For the first few weeks, Dr Kamalesh followed the instructions written in the notebook Kuruppu had given him to look after Candy. He took Candy to the vet regularly, fed him vitamins and deworming medicines, brushed his fur and bathed him once a week. But as with many men who live alone, routine did not come naturally to him. He usually left Candy’s lunch in a special dish in his kennel, but on the first day he returned to work, he forgot to do this. Still, when he came home in the evening, Candy hugged his leg and gave him a welcoming lick on his face.

‘You just help yourself to whatever you want,’ Kamalesh said sorrowfully, and from that day Candy stopped using the kennel. The good doctor locked him in the house when he went out, and Candy ate what he wanted from the kitchen, the same food that the doctor ate. The rest of the time Candy roamed around inside the locked house, examining the position of the furniture and committing to memory the unique fragrance of each and every piece of it. For years to come, Candy would not see the world beyond the walls of that house or a human being other than Dr Kamalesh.

When his regular patients asked after his family, Dr Kamalesh would tell them: ‘I have only one relative. A brother—he is a dog.’ Candy was not particularly smart or ferocious, but he was a loving dog. His life was good, except for a single incident when he lapped up the brandy Kamalesh had poured on the floor for him and fell unconscious.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ the veterinarian patted a guilty, dejected Kamalesh on the shoulder. ‘Alcohol doesn’t agree with dogs. We’re lucky he didn’t die.’

Victor joined the seventh batch of trainees at the Tekanpur BSF Academy. There were twelve dogs in his batch, and the policemen who handled them trained with them. Victor’s handler was Sundaran Nadar, a man from Kanyakumari district who had settled in Changanassery as a young man and joined the Kerala police. Seven of the twelve dogs were German Shepherds, one from Nepal and another from Sri Lanka. Two others were Rottweilers, and two were Labradors. Victor, the only Belgian Malinois, was the first of his kind to train at the academy. The day Victor arrived at the academy, the lead trainer, Yoginder Singh, made a call to the police dog training centre in Sicily, Italy, to learn about Belgian Malinois. It was his alma mater and Donatello, the trainer there, was his guru.

Victor had some peculiar characteristics. The dogs and their handlers were to train together as one of the primary objectives of the training was to cultivate trust between them. But unlike the other dogs, Victor refused to work with his handler. They coaxed him with treats and then tried punishment, but he ignored Sundaran Nadar completely. It did not help that the poor policeman behaved like a servant in front of Victor, his cowardice barely hidden behind his moustache, while Victor, who was good at playing his hand cleverly right from puppyhood, accepted only Yoginder Singh as his master. Yoginder Singh was baffled at first, but soon realized that Victor was an extraordinary dog. Just like human beings, there were among dogs those who were unsurpassed, and a trainer considered it a matter of utmost good fortune to have the opportunity to meet one such. Released from his training duties, Sundaran Nadar wandered around the lanes and villages of Gwalior, wondering about his poor wife and children left alone back in Changanassery. When he eventually got back home after six long months, what awaited him was a suspension order based on a report Yoginder Singh, smitten as he was with his pupil, had written.