Free The Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) by Teresa J. Rhyne

smiled until it hurt. Later I walked about with some of the women, arm in arm as they seemed to prefer, and periodically I huddled with my fellow volunteers to wonder if we were doing this right. We gathered in the smaller room, east of the large dormitory room we’d been in. This smaller room had twelve cots and a small office space. We later surmised that the higher functioning women were housed in this room.
    It didn’t seem like much, what we’d been doing. And it seemed too easy—other than the uncomfortable feeling of naïveté and the language barrier, which was less than I imagined. There were several women who knew enough English to converse. I was thankful to learn this as, despite my good intentions when I applied for the trip, I had not managed to learn a single Hindi word beyond n amaste , which I, like most middle-aged, suburban American women, had learned in yoga class.
    When the sun came out, we all went out to the courtyard where Ranjana showed us the balls and paddles and a plastic cricket set. The courtyard wasn’t large enough for any organized game, especially with the number of women who joined us. But playing catch and “batting” a ball back and forth worked well. The fresh air, the movement, the simple joy of playing momentarily relieved my grief and fatigue.
    The spicy, fragrant scent of lunch began to drift from the kitchen to the courtyard. The sisters reappeared at eleven thirty, and the women began to line up for lunch. We were handed plates of food and spoons. Then each of us was guided by one of the residents to one of the women in wheelchairs. With a few hand motions indicating we were to spoon-feed them, we were again left to figure it out.
    I don’t have kids. I don’t recall feeding kids. My parents are only seventy years old and quite able-bodied, so I’ve never had to assist with their care and feeding. I have, however, fed myself on more than one occasion, and this I fervently hoped would be sufficient experience. I leaned over the plate, scooped up a spoonful ( Enough? Too much? Should I mix the items? ), and moved the spoon toward the young woman’s waiting mouth. She chewed, drooled, chewed, and opened her mouth again. I spooned. We repeated the motions unchanged until another of the residents came by and moved the plate in my hand so that it was farther under my charge’s chin. Then she motioned for me to squat or kneel down, and when I did, I realized how tense my back was from standing over the wheelchair. I had a lot to learn about some very simple things. It was too soon to be patting myself on my sore back for my one day of volunteering.
    I was quiet on the drive home, lost in my thoughts as the others chatted. All I’d done was spend four hours playing catch, making a few beds, coloring in a book, naming animals, and feeding a disabled young woman. I was ridiculously proud of myself for having completed the first day with no horrible mistakes or wildly uncomfortable moments, but I was also aware that I’d been quite tense and nervous. The point of the trip was to get me out of my comfort zone, but I hadn’t expected that to happen on the first day of volunteering, nor over such simple actions. I rested my head on the window and watched as the Delhi street scenes unfolded.
    It was easy to do. We were moving slowly, much more slowly than we had during our drive in that morning. I watched for the animals—the cows, the pigs, and particularly the dogs. Piles of trash were deposited along the roadsides, and the cows and pigs rummaged through them at will. Cows meandered across the streets, and dogs dashed in and out of the slow-moving traffic, nimble and quick. I’m an animal lover through and through—all animals, but of course dogs in particular. And each dog on the streets—and there were many—brought my thoughts back to Seamus. These dogs did not look healthy, nor did they look particularly sick; they weren’t fat and they weren’t thin. None were any