corridor, and she would slide and run back to me to do that again and again. I always was amused when she would chase her short curly tail, occasionally managing to catch it, I knew dogs did this, but somehow it would always tickle me.

 Premonition

The weeks preceding her death, I kept telling myself I needed to spend more time with her. To cuddle more. Come home earlier. Be better. I must admit I had noticed her attachment towards me was shifting. The truth is that I was coming home late, very mentally & physically exhausted. I felt I had nothing to give. I would be on the couch trying to de-stress. I didn’t have the energy to lift her up to come to be with me on the couch. Oftentimes, when driving home blasting my favourite sundowner show on the radio, I would tell myself that when I got home, I would cuddle with her. I even remember telling my son that I need to spend more time that I felt I had neglected her, and he would tell me, “O.K, do that now.” But there was always something else. I am ashamed to say that sometimes I pushed her away.

One morning, after I had just settled down in the office, I got a call “Mama Baraka, there’s been an accident. When walking Nala and Tandi, she was attacked and bitten by a large dog. She does not look good.” He sent me pictures of the bite. I asked him to quickly take Nala to the vet clinic nearby.

The vet would call me to tell me what he wanted to do as I was making my way there. He had told me the injury was quite severe she had a flailing chest injury. Apparently, this kind of injury had a 50% recovery chance. I called my SIL to get the lowdown on what such an injury meant. I called my colleague who is a vet to have him break down the prognosis for me as well. It was unanimous chances of survival were very slim.

On the way to Andy's vet surgery, I had very harsh words for myself. I cried, bargained with God, beat myself up some more and eventually got to the vets.

She was still in surgery, and I had to wait. Two hours later the surgeon came out and told me the surgery was a success, but he was cautiously optimistic. This injury was dicey, he said.

And so began the long road to recovery daily visits to see Nala every evening.
We always crouched down to her level, sat on the floor as we gently patted her and spoke to her, coaxing her ever so gently to move. Every so often, she would wag her tail. Every day we saw progress, a little glimmer of hope. Until she had to go in again for a second surgery. Something was wrong. There was air coming out of her chest cavity. Again, some instructions were issued: No expense spared. We thought everything was going to be okay. Until one Saturday after coming with Kwame from his A-levels graduation ceremony, we went to pay her a visit. He hadn’t been able to see Nala as often he was in school, busy with his exams.

We waited for her to be brought out. The vet assistant kept walking up and down, looking worried. Right then and there, I knew something was wrong. I wondered if Nala had wandered away or was lost. Eventually, we were ushered into the vet’s office, where the duty vet told us Nala had died.

She was at a loss for words, and so were we.

Apparently, she had hid herself under the dog cabinet that’s in the dog room and passed on. It seems it had happened a couple of hours before we had arrived.

We went back home; there was silence in the car. I was very sad for Kwame, what was supposed to be a very happy day in his life was clouded by this death. I felt helpless as his mother. There was simply nothing I could do or tell him. We simply shared the silence.

We waited for Baraka to come back from his basketball game. We had conspired to wait for him to go for his basketball game and then tell him when he came back.

When we broke the news there was disbelief and shock and then silence.

That afternoon, when I went to check on him in his room, I found him crying. Stupidly, I asked him why he was crying. To this day, I can’t believe how stupid that question was. I hugged this little, tall boy of mine and held him as he sobbed.

Tandi, Baraka, Kwame and I went to the clinic to say our goodbyes.

We met the vet who performed the surgery, who gave us an account of what happened and why it may have happened.

He brought Nala out, wrapped in a blanket, and laid her on the table. We patted her.

All the while, Tandi was quiet, tail down.

He then brought Nala down to the floor and explained that it was important for Tandi to also say goodbyes. "Dogs do understand death," he said. "she needed to know that her friend was not coming back"

Tandi sniffed her body, sat down, looked at us, and sniffed Nala all around.

We left with heavy hearts.

Sitting on my couch on Sunday afternoon, I was scrolling through pictures of Nala and the family, when tears started rolling down my cheeks. I tried to hide my face, but Kwame caught me and gently asked if I was looking at pictures of Nala. And just like that, I burst into full-blown howls, wailing as my baby, this full-grown man, moved quickly to hold and hug me as I cried. He comforted me, amidst sobs and words of regret reminding me that Nala was loved and she knew it.
He reminded me that she loved me too.

Goodbye

Nala, Nala - Bala, My Shadow.
You gave me such unconditional love.
So much joy you brought to our lives.
I loved you and thank you.

Life did not go back to normal. Every so often I would catch myself calling Nala. There was quietness in the household. Silence. No pitter-patter of small paws on our corridor as Nala looked for me. Tandi would notice Nala’s scent everywhere on the clothes we wore, on the carpet, on the grass, everywhere. With each laundry, with every vacuuming and watering of the lawn, the scent eventually faded. But her memory never did.

That night, Tandi howled for both of us.