Uttarkhand Diary -- Birding at a Cantonment Town (2)

A dog named Bozo

Honestly, I don't know what his name was, though the soldiers at the base told me more than once, I failed to get it right. But then, if a dog is intelligent enough it will know when it is being called, whatever name you use to call him ( in this case, it was a "he"). Which meant that on more than one occasion when the mist draped the mountains all around and I wasn't looking at stirring out too far, I would call / cluck out to him and Bozo would accompany me looking as serious as a General on his inspection round (he was a barracks dog, after all) what with his propensity to sniff behind every bush and then regard the world with the lugubriousness of a Pahadi dog -- quivering muzzle, thick eyebrows and leonine head.

I have walked a lot with dogs -- especially, the two I grew up with -- through this field and that meadow and it is a different feeling altogether, the one that is borne out of this human-canine tendency to be footloose and fancy free, a companionship that is mostly silent with conversations that are monosyllabic or guttural (unless the dog is barking / yapping away to glory) or one that can be clownishly ebullient, as in when the man starts singing or reciting poetry or even if he just lets go and speaks his heart out.

Whatever it be, in this case, since I was unsure of Bozo's reactions to my singing or reciting poetry and anyway more intent on the birds in the mist-draped pines around, I mostly said "Come lets go there, Bozo" and every time our man (I was told he is around 4 years old, that's almost full grown  among dogs) would solemnly find the way on the wildflowers draped grassy hillside, with just a hint of a doggy smile to indicate his pleasure at having company along on what must be his daily beat.

I wouldn't know what Pahadi dogs are trained / bred to do (apart from being very intelligent and loyal, low maintenance, working guard dogs), but I am sure there is some kind of Pheasant hunting instinct in them (what with the Monal being found in this parts). Either that or Bozo was going around doing an inventory of the Tulip / Lilly and other bulbs, for our man would poke his nose into the mountainside, every metre or so as if he was a farmer prospecting for eggs laid by his free-ranging hens.

Mostly, Bozo did not flush any very exotic game and when you consider that I am a dog lover of a fairly unique breed, his propensity to go up and down the mountain in a way rivaling any self-respecting Ibex was pretty much of a distraction. But still he did manage to kind of spook a number of Blue Whistling Thrushes and Blue Tailed Jays to sit still long enough (out in the open where they were rooting around for grubs) for me to take some fairly decent pictures.

How I wish one of the birds he spooked into stillness was a Greater Flameback Woodpecker, totally out in the open!

Bozo also escorted me down to the "town" once (the first time we got acquainted) in a far from comforting way (he would be barely four or five body lengths away from me staring at me with doggy insolence and mutter-growling in his throat while marking his territory). How I survived that encounter without dropping my camera or wetting my pants or whatever is best described / shown in the field, I mean say, part of a Bird Photography Workshop called "How to survive mongrels and other inquisitive characters" but survive I did.

The rest as you have already read, is history.

Postscript -- Bozo also found me one evening when I was lugging my butt back up through the thick fog (and though I knew the way) feeling dead beat and very, very, very lost. He wasn't expressive at all, either, did not even wag his tail. But I knew he was pleased to see me and a bit concerned about if my plainsman legs were holding up in the hills. I could see it his eyes and I could even hear him chuckle to himself as he walked back with me to the mess.

Dogs, I tell you...