Get me more Choglet

I got some money on my birthday today. It is some deep-seated Quakerlike trait that stops me from running out and splurging as I wish to. Maybe I’ll just slowly creep and splurge it. My first wish is, lipstick! And then I remember that I have enough and Calcutta is hot and you can never wear lipstick comfortably. And then soberness sets in and I think of just putting it away. Maybe I shan’t do anything special. Just buy that amazing black forest cake I’ve had my eye on for such a long time and go home and my dog and I can eat it. No ma save a little sliver because she’s diabetic.
Today, we took my aunt’s family out for dinner. My dog wakes up with me and I am a late riser. Like me, she’s used to having her first meal late in the day. So when my mother offered her lunch at 11, she didn’t touch it, or maybe she just sensed that we were getting away and refused to buy into this treachery by the mere offering of a routine if somewhat delicious lunch. And then she got into my mother’s room and began jumping around and my mother got very frazzled and started yelling. At which, I, already very frazzled and looking for a fight, felt murderous, caught hold of my dog and shut her out right away on the balcony. She whined and pushed at the door, but by then, we were leaving. There were no kind words and reassurances that we would return soon. I felt very guilty to leave a very sad and more importantly, unfed dog.
So well, throughout the meal, I missed her on and off quite a bit and wanted to just go home and flop down with her on the bed, do some messy fighting and take an afternoon nap.
Then I called my mother and she said my dog was fine. She kooi-kooied a little when she heard my mother and when she opened the door to the balcony, ran out and climbed up on the sofa and stood and complained to my mother. Then she ate some tandoori roti we’d brought back, some of the grilled beckti meant for my grandfather, six biscuits, water and went to sleep under the bed. I want to meet my dog now, not at 10.30 in the night. So I uploaded some pictures of her on FB, looked through her old pictures and read up on Marley and Me. And found that at one point, people had suggested that the real dog, Marley, might be suffering from ‘mental illness’, which was very funny. They regularly described him as neurotic, which was also sort of funny. Though I do agree, if I had a dog like Marley, I don’t know what I would do. The film was adorable though. Though everyone pans it as boring and no chemistry and when does John Grogan write if he is spending so much time with his dog. But it’s funny, with very Own Wilson kind of self-deprecating humour. And I suppose I glossed over the unrealistic bits because the warmth between them and the dog and the frustration and the moments when you feel the dog is the one you can talk to without reserve, struck a chord.
It seems like such a long time since I cuddled a puppy. I remember the Precocious puppy of last winter, who would wail and yawn and utter squeals if anything was not as it wished it. Which is actually for the best.
And I know what it's like to sit beside your dog, like Owen Wilson is in the first picture, at peace with things.