The Porch

Note: The following short story is written in two parts: “Porch Dog” and “Milk”. They together form a short story titled “The Porch” that I wrote about two different instances and is intended to be considered as one single piece of work.

“The Porch”
Part 1: "Porch Dog"
To give a name is one way we humans show love.

The stray dog that roams near our house has left muddy footprints outside the door. It always does. There is a garden nearby where it goes to run around aimlessly or chase tiny butterflies that hover above the mimosas. I do not like that dog particularly, I never did. It always dirties the porch or brings dead birds it finds on the roads.

The rain causes the wood to swell, so the doors and windows of our house take an extra push to open during the monsoons. They make a disturbing sound that always wakes up the dog, which usually lies down on the porch after all the running. I sit and watch.

A pile of old newspapers is rotting near the window. The paper is dampened, and the print is fading away. The dog is lying right beside the pile, on the porch, unbothered. It continues to rain all day. I mop the floor, and the dog dirties it again with its muddy footprints. The day goes by.

I want to sleep but the bed feels cold because I left the windows open. I look outside, and the dog is still there on the porch. It is lying with all its limbs stretched out, but it is not sleeping. Maybe the marble floor is cold too. Maybe it has rested enough during the day. The clock keeps ticking all night; the rain has stopped.

The morning sun is hiding behind dark clouds, but my circadian clock wakes me up. Half asleep, I decide to go and get some milk. I walk to the swollen door and give it a hard push. I hear a shrill cry as the door swings. The dog was still sleeping by the door on the porch. My feet touch the floor, and it is cold and wet. The dog shivers while looking at me with innocent eyes.

I never really liked the dog, but that morning I gave it a name.

Part 2: "Milk"

I stayed in a different city when I was a kid. The house was small and had a porch. Stray cats and dogs visited us twice, often thrice a day in the hope of finding some food. They liked milk the most, though most days we fed them with rotis. Several kittens and puppies took birth on our porch. Some survived to grow up with me. They got the most milk and rotis from my mother, and theirs.

They vanished during the day and only returned when they were hungry. As a kid, I always wondered where they went and what they did. I tried to follow them at times but they were too fast and could jump tall walls, unlike me. In winter, they would sleep under our car, all curled up. As I got older, so did they, and then came more kittens and more puppies. Some survived, and the cycle continued. Some changed colours, some were bigger, some smaller. But the only thing that didn't change was their love for milk.

Years later, when I went back home, my mother was not there. I thought of pouring some milk into the bowl that was permanently placed on the porch for feeding strays. I saw two glass bottles filled with milk in the kitchen. I took one and filled the bowl. Seeing me, they rushed to the porch to dip their tongues in the bowl. But before they did that, they sniffed the bowl and walked away. They came closer again, sniffed again to reassure themselves, and walked away.

I stood there in awe trying to comprehend what was happening. "Do they not like milk anymore?" I wondered.

The day went by. A few more strays came and left without taking a sip. I felt a little sad. The next day, when Mother returned, she saw the untouched bowl and asked me when I had filled it. I told her what happened the previous day, and she started laughing.

She brought a new bowl filled with milk, and suddenly, all the cats and dogs surrounded her. She moved her hands, signalling to wait. All of them stopped hopping and came to the bowl quietly. While they enjoyed their favourite milk, I asked my mother why didn't they take the milk from me. My mother, still laughing, explained simply, "There were two bottles in the kitchen, one had milk..."

"And the other?" I asked, almost realising the stupid error I had made. "Buttermilk!" she continued laughing...

 Jay Rana is a Mumbai based marketing professional who has been writing for over a decade. Inspired from the poetry of everyday lives, he has curated over 350 pieces of poetry and prose, all collated under one collection that he calls 'DiaryCrumbs'.