
It was, I think, September of summer 1983. Pub gardens were full and many were swaying to Madonna’s just released Holiday. On vacation from Oxford University early one evening, I was driving to visit a relative at Walton-on-Thames with our pet corgi, Bob, (yes, no prizes for originality in the naming stakes) in the back, windows down to allow him to savor the fresh English air, invigorated no doubt by the river.

I’ve always loved how drivers leave the car window slightly ajar and the pet dog invariably reaches up, nose protruding, to enjoy the cooling effect of the passing air. Yet others would wind the window right down to allow the canine to rest both front paws on the door, head nearly fully out, rocking from side to side. Moving on from a traffic light stop close to my destination I suddenly realized that Bob was no longer there and could either have been dognapped or had slyly flown out of the window.
Recalling now that it was a warm evening, and the car certainly did not have air conditioning, my guess was that the rear window must have been fully down. Panicking, I rapidly returned to the previous set of traffic lights, parked the car and started looking around, asking every dog-walker I met, for help. Luckily, most knew what a corgi looks like. Of course, these days one would have photos on the mobile to show.
Three hours later with the night closing in, I had to give up and return home to deliver the sad news.
The whole family was distraught. Those who had not dined, me included, did not eat that evening. Many tears were shed. The home was eerily quiet. Bob was a rascal. He would scupper to neighbours’ homes at every opportunity and return sheepishly. We always knew where to look for him. But he was always alert. No one could step an inch on the forecourt without Bob’s shrill warning. The postman for sure, whilst varying of him, would always toy with him by putting the letters through the letterbox, one item at a time.
For his endurance, the postman, like the milkman and the dustmen, received his just rewards every Christmas. Bob had an enemy too. A German shepherd down the road was often on the loose and would invariably go for Bob, biting him on a few occasions, albeit slightly, before we decisively intervened. Bob was family; gifted to us as an adult some two years earlier and everyone’s favourite, not least because the Queen had corgis too. So we agreed to form a posse of four searchers to return next morning to the area where I believed he had got lost.
Within 15 minutes we came across an old lady who guided us closer to the river where stray dogs, she suggested, often gathered. Less than five minutes later responding to multiple soundings of his name from different directions I suddenly saw Bob scurrying out from under a car, soiled with axle grease but otherwise peppy. I grabbed him with both arms and we all hurtled back to the car, holding back tears of joy with difficulty.
On visits abroad, I often see notices put up on lamp-posts, letterboxes, shop windows and supermarket notice boards about lost pets, which with my own experiences I can relate to. Bob remained a member of our family for another 10 years, even surviving a cancer scare in 1988 when the vet had recommended we get him put down.The day he died no food was cooked at our home. We buried him at the back of our garden.
PS Those seeking to buy a pet should try to understand that it’s for life and not for a month’s joy. Many don’t.
jk@jassikhangura.com
The writer is a former Congress MLA from Qila Raipur