The dog died last night. I was being lazy today all day thinking I'll go when dad comes so I'll have some help while injecting and so on. Guess he must've been very dehydrated. Or that people actually killed him like they were threatening to do (while at the same time entreating me to cure him) because of the smell: all very na pak during ramadan I suppose. And yet there's babai-yer ma who has been diligently pouring black phenyl (like I taught her to do last time maybe two years ago with another dog) and feeding him in spite of her neighbours blaming her.
The hardest part is knowing that this will be another face in the fast fading gallery of dead animals that I'll have a hard time recalling afterwards: those I treated and were unable to, those I saved, adopted, hand raised, gave away, looked after, had operated and so on. So so many. And so few care like I do and can do something about it. Yet, this cannot be a full time occupation, ie not a career.
I know I'll end up travelling more than cat sitting and volunteering at vet practices to train as a veterinary technician in europe. And who knows when I'll be back on familiar turf where I'm ready to fight my battles with human indifference and cruelty, where I can buy injectible calmpose without batting an eyelid. Because I cannot do the same in Dilli. I know from experience. It has to be right here. And while I'm away I'll hear of more news conveyed over the phone. Nothing's ever right in the world and I feel so impotent that I cannot even set the smallest parts of it straight.