Monsoon adventures of a dog terrified of water

There was an itch behind my ear. What could it be?

I thought it must be a piece of dirt. When I tried to pull it off, it wouldn't detach. When I finally had it pulled off in my hand, I could not help but notice that "it" definitely had legs. Many legs. Those legs were flailing in the air. They belonged to a tick that had left my dog's body, and proceeded to crawl up my neck.

That tick sort of encapsulated the trial I was having with my dog. Despite many attempts - and many hours - spent in manually picking blood-sucking parasites off his body, I could never get the better of the insects, or even the better of the situation in the long term.

The ticks always came back, three days after liberal showers of No Tix powder, foul-smelling shampoo, conditioner, and the rancid smell of it all on my own clothes, my hair, beneath my fingernails, and into my very soul.

The insects climbed the walls, coming back down to attack doggy, swelling from little brown runts to coffee-bean-shaped, slush-coloured monstrosities. Sometimes my dog would bite them off his body, and then scoop them off the floor with a mixture of anger and annoyance. He also reserved a similar annoyance for me, as I came at him, spray, powder, shampoo, and insect poison in my hands.

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Why do you do this, woman, was the look on his face each time I dunked his sleek body in water. Sometimes he howled, seemingly relaying to the world how he was being tortured. I had friends with dogs who loved baths, and even asked for them. I had friends with dogs who didn't love baths but cooperated as their family liberally lathered them in bath-tubs and driveways. But most unfairly, I had friends with dogs who just did not seem to have a tick problem.

I had no such luck. Not only did my dog have a severe and recurring tick problem, he also hated taking baths. The moment I said "chaan" (bath in Bangla) my dog would run in the opposite direction. When I leashed him, he would pretend to be asleep, and would need to be dragged to the bathing spot - driveways on sunny days, indoors on cold days.

The first time I de-ticked him, I had nightmares, with the ticks as protagonists and me in a side role. I dreamt they were in my hair, behind my knees, hitched on my elbows. And to be fair, I did find one behind my ear. The nightmares were not so far from reality, and when awake, I felt ticks were walking up my body. Any little irritation had me doing a little frantic dance in the middle of the room.

After years of bathing my dog, I am resigned to the fact that I smell of dog for two whole days after the bath, conditioner and canine blow-dry. This is a problem neither Calvin Klein nor Davidoff can solve, because a particular neem-based anti-tick shampoo with added conditioner for silky pelt has a smell that goes into the very pores of my skin.

Ah well, I tell myself. Jockeys smell of horses, and farmers of cows. Why not girls of pet dogs? But the smell really is the mildest side-effect.

The real problem comes during the monsoon (and just after the monsoon) when the weather is muggy, and when the ticks hatch their lovely little eggs. If any pet owner feels tested with a pet tick problem during the year, the monsoon and post-monsoon season is the Big Daddy Board exam.

The critters are everywhere. Not just on walls. Also on chair legs. On sofas. Under cushions. On blades of grass. Between crevasses between bookcases and walls. They are so many of them, possessing such resilience, that it should be possible to make a movie on The Attack of the Tick Monster.

Bathing and de-ticking my dog takes about two hours. And that is also two hours of me getting glared at with the "oh god you're doing it again, you're torturing me again" look by my dog.

This monsoon, after a short travel in the forest, where I met leeches, another sort of bloodsucking parasite, I came back to a particularly tick-struck dog. My white dog's ears had turned pink from scratching. While super friendly with the family, he still doesn't let others de-tick or bathe him. That adventure (and subsequent tantrum) is reserved only for me.

My mind was racing as I came back. I needed to find a solution. Most solutions included very toxic, and cheap, tick poison. Like any sort of speedily-acting medicine, these were laced with problems -their high level of toxins, for one.

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When I applied these medicines, the liquid took off my nail colour, peeled my cuticles, made my eyes water and posed a disposal challenge. I wanted to find organic tick remedies for my dog.

After extensive search, I had three conclusions. I have long hair, but I also use dry shampoo. I could become a millionaire if I manufactured organic dry shampoo for dogs. Especially for people who have dogs like mine who don't appreciate getting dragged near, or into, anything watery.

After reading the prices for organic dog shampoo and soap, I decided luxury cosmetics like makeup by Mac (for humans) were not really that expensive. I mean, a lip balm by Mac costs less than an organic soap for a dog.

Thirdly, for those looking at non-toxic, organic products for dogs or pets, it's not really a dog's life. The market seems to think anyone who wants to purchase a pet product that's not cheap also wants to purchase a product that's (very) expensive.

Back to the parasite problem. The vet prescribed injections, and said regular baths, and at least two cleanses with the insect poison, along with dabbing the same toxin on walls, was the only solution. He also said certain dogs attracted more ticks than others, and well, my ward was just one of them.

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It was back to square one, with increased urgency in post-monsoon August. I was down with fever, sneezing fits, and a runny nose; but my dog was worse and perhaps even more irritated. He had ticks on his face, which he couldn't really scrape off due to their (chosen) proximity to his eyes and nose.

A dog's nose is an Achilles heel - just like us, they really get hurt and disoriented if their nose is injured. I was in no shape to give him a bath and apply tick medicine, but it had to be done. Between our two ailments, I could still talk about mine, boring everyone about my croaky sore voice and never-going-away cold, but all he could do was scratch a painful, bloodletting itch that didn't go away.

I went to meet him, various tick-related things in my hand. He took one look at the long cord of my hairdryer and ran for his life. I went up to him, a couple of sneezes down, leashing him, talking to him, telling him it would be over soon.

An hour later I had a very wet and miserable dog, giving me a stinkeye, with a lone tick hanging off his nose. The rest of the ticks were running in frenzied, drugged circles around me, trying to get away.

I had just finished blow-drying my dog, something he didn't like (again, unlike my friend's dogs who loved spa sessions, and liked to have their hair blowdried and conditioned, or even allowed their nails to be trimmed without a single snap of teeth). I was exhausted, drenched, and smelling of wet dog.

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It seemed like a turning point because he kept straining at his leash, like an impatient teenage so totally fed up with his mother. I was ready to wallow in self-pity; just like my dog, and like several humans I know.

I was doing something I really was in no shape to do, which again stood for several unexpected challenges which came with bringing up a dog not quite like other dogs my friends had, or my vet treated.

I had finally put down the hairdryer, sighing loudly and feeling somewhat fatalistic. Suddenly, he came up to me and snuggled right up to me. A lot of water, medicine, tick residue with a particular scent as bonus steeped through my shirt. That was bound to exacerbate my cold and fever. It didn't matter.

My crazy, curious, impossible dog was giving me a doggy hug. He thought I was cracked, dunking him in mugs of water and soap, and lathering a foul medicine on him, and then getting it all on myself. But he had heard me sad, piteous and sighing.

And in his doggy way, he had forgiven me my indulgences for what he considered my bouts of insanity. He had forgiven in a way we often do not.

And heaven seemed like a spot next to a wet, smelly dog.