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Duke: The Pawprints That Time Could Never Erase

There are some companions who do not merely share our homes; they quietly become part of our lives. They do not need words to tell us that they care, nor do they ask for explanations when we are silent. They simply remain beside us, offering a kind of companionship that is pure, uncomplicated and unconditional. For me, that companion was Duke.
Duke was a German Shepherd, and although many years have passed since he left this world, his memory has never really left me. At present, I do not have a pet. In fact, after Duke died in 2010, I never kept another one. Perhaps some bonds are so deep that, once broken, the heart becomes reluctant to begin again.
Duke was not merely a dog. He was a presence. There was something reassuring about knowing that he was around. His footsteps, his alertness, his expressive eyes and even his quiet moments became familiar parts of everyday life. A pet has a remarkable way of entering our routine without asking permission. Gradually, feeding them, talking to them, watching them sleep, taking them for a walk and simply having them nearby become little rituals that we scarcely notice until they are gone.
Dogs possess a strange wisdom. They seem to understand our moods without being taught. They know when we are happy, when we are troubled and when we simply need someone beside us. They do not judge our failures or question our silences. Their affection does not depend upon our achievements. Perhaps that is why the bond between a human being and a dog can be so profound.
Duke’s departure, however, was not something I was prepared for.
In 2010, while I was away on an official tour, Duke developed some unknown ailment. He was taken to a doctor and underwent an operation, but unfortunately he could not survive. I was away when all this happened. Returning to learn that he was no longer there was unbearable.
There is a particular kind of pain in losing someone when you were not there at the end. The mind keeps asking questions that have no answers. Did he look for me? Did he wait for me? Was he frightened? Did he know that I loved him? Rationally, I know that these questions cannot change what happened. Yet the heart does not always listen to reason.
Perhaps the hardest part was returning to a familiar place and discovering that something essential was missing. The house may have looked the same, but it could never feel exactly the same again. There are absences that occupy more space than presence ever did.
Duke’s bowl, his usual place, his familiar sounds — all those ordinary things must have carried an extraordinary weight for a while. That is the strange mathematics of grief: something that once seemed insignificant suddenly becomes precious simply because it belonged to someone who is no longer there.
I sometimes wonder why I never kept another pet after Duke. Perhaps I already know the answer.
It was not because I stopped loving animals. Quite the opposite. Perhaps I loved Duke so deeply that I became afraid of experiencing that loss again. A new pet would not replace him, because nobody could. And perhaps the heart, having once experienced the pain of saying goodbye, sometimes chooses remembrance over repetition.
But memories have their own way of keeping relationships alive.
Duke has been gone since 2010, yet he occasionally returns to me through memory — not as an old photograph or a distant event, but as a feeling. I remember the companionship, the loyalty and the uncomplicated affection. I remember what it meant to have another living being who trusted me completely.
There is something profoundly beautiful about the trust of a dog. You can spend years accumulating possessions, achievements and recognition, but a dog’s affection is earned through something much simpler: presence, kindness and care. Perhaps that is one of the lessons pets quietly teach us. Love does not always need grand gestures. Sometimes it is simply being there.
Duke also taught me something about impermanence.
We often behave as though the people and creatures we love will always be around. We postpone affection. We assume there will be another walk, another morning, another evening, another opportunity to say something. Then life reminds us, sometimes painfully, that nothing is permanent.
The Sanskrit phrase “अनित्यं असुखं लोकम्” — anityam asukham lokam reminds us of the transient nature of worldly existence. Everything changes. Everything passes. What matters, therefore, is not how long a relationship lasts, but how deeply it touches us while it exists.
Duke’s life was shorter than I would have wished, but it was long enough to leave a permanent imprint.
Perhaps that is what a pet ultimately gives us — not merely companionship, but memories that continue long after their footsteps have disappeared. They teach us to appreciate the ordinary, because ordinary moments often become our most treasured memories.
I do not know whether I will ever have another pet. For now, I am content to carry Duke in that quiet corner of memory where time cannot reach him. He remains there, young and familiar, untouched by the years.
Somewhere between the barking, the wagging tail, the watchful eyes and the silent companionship was a friendship that required no language.
Duke left in 2010.
But some departures are not endings.
They are simply the moment when a living presence becomes a lasting memory.
And some pawprints, once left upon the heart, never fade.





