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Footprints at Dawn




 
I was twelve when dad brought home the pup. A trembling brown bundle with eyes too large for her face, smelling of milk and mud. I named her Mili, a name my mother disliked instantly.


“She’ll shed, she’ll bark, she’ll ruin the house,” Amma declared, her hands already reaching for the broom.

Appa didn’t say much. He simply said, “If you keep her, you take responsibility.”

He meant discipline. I had none at twelve.

But discipline came quietly—on four tiny paws.

Every morning, Mili scratched my door at dawn. At first I hated it. But she insisted. And so, grudgingly, I stumbled out of bed, put on mismatched slippers, and took her for a walk. The streets smelled of wet leaves and old mango trees; the air felt like it belonged only to us. Somewhere between dragging my sleepy feet and Mili chasing butterflies, my days found shape.

Cleaning her poop was the worst part. I gagged, complained, swore I’d never touch it again.

But I always did. And somewhere, without my knowing, a boy who hated chores became a boy who didn’t want to disappoint a dog.

Amma watched it all.

She kept her distance at first, arms folded, eyebrows sharp. But one evening, when Mili ran into the kitchen and slipped, Amma rushed faster than I did.

“Careful, kutti,” she whispered, lifting Mili’s trembling body with surprising tenderness.

That was the beginning.

Soon Amma was saving the softest idli crumbs for her, tucking her under blankets when the nights turned cold. Mili would follow her everywhere, like a shadow that wagged its tail. And though Amma pretended she disliked the attention, the faint smile she hid while chopping onions gave her away.

My childhood became a landscape shaped by dog stories—stray pups rescued, school essays about loyalty, evenings in the yard throwing a faded tennis ball until the sky turned purple. Everything revolved around Mili; she was the quiet gravity of our home.

Years passed the way monsoons do—heavy, unpredictable, full of things we didn’t notice until they were gone.

The day Mili died, the house felt smaller, like the walls had moved closer.

I remember the silence most—how even the ticking clock seemed rude. Appa stood with his hands behind his back, staring at the floor. I cried the way children cry when the world suddenly stops making sense.

Amma didn’t cry at first. She simply sat beside Mili, running her fingers through the still fur, as if waiting for one more breath. Just one. When she finally broke down, her tears landed softly on Mili’s ears—two perfect wet circles. I realized then that love, even the reluctant kind, leaves the deepest wounds.

That night, Amma placed Mili’s old collar on the table and said, “She made all of us better, didn’t she?”

And just like that, something inside me settled—a calm, painful knowing that some companions walk into your life to teach you how to live… and leave to teach you how to survive.

Even now, years later, when I wake early out of habit, I still expect to hear soft scratching at my door. And every time I bend down to tie my shoelaces, a phantom tail seems to brush past.


Mili may be gone…


But her footprints still walk through every dawn of my life


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