Victor completed his training in three months at the top of the class. The day before the class disbanded, a grand march-past took place in the grounds of the academy. With leather belts adorning their chests and necks, the dogs marched with their handlers and saluted Yoginder Singh who stood on the dais. For the first time in the history of the academy, a dog led the parade on his own, without a handler to control him. When he got to the stage, Victor stood on his hind legs and saluted with his forelegs. Donatello, the Italian guru of Yoginder Singh, was present at the ceremony to witness the event. He had accepted Singh’s invitation and come to India for the first time.

Years later, Donatello would write in his book, How to Train Police Dogs: ‘In the police dog training academy in India, I saw a dog as intelligent as any human being.’ He was known to be a man not prone to hyperbole, and over the years, Tekanpur BSF Academy would receive many calls from dog lovers all over the world who had read his book, inquiring after Victor. Many years later, at Yoginder Singh’s retirement function, the felicitation speeches would be peppered with the word ‘Victor’, and he would surreptitiously wipe his eyes. Over the years, he would regularly call Kerala and keep track of Victor.

‘Each one has a different destiny, even if they are born to the same mother,’ a fisherman told his friend as he rowed the boat back home in the early-morning light after a night of fishing. He picked out the rotting kuruva paral and orange bromide stuck in the net and threw them to Adam. The first time he ate uncooked fish, Adam suffered a terrible stomach ache, but now he was used to it. Growling at the darkness as though to ward off someone trying to steal the fish from under his nose, he gobbled them up. In his hurry, he gagged and lapped up his own vomit. Like the tortured animal, the fisherman, too, had many brothers, three of whom had government jobs and two others who were moderately wealthy. He did not have a close relationship with them, but he talked about them to his wife and children at least a few times in a day. And when he would pass the big house on the bank of the canal, he would tell passers-by, ‘That’s my brother’s house’, and watch the puzzled looks on their faces. He had carefully put aside a specially tailored shirt in anticipation of an occasion when he might be invited to visit his brothers.

Adam grew up slowly, half-starved as he was most of the time. All day, he ran around the tree he was tied to, and when night came he howled at the darkness. Without regular brushing or washing, his dust-covered fur matted and his flea-infested skin broke out in itchy warts and sores. He spent his time scratching and biting at his skin and, like a sanyasi in search of transcendence, chasing his own tail. The coir leash snagged the hair on his neck and left a bald circle. Worried that he might break loose from the rope, Kuttayi replaced it with a metal chain. It chafed against the bald skin and left sores that got infected and attracted worms and flies. Convinced that he would be dead before daybreak, Kuttayi dug a hole to bury him before he went to bed. But the Man in the Heaven Above had other plans, and by morning the festering wounds had healed miraculously.