They were born in the woods. Their mother was a mongrel-jackal, shot dead by a ranger when they were barely a month old. The ranger took the pups, all four of them, and handed them to a friend of ours who lived in the nearby village.
The eldest and the youngest pups died, while we adopted the two remaining ones, provided them our house as shelter and gave them names: the brown one we call Chocho, and the black one we call Chacha.
Chocho grows into a handsome dog, tall and well-built, with soft, velvety coat and very sweet disposition. Chacha, on the other hand, was stunted, with coarse black coat, and since their early days we can tell that he did not possess the stamina and stoutness as his brother has. And I spotted signs of jealousy in him.
A month ago, we were given a grown-up bitch, and -- as predicted -- she became Chocho's mate instead of Chacha's. Soon, I noticed that Chacha was into some kind of depression and he began to grow ill.
Finding a vet is a very difficult matter out here in the villages. And, when we finally found one, he was diagnosed with chronic pneumonia and enlargement of the liver. I took care of him for the whole week, even feeding him with a spoon to get the food and medicine into him.
I tried all I can, but God has another plan. Just as I thought he was recovering, God took him away. I started the first day of the month with a mournful loss.
Above is the last picture of Chacha, a few hours before his death, and Sarah's only chance to hug and pet him.
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