October 5, 2026

Some childhood memories never really leave us. For me, one of them is about a dog named Tiger.

It was the 1990s, and I was around eight years old, studying in the third grade in Mangaluru.

One of our neighbours ran a transport business and often drove his truck to places across Karnataka and beyond. One evening, he returned from Mumbai with an unexpected passenger—a tiny chocolate-brown puppy sitting inside a small basket made from palm stems.

He had found the puppy running along the highway. Worried that it might be hit by a vehicle, he stopped and tried to find its owner. Unable to do so, he brought it back with him.

Nobody in our neighbourhood could take the puppy, as most families already had dogs. My father then suggested my aunt's home, about 50 kilometres from Mangaluru, where the family lived in a house surrounded by nearly 30 acres of agricultural land.

The next morning, my siblings, cousins and I took the puppy there.

He immediately loved the place.

We bathed him, fed him and played with him. He had one peculiar habit—whenever he was eating, anyone who came near his food was warned with a deep “grrrr” and was not allowed to come closer until he finished.

That little growling habit was the reason we named him Tiger.

When we left, Tiger followed us to the main gate, wagging his tail and making little sounds. We were heartbroken to leave him.

Over the years, we visited him whenever we could. Even after months apart, Tiger always recognised me and my siblings. He never barked at us.

He even had his own routine with me. Whenever I was there, around 7 in the morning, Tiger would come near our front door and make little noises and soft barks, calling me to come outside. He knew I would share my morning snacks with him—Rusk, toast or whatever I was having with my coffee. Around 5 in the evening, the same routine would happen again.

He became part of our childhood—running behind us through the fields, following us to nearby shops and ponds, and even retrieving our cricket ball from bushes.

He was also a loyal guard. When my aunt and uncle were away, neighbours said Tiger would not allow strangers into the compound.

Then life moved on. I grew from school to college, and my visits became less frequent.

During my final year of graduation, I returned to my aunt's farm to study for my final exams. By then, Tiger was an old dog and was suffering from age-related illness.

One night, he became very weak and made sounds as though he was crying. We gave him some water and tried to make him comfortable.

The next morning, we went to check on him.

He was lying in his usual sleeping position, but he had passed away.

Tiger had lived for around 13 years.

I was deeply saddened.

Then came the moment I will never forget.

I dug a grave for Tiger near a corner of the property and carried him there in a large basket.

And suddenly, I remembered the little puppy I had carried in a small basket into this very place many years earlier.

The same journey that had once brought Tiger into his new life was now taking him to his final resting place.

My uncle, aunt, and some neighbours, friends and relatives told me that perhaps Tiger had waited for me to see him one last time.

I don't know if that was true. But It’s a fact to believe it.

Even today, whenever I visit that farm, I remember Tiger—the little puppy who arrived in a basket and became a lifelong memory.