The Knighting of Sir Watkyn

"It's my dear Watson!", our elderly neighbour A.K Singh Ji intervened, "not Watkyn?"

"Yes, but it's not from Sherlock Holmes," I clarified, "It's Wodehouse."

"Ah, so he is no Hound of Baskervilles?"

"No, it is from P.G Wodehouse."

 "I am afraid I don't get it son", Singh Ji stooped down, "but what's this about him being a Sir?"

"Well, his name is Sir Watkyn but he is no Knight."

We both smiled, turning our attention to Sir Watkyn, two towering figures overshadowing a tiny tri-colored pup who sat cross-legged with his chapati ears stretching down to the ground. A pair of bloodshot eyes peered out from under his disproportionate coat as Sir Watkyn examined A.K Singh Ji's worn out pantaloons with the meticulousness of an Immigration officer. 

"Maybe he will grow into one", Singh Ji smiled, averting Sir Watkyn's gaze before quickly resuming his morning walk. 

It was just Sir Watkyn and I then on our way to the local park. Although he was just under a year old, Sir Watkyn had a big-boned body with a large wrinkly forehead, melancholic eyes and hanging lips that apparently held the fountain to his endless drooling. He was only just getting used to walking outside, with his pudgy legs and his black tail with the white tip curving up to the sky, moving side to side like a white flag with no allegiance.

Sir Watkyn was only just getting used to walking outside, with his pudgy legs and his black tail with the white tip curving up to the sky, moving side to side like a white flag with no allegiance.

Yet the pull on his leash, I confess, was embarrassing me as to what others might think.

Oh look at the poor dog! He probably has not been let out for ages.  

His Herculean yanks were already cramping my arm while his sniffing was out of control with the familiar scents from his last few walks. His breed, the Basset Hound, dates as far back as the 1500s when the pre-revolutionary French used similar low-body hounds to trail rabbits. In fact, the word "bas" is French for "low" and this proximity to the ground allows their trailing ears to brush through the grass and carry scents for later referral in their hunting routes.

The Basset Hound dates as far back as the 1500s when the pre-revolutionary French used similar low-body hounds to trail rabbits.

In fact, the word "bas" is French for "low" and this proximity to the ground allows their trailing ears to brush through the grass and carry scents for later referral in their hunting routes.

Sir Watkyn, however, was in no pre-revolutionary France. He stood out like a store thumb in the humid monsoon season of West Bengal, India. The steaming air made him huff and puff as he tried, with bulging eyes, to outmaneuver my commands. We even managed to stir the curiosity of a few neighborhood street dogs who had begun to follow us from a distance. There were four mongrels - notorious for chasing down cars and getting into aggressive fights with each other. They made me anxious enough to pick up a stick as a possible deterrent, in case any of them were to come closer. As it turns out though, my attention was ill-placed, as by keeping an eye on the mongrels behind, I had failed to spot the sparrow that had landed a few meters ahead. 

I saw Watkyn.

Watkyn saw the bird.

The bird saw me.

The bird saw Watkyn. 

In a millionth of a millisecond, Watkyn had yanked on the leash so hard, I flew through the air like a blimp, my tweenaged body slamming onto the pavement as my left shinbone banged hard against the concrete curb. A blinding pain overcame me as I heard a pack of animated barks rush past.

In a millionth of a millisecond, Sir Watkyn had yanked on the leash so hard, I flew through the air like a blimp, my tweenaged body slamming onto the pavement as my left shinbone banged hard against the concrete curb.

I had blacked out for a few seconds but quickly regained my bearings as a a passerby stopped to help me sit up. 

"They went that way", a man said as he helped me up but showed no signs of accompanying me to re-capture Sir Watkyn. 

Limping, I began down the direction I was shown, and prayed to the Universe that everything was okay. The panic of having lost our family's puppy had my nerves soaking in adrenaline, numbing me to the pain that was to last for the next several weeks. I exited the lane and waded my way through the murky waterlogged street towards the mouth of the local park. 

The panic of having lost our family's puppy had my nerves soaking in adrenaline, numbing me to the pain that was to last for the next several weeks.

"Have you seen....", before I could ask the nearby shopkeeper, he pointed me towards the park pond.

"They are there!", the shopkeeper confirmed.

My heart couldn't beat any faster, as multiple scenarios rushed through my head. Should I call my parents, tell them what happened? Or perhaps book a taxi and take Sir Watkyn straight to the vet?

As I arrived by the lake with my stick supporting my left leg, I spotted a reverberating colony of birds chirping in a frenzy by the branches. Their tiny heads were glued to the pack of mongrels who were standing by the edge of the pond. Fearing the worst, I mentally prepared for the plunge knowing Sir Watkyn had never visited a waterbody.

That was when I spotted him!

As I arrived by the lake with my stick supporting my left leg, I spotted a reverberating colony of birds chirping in a frenzy by the branches.

Sir Watkyn was beginning to come up the bank with a royal face of utter disgust, as if the sparrow had led him down a trap and he was having none of it. He was drenched head-to-toe in slick brown mud with sludge dripping down the tip of his nose and ears. I am not sure if I recall any other time I was so overwhelmed by relief that I had been moved to tears.

With my sniffles under control, I began hobbling down to the bank as the mongrels wagged their tails, sniffing around a disappointed Sir Watkyn. With his gooey stench and a new found coat, Sir Watkyn seemed to have earned his street-credit with this pack of three...wait a minute.

There were four mongrels following us earlier. Yet now I spotted only three by the bank with Sir Watkyn. Did the last one steer away? Wasn't a pack meant to stay together? 

There were four mongrels following us earlier. Yet now I spotted only three by the bank with Sir Watkyn. Did the last one steer away? Wasn't a pack meant to stay together? 

My concerns were aptly answered as I finally went down the bank and saw Sir Watkyn and the others looking at the pond. There she was, the fourth mongrel, head deep in thick mud, almost near the middle of the lake whimpering with anxiety, as the sparrows continued warbling overhead.

Without hesitation, I jumped into the swamp and stretched my stick out towards her. By sheer fortune, the length was enough for her to clench onto the tip and be dragged across the pond and into my arms. Sir Watkyn barked with triumphant joy as if he was the one who had just rescued the maiden. The other mongrels kept their distance, unsure if their fourth musketeer had actually returned. She too was completely covered in mud, still whimpering and visibly shocked.

Thus was the tale of how I brought both Sir Watkyn and our local mongrel back to the house, washing them together in the communal showers and providing a hearty meal to all the four dogs before sending them on their way for their evening neighborhood patrol. I am still not sure how the fourth mongrel ended up in the middle of the pond while Sir Watkyn simply walked away, but ever since that incident Sir Watkyn and all the four mongrels were inseparable whenever we would take him out for his walks. Decades later, the memory of the communal showering still remains fresh in my mind:

As I knelt down with my now bandaged leg, thoroughly washing the street dog, Sir Watkyn sat beside us in his 'polite sit-down' stance.

A.K Singh Ji had just returned from his morning walk and I recounted the story to him. He chuckled at the end, saying how Sir Watkyn was not only able to single-handedly take me out but also signal for the rescue of our damsel in distress.

"A Knight in shining armor indeed!", A.K Singh Ji proclaimed as Sir Watkyn looked on with his slaphappy demeanor, his mud coat gleaming in the sunlight.