I remember the first time I saw Snoopy. A tiny black nose on a tiny black face sticking out of my mother’s black shawl. At first I didn’t even notice him. My parents had meant our first pet to be a complete surprise. I was not expecting a pup cradled in my mother’s arms. But there he was, the most adorable tiny thing God ever made. As we whooped in joy, Snoopy shrunk further under the folds of my mother’s shawl, shivering in fear.

He grew up spoiled, loved and cosseted. His initial fear soon turned into an unending curiosity about everything around him. How aptly my brother had named him! He sniffed and smelled everything that he could reach. Snoopy in wonderland.

I still remember the expression on his face when he had barked for the first time. I think he had thought that when he finally opened his mouth he would speak English and Bengali like we did. To say he was surprised would be an understatement. He was shocked. He looked around to see where the strange sound had come from. He barked in frustration when he could not figure out what was happening. It was then that he realised that it was he himself who was barking. I think he went into a teeny-weenie depression after that. But he came out of it. Like he did every time.
Like the time when floor cleaners in our house accidentally spilt acid on him.
Like the time when we brought another dog (Whooopy) into the house. When she took over his bed, his toys and all the attention in the house. When, resigned, he had tried to sleep in Whoopy’s tiny bed (which was a cardboard box that he broke because he was too big for the box).
Like the time they (Snoopy and Whoopy) had babies and he ran around petrified of the little pups, one-tenth his size, that ran behind him.
Like the time when he grew deaf and blind.

Snoopy passed away today morning. I’d like to think that he came out of this as well. Painlessly and peacefully.

Snoopy, my sweetest darling, I hope there are oranges and dog-chews in heaven.