I am Indy | Sreedhari Desai

I am Indy, with a "y"

I live in Boston,
where the wind comes off the water
like a slap you didn’t earn
but take anyway.

I’m a Jack Russell Terrier…
small as a punchline,
hot as a lit cigarette
left on the edge of the sink.

My human is tall,
built like a guy who could carry a refrigerator
up three flights
and still have breath to laugh about it.

He loves me stupid.
The way the strong do
when they finally find something
they don’t have to win against.

Before the walk
he sings that song…
making kakina, making kakina…
like it’s church,
like it’s a ritual
that keeps the city from caving in.

I don’t know what kakina is.
I just know it means
the leash,
the cold air,
the whole world pretending it’s bigger than me.

He looks down at me and asks,
whose nuts are the best?
and I swear
he says it like a philosopher
who already knows the answer
but needs to hear it anyway.

I’m not the friendliest dog.
I’m not a greeting card.
I’m not a golden retriever
with a smile rented by the hour.

I bare what I’ve got.

That’s the joke…
I lost my teeth.
Eight years old and empty-mouthed,
like an old boxer
who still shows up to the gym
just to remember how it felt
to be dangerous.

But I’ll still pull my lips back
at dogs three times my size…
big shepherds, big labs,
those polite giants with thick necks
and soft eyes.

I’ll snarl at them
like I’m twelve feet tall,
like I own the sidewalk,
like I don’t weigh
nine and a half pounds
soaking wet with attitude.

I don’t realize I’m tiny.

Or maybe I do
and I’m just furious about it.

I’m not neutered.
I’ve got all my original bad ideas
still intact,
still barking at the world
from somewhere deep
behind my ribs.

Some days my hips hurt.
They ache the way old neighborhoods ache…
quietly,
with a stubborn pride
that doesn’t want your pity.

I limp
until he shows up.

Then something in me
clicks like a lock.
Then I’m ready.
Then I’m a missile again,
a small furious miracle
with a tongue too big for my mouth,
hanging out the side
like I’m always mid-laugh
or mid-insult.

He feeds me soft food…
the good stuff,
the kind that smells like mercy.
He makes it a meal
like he’s trying to apologize
for every hard thing
the world ever did to me.

And sometimes there’s a woman.

The one I love
in that quiet way dogs love…
not with poetry,
with gravity.

She sits close
and hand-feeds me
Indian style,
little balls rolled just right,
like she’s shaping kindness
between her fingers.

I take it carefully,
gum it like an old man
working through his regrets,
and I look up at her
and forget the whole city.

My human watches.
He pretends not to melt,
but he does.

He always does.

On cold days
I crawl inside his jacket,
right up against his chest,
warmth like a second heartbeat,
and I stick my head out above the zipper
like a stubborn captain
peeking out of a bunker.

Boston can keep its sirens.
Keep its cold corners,
its big dogs,
its bigger men.

I’ve got my tall, strong human
singing stupid songs
about kakina and love.

I’ve got soft food,
rolled into perfect little offerings,
and a tongue that won’t behave,
and hips that complain
but still get up.

I’ve got no teeth
and I’m still willing to bare them.

Because that’s how it is
when you’re small
and adored
and just dumb enough
to believe you’re unstoppable.

And maybe…
in the only way that matters…
you are.