I’m not someone who’s always been enamoured by dogs. But being born in India kept me in constant proximity with them. They fascinated me, yes, freely roaming the streets, scavenging, and hunting for food – some comfortable around humans, others merely tolerant of them. If you had asked me of my opinion, back when I was a child, about dogs, I would’ve maybe just shrugged with indifference. Don’t get me wrong, I adored the company of pets. I loved sitting by them every time I visited a house with a dog, scratching their heads, staring into their big, soulful eyes. They always seemed to communicate something, something we couldn’t fully understand. But I preferred keeping a safe distance from street dogs.

A lot of this changed with a small incident though. I used to take art classes after school, briefly anyway; I was maybe 8 or 9 years old. It was a short walk to and from my house. One evening, on my way back home from art class, I noticed a few dogs chasing another out of their territory. As the fleeing dog managed a clever escape, the chasers turned their attention towards me. Bursting with adrenalin, and maybe the rush of a successful territorial defence, these dogs launched into a full sprint in my direction. I stood there, frozen. It’s funny. I took in a deep breath and just accepted the situation. I remember thinking to myself, ‘Yep. I’m going to be mauled to death today.’

Oh. But that didn’t happen, obviously! Of the dogs rushing towards me, the one in the lead swerved away and decelerated, with the others doing the same. I was just a child. And they seemed to understand that. No, they weren’t friendly right away. Instead, the dogs lowered their heads, hackles raised even now, slowly approaching – one step at a time. They inspected me for a moment and turned away. I laughed at what happened next, when the dogs started galloping, bumping into each other, growling softly. They appeared to be happy. But maybe I laughed too soon because they turned around and came after me again. But it was different this time around. They were calmer, almost cheerful. And that was the first time I touched a street dog. No, scratch that, I petted the entire group, feeling an overwhelming sense of accomplishment, more so when they followed me a few hundred meters, maybe until the end of their territory. I remember dejectedly looking back at them, watching them meet my gaze with just as much disappointment. But no matter the emotions between us, they couldn’t follow me home, and I couldn’t very well spend the night there with them.

At least I walked away knowing that I was wrong to choose indifference with street dogs. They were so much more.

But there’s a reason I’m sharing this story. I think back to this one incident every time I look around what I have now – a beautiful partner just as understanding of dogs as I am, 5 adopted, rescued dogs, and 10 community dogs under our care. I think I’ve come a long way from back then. And I’ve understood a lot more about what makes a dog special. Ask someone this question, and you might find different answers. I’ve heard people recount the movies 'A Dog’s Purpose' and 'Marley and Me' when it comes to special human-dog bonds. I recently read a beautiful, tear-jerker of a story about Will Chesney, a US Navy Seal dog handler, and Cairo, the dog who became legend because of his involvement in the Osama bin Laden raid. It’s true. They weren’t ordinary dogs. But the word ‘special’ is about perspective; it’s in the eye of the beholder.

I want to talk about that special dog today, a free-roaming dog I’ve had the privilege of observing and loving for about 7 years now, a dog I’ve watched expand his territory from a few ten meters to 90,000 square metres (0.09 square kilometres), maybe more. I’ve seen this dog invade and scavenge from rival territories, navigating his pack through the dangers of humans and dogs just the same. I can only hope I do justice to this story.

This one is for you, Àngel, the king I’ll always bend my knee to.