Ruby

Ruby lived in front of the Levi’s store.

How she got there was a mystery. Perhaps she was born in a gutter but wandered away from her mother after a few months. Or maybe she lived with a family until the kids lost interest. So their father dumped Ruby on a street far from home.

Bangalore’s 300,000 street dogs led perilous lives, dodging cars, angry people, and each other. Territorial dogs attacked Ruby. Blood and dirt speckled her fur when she arrived at Levi’s. An employee sprinkled turmeric powder over each cut. The traditional Indian antiseptic soon healed her wounds.

Ruby claimed Levi’s for home and roamed nearby to fill her stomach. Every day she turned into a narrow lane where a meat shop wedged between houses. The butcher reached into a dirty wire cage and dragged out a chicken, wings flapping and squawking in terror. A few minutes later, he tossed its entrails to the dogs waiting by the open door.

Other meals lay hidden in the trash piled at street corners and empty lots. Ruby tore through plastic bags to find kitchen scraps, leftovers, and on lucky days, a jumble of bones. 

After a night of scavenging, Ruby was dozing in front of Levi’s when we saw her just after sunrise. My dog Ramona, a rescued “streetie,” strained forward on her leash. Her coloring divided her face into neat halves, like a black and white cookie. Ruby’s was a solid caramel brown, except for a narrow white streak running up her forehead. They shared spotted fur.

Ramona tugged me toward Ruby’s road every morning. Tree roots jutted from the cracked slabs of the sidewalk. I jumped over short sections of open drain. The thick black wires of defunct cable connections coiled into the branches of every tree. Dilapidation in stark contrast to the elegant boutiques and high-end eateries lining the street.

Concrete and asphalt reigned over Ruby’s territory. The only patch of grass beckoned from the other side of the street. But when Ruby scooted through four lanes of haphazard traffic, a security guard shooed her away from the half-brown lawn.

The Levi’s employees were kinder, especially the guard passing idle hours. He called her Rocky. Like many street dogs, Ruby responded to a few different names.

Ruby began walking with us, a little farther every day. At the turn-off to my house, an old black dog with cloudy eyes stood sentinel on unsteady legs. Ruby skirted past him and followed Ramona to my gate.

A flame tree fronted my building, its long branches snaking over the neighbors’ houses. Dark brown seed pods plopped to an uneven beat. Still a few weeks more until the heat kindled its reddish-orange blossoms.

Ramona ran up the marble stairway while Ruby followed me, glancing back until we entered the apartment. The spiral staircase in the back room was narrow and steep. I carried up each dog and unlatched the metal door. Afternoon light flooded the roof. Ramona ran out. Ruby paused before stepping onto the sun-warmed concrete.

The few clouds appeared solid and unreachable. Yet perspective could shift as easily as a plane ascending through the white vapor to glide above. The flame tree, towering and unclimbable from the ground, cast no shadows on the roof. Ruby peered over a ledge to the top of the tree a few feet below. Its leaves, as green as parrots’ wings, spread the width of the crown like a soft rug. 

After a bout of wrestling with Ramona, Ruby walked back to the open door. I carried her down the stairs, and she left the house without looking back. Every visit ended just as abruptly.  

Early one Sunday, an auto rickshaw drove us to Cubbon Park, the 300 acres of gardens in the middle of the city.

Ramona pulled me to the park gate. I unhooked her leash and she sped across a wide lawn sprinkled with the pale violet flowers of jacaranda trees.

Ruby still stood on the sidewalk. Then a few cautious steps and she stopped on the bright green grass. Copper-colored soil settled into the crevices of her paws. Within moments, she ran toward Ramona and chased her to exhaustion. Wilted blossoms cushioned them as they tumbled to the ground.

A week later, the government announced a curfew as the coronavirus pandemic escalated. The city emptied as college students, migrant workers, and families returned to their towns and villages. With far less people and restaurants closed, food for street animals dwindled. But finding a meal was not the only problem.

Barricades shut Ruby’s road to traffic. Ramona and I walked in the middle of the street. We did not meet the usual neighbors and pet dogs. A large padlock and chains secured the doors of Levi’s. There was no security guard sitting in his plastic chair and scrolling through his phone.

Ruby lay awake in front of the store. In the second before she jumped up and approached, I felt a wrenching pity but also something familiar. My family was thousands of miles away in California. Her caretaker and friends were gone. A shared isolation.    

So it was not a surprise when I opened my front door the next morning to find Ruby sleeping on the landing. She stretched and wagged her tail. I fed her some boiled pieces of chicken.

Ruby turned in circles to lay down again. I thought about spreading a bath towel for her on the cold marble floor. But I didn’t get one. Instead, I called her name and stepped aside. She walked through the open door and I nudged it closed behind her.

Mary-Rose Abraham is a multimedia journalist and recent creative writer. Her stories have featured in ABC, BBC, NatGeo, and NPR, among several other media outlets, and can also be found at https://maryroseabraham.com/