He was a little more than a pup when father brought him home two years ago. He was a very amiable young dog who would curiously pursue insects and delighted in chasing away birds in our garden.
I am no expert to tell his pedigree. A strange-looking fellow, he is strongly built, short in stature, has light brown fur covering his body and has a pair of drooping ears. As an additional qualification, he is lame in his left forepaw. That, of course, is no handicap as he is as swift as any dog can be. In fact, this supposed handicap adds a swagger to his gait. Perhaps he is one of his kind. But seeing him first, I could not help but call him "Funny".
Now, at the prime of his youth, Funny is indisputably the handsommest dog in the street. He is so successful with the females of his kind that I can only dream of to be with that of mine. The little rascal grew up before my eyes, but sadly will grow old too.
Funny badly needs some discipline. He does not like being leashed and loves running after father's bike. He spoils our cricket, catching hold of the ball with his teeth and running away. Perhaps a training stint would do him some good. However, the trainer would surely need a couple of sniffer dogs to be set in trail of Funny when he does any mischief or plays truant!
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I remember writing this as a pet story to be sent to Amala Akkineni, for publishing in Deccan Chronicle.
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