Tashi

So this former HP consultant turned nun from Minnesota put this little, adorable black puppy into my lap, then led us down the street to purchase shampoo, milk, and bowls before we even knew what happened. Only when little Tashi was unleashed in our guestroom and promptly peed under the bed did I realize what we had done.

“I feel like a teenager who wanted a baby because they’re cute,” I remarked as he began to gnaw on Jason’s shoestring (which he later politely regurgitated at Jason’s feet). Parenting 101 became even more real when Jason began to bathe him and ended up so drenched and soapy that he might as well have bathed himself in the process. Tashi is a common Tibetan first name, and also part of their everyday greeting. Yes, this is a little bit like naming your child “Hello,” except Tashi means “good luck” or “auspiciousness,” and they love all things auspicious. So, our little guy was lucky to be in from the cold and the fat, greedy street dogs, and was named accordingly.

Tashi fit comfortably in my arms, and there were very few places I couldn’t take him—his primary activity in public was sleeping on my lap, charming everyone with his grunts and wiggles. At the guesthouse, though, the world was his playground. He made sincere efforts to remove Jason’s digits, ears, and nose with his sharp little teeth, and was equally determined to poop in the most inaccessible places under the bed. We often took him up on the roof to play, play here meaning to eat every piece of fuzz, dirt, or paint chip he could sniff out. He took quickly to me as his mother, and the instant he became tired he would seek out my lap and collapse into it, unconscious before his head hit the thigh.

Although we were in love with him from the moment the stranger deposited him in my lap, it was evident that we could not accommodate him in our one tiny room—let alone afford the $150 per flight, plus veterinary bills, to bring our wayward pet home with us. He charmed his way into the hearts of all of our ex-pat friends over the course of the next few days. Everyone “Would love to take him but…” and “Don’t get rid of him just yet, I might know someone who…” Westerners are infamous in these parts for our soft spot for dogs, and I knew that, despite everyone’s best efforts, they were unlikely to find locals who wanted to take care of a needy, 6- or 8-week-old puppy.

After three days of newspaper covered floors and 60-minute sleeping cycles all night long, we made the difficult decision to just take him to the only animal charity in town, which nurses puppies until they look big enough to compete with the other dogs and then releases them into the streets. I consoled myself with the idea that we could at least visit him there and maybe help take care of the other dogs. On our way, we stopped for lunch at a rooftop Indian restaurant, where Tashi got his own plate of fried eggs, what I thought might be his last substantial meal.

Somehow, his ravenous gobbling tugged at the heartstrings of the restaurant’s well-dressed owner, who said he had been looking for a nice male puppy—he could only find females, and he didn’t want to deal with more pups down the line. The fact that Tashi comfortably peed right next to our table and then went and pooped in the corner didn’t dissuade him at all, and as we paid our bill Tashi gleefully followed him behind the counter and began sniffing out his new digs.

Sunday night’s clueless new parent emotions gave way Wednesday night to pangs of empty nest syndrome, as Jason and I sat on the bed missing his whine to join us and chew our fingers/hair/clothes/blankets to shreds. Our human friend Tashi, a monk with a soft spot for all animals who can’t understand why Westerners don’t take home pigs and cows so readily, questioned our actions but hinted that perhaps we racked up some good karma for finding the puppy a safe home.