How a Mischievous-Tiny Soul, Stole My Heart and Found Her Way Home
It was early February 2022, somewhere between the 7th and 9th. I remember the dates only vaguely, as it was the time I received my admission letter from Virginia Tech for a Masters in Computer Science. That morning, I was alone at home. My father had left early for work, and my mother was in Delhi at my maternal grandmother’s house. My grandmother had recently suffered an accident and fractured some bones, so my mother had gone to help care for her.
It was between 9 and 10 a.m., and I was tucked under layers of blankets, trying to keep warm in the freezing cold. I was working from home, preparing for my daily standup call scheduled for 10 a.m. As I worked on my laptop, I heard a faint but persistent crying sound coming from outside my house. It sounded like an animal; a cat or perhaps a dog crying in distress. At first, I ignored it, assuming it was just stray dogs bothering smaller roadside puppies and someone would eventually step in and resolve it.
But the sound didn’t disappear. Instead, it grew louder and more frequent. I checked the time, and still some were left before my standup call. Unable to ignore the cries any longer, I decided to investigate. Throwing on some warm layers, I stepped outside and started looking for the source of the sound.
The cold air bit at my face as I checked the area. The road was empty, but the crying was evident now. I followed the sound, which led me to a patch of wild shrubs nearby. I approached the shrubs, wondering whether the distressed animal was a kitten or a puppy. My childhood memories of how puppies cry made me lean toward the animal being a kitten, but I couldn’t be sure until I saw it.
I spotted a small white shape, barely distinguishable from the mud and water it was soaked in. My heart sank. Carefully, I reached out and picked it up. It was a puppy, filthy and shivering, its tiny body half-soaked in cold water. It looked like a snowball that had been carried through the dirt. The pitiful cries continued as I tried to clean it up, brushing off some of the mud and letting it sit in the weak warmth of the winter sun.
I glanced around, hoping its owner or mother might appear. But the road was empty. Judging by its size and apparent age, I doubted it had an owner. It seemed too young and likely still dependent on its mother’s milk. Sitting on the road with the puppy in my arms, I felt helpless. It was still crying, and I guessed it might be hungry.
I carried the puppy inside, fetched a small bowl, and poured some lassi — a sweet, flavored yogurt drink — into it. Checking the time, I saw it was almost 10 a.m. Outside, I placed the bowl before the puppy and watched it drink every last drop. Slowly, the cries were replaced by the quiet of its tiny body settling down. For the first time since I found it, it seemed at peace.
As I had to attend my meeting, I gently placed the puppy back on the road, thinking it best in case its mother returned. Closing the door behind me, I went inside to join the call. Even during the meeting, my mind kept drifting back to the puppy, and I strained to hear any sound from outside. For a while, there was peace. Then, suddenly, a loud, panicked cry pierced through the air.
I ran outside and found the puppy had stuck its tiny head between the bars of our main gate. It was struggling, unable to free itself. My heart raced as I carefully pushed its neck back through the bars, ensuring it did not hurt the puppy. Once it was free, I opened the gate to let it in. It stumbled inside, still crying softly.
Picking it up, I checked the puppy more closely this time and realized it was a female puppy. With a laugh, I told her, “So that’s why you’re crying so loudly, huh?” — no offense intended, of course.
She fit perfectly into the palm of my hand, so small and fragile that I wondered how old she could be. A week? Maybe two. Holding her close, I started talking to her, asking where her mother was. She didn’t respond naturally and instead started moving, eager to be set down. I decided to take her to the roof, where she could move around safely.
On the roof, she followed me everywhere I went, her tiny paws padding softly against the cold surface. Every now and then, I picked her up and looked around, checking the streets below for any sign of her mother. But there was nothing.
I live in a small town where, during winters, it’s common to see female dogs giving birth to puppies. These puppies often roam the streets while their mothers search for food. Unfortunately, human children sometimes pick them up and take them home to play. When their parents insist they return the puppies, the kids often leave them randomly — on a different road, outside their own house, or anywhere convenient. Rarely do they return the puppies to the exact spot where their mothers live. As a result, many puppies don’t survive. Some die from the cold, some fall victim to road accidents, and dogs from other territories attack them. Only a few make it through the harsh winter.
Back to the story, I suspected that some kid from our neighborhood took her from a different place, and when their mother denied keeping her, they left her on the road. Since I was alone at home, I couldn’t go around the neighborhood asking everyone about her. For the time being, I decided to keep her with me.
I was still playing with her on the roof when I noticed something unusual about the way she was walking. Her rear legs didn’t seem normal. She wasn’t walking like other puppies. Perhaps she was born that way, and the kids who took her home noticed the defect and decided to leave her on the road. Another possibility was that she had been separated from her mother so young that she didn’t even know how to walk yet, and maybe those kids had tried to force her to walk. Some kids can be ruthless.
Realizing I had work to do, I decided not to bring her downstairs with me. I didn’t want her peeing and pooping all over the house. The weather was sunny, so I locked the roof’s door from the inside, allowing her to play and roam freely while I worked without any concern.
I completed my work and had lunch. Afterward, I went upstairs and quietly opened the door. She was fast asleep. I have a habit of talking to dogs and puppies, so I began chatting with her softly, telling her I would make her a cozy bed that day.
I haven’t told my parents about her yet. My mom has a history of sheltering puppies until they’re old enough to survive on the streets. For the past 4–5 years, she’s been caring for street dogs in our area. As a veterinary doctor, my father sometimes helps by treating injured strays. Over time, my mom has learned how to bandage wounds and apply medicines. She’s even taught the neighborhood kids to call her whenever they find a hurt dog.
Because of this, my mom has a little “team” of children who assist her. Whenever there’s an injured dog, seven or eight kids show up at our house. My mom grabs her kit, and the group sets out together to help. The street dogs, even those from far-off neighborhoods, seem to know and adore her. They recognize her voice and often come out to greet her if she’s speaking to someone on the street. It’s an incredible sight to witness, though words hardly do it justice. You get the idea.
Later, in the evening, I video-called my cousin, Harshul, and told him that I had a puppy in my hand. He was thrilled to hear this — at that time, he had two dogs at home himself. I showed him the puppy, and he immediately asked what her name was. Without thinking, I blurted out, “Basanti” (a reference to the iconic Sholay movie from 1975). It was a spur-of-the-moment decision; I hadn’t given her name much thought yet. Ideally, I wanted to give her a cool name, maybe something inspired by Pokémon or another anime.
Later that evening, when my father returned home, I shared the entire story with him. He listened carefully and said, “We can keep her at home. If she stays outside, she might not survive the cold or other dogs.” Hearing this, I made a cozy bed for her using my and my brother’s old winter clothes. She was so small that just the sleeve of a sweater was enough to create a snug little nest. After playing with me for a while, she curled up and fell asleep.
Not long after, my mom called me. “Basanti kidhar hai?” she asked — “Where is Basanti?” It took me a moment to realize she was referring to the puppy. My cousin must have told his mom, and his mom and my mom are sisters, so things spread fast. I replied that she was sleeping. By the end of the day, word had spread among our relatives. Everyone now knew about Basanti, and they all referred to her by that name. It was too late for me to change it. What started as an offhand remark had become her identity, and now, I couldn’t imagine calling her anything else. Looking back, I feel proud of the name I gave her. It suits her, and I think she likes it too — at least, that’s what I tell myself.
From that day on, Basanti became part of our family. Three years have passed, and she’s grown into a mischievous yet deeply loved member of our household. She often causes trouble, especially for my parents, but her charm makes her impossible to stay mad at. Basanti is more than just a pet; she’s my daughter and an irreplaceable part of our lives.
