The Dog Temple Mystery

Last week, my wife came to me laughing and said, “Your mother was telling me about you building a Dog Temple when you were 10! She said you had all these crazy ideas and somehow got all the neighborhood kids to follow you around doing crazy things!”

I was puzzled. A Dog Temple? I had completely forgotten about this incident, but as I started thinking about it, the memories came flooding back. And I realized my mother had gotten it all wrong – it wasn’t a Dog Temple at all. It was something else entirely.

Let me tell you what really happened, because this story is worth telling properly.

It was the winter of 1996, and I was living in a small town in Uttar Pradesh. Our street was the kind of place where every kid knew each other, and our days were filled with gully cricket and the constant chatter of street dogs who had basically adopted our neighborhood as their home. One chilly December Sunday, I was hanging out on my balcony when I noticed a bunch of kids gathering near the old abandoned house down the street. Being a curious 10-year-old, I had to see what was going on. What I found was incredible. Maala, our neighborhood’s friendliest street dog, had given birth to four tiny puppies in a corner of the roofless house. These little guys were so small their eyes were still closed, and they were just tiny balls of fur snuggled up against their mother.

“Look at them!” whispered Ravi, barely able to contain his excitement.

“They’re so small!” added Rohit, his eyes wide with wonder.

Within a few days, we had all sort of claimed our favorites. Mine was this brown little fellow who seemed to have the most energy. I named him Sheru. He was always the first to try walking and had this funny way of tumbling over his own paws. We became an unofficial puppy care squad. Every day after school, we’d bring chapati pieces, leftover rice, and whatever we could manage to get from our kitchens. We’d watch them grow, make them race (though they mostly just stumbled around), and argue about whose puppy was the cutest.

One evening, after we’d finished our cricket match, I had this idea. “You know what we should do?” I said to the group. “We should build a proper house for them.” The reaction was immediate – and not what I hoped for.

“Haha! What are we, construction workers?” laughed Rohit. “That’s crazy, Tarun!” said Amit, shaking his head.

But the idea wouldn’t leave me alone. Every few days, I’d bring it up again. “Think about it – they’re going to need shelter when it gets really cold,” I’d say. “What if it rains heavily?” The response was always the same: laughter and dismissal. My friends thought I was being overly dramatic about some puppies. Weeks went by. Our little ones grew bigger and more playful.

Then came that sunny winter day that changed everything.

I was studying on my roof when I heard Ravi shouting from the street below. He was running faster than I’d ever seen him run. “Tarun! Come quick! Something terrible happened!” My stomach dropped even before he said the words: “Sheru fell into the big sewer. He’s… he’s gone.” We all rushed to the spot. Some adults had tried to help, but it was too late. My playful little Sheru was no more. That evening, as we sat around feeling awful and helpless, I brought up the house idea again. But this time, my voice was different. “Look what happened to Sheru,” I said quietly. “We lost him because of drowning. We don’t want to lose the others because of rain or cold.” This time, I didn’t have to convince anyone. “You’re right,” said Ravi quietly. “We should have built it earlier.” “What do we need to do?” asked Rohit.

The very next Sunday was Mission: Puppy Palace. We gathered at the abandoned house, and I pointed to the perfect spot. “This is it,” I declared, feeling like a general commanding his troops.

What followed was organized chaos. Kids scattered in every direction like ants. Some hauled bricks from a nearby construction pile, two at a time. A couple of the older boys found a half-empty bag of cement. We mixed it with dirt and water, creating a lumpy, questionable mortar. All day, we worked. We laid bricks, slapped on our “cement,” and slowly, a structure began to rise. It was a small, two-room marvel, complete with little doorways. We made sure the walls were thick and strong. We even tested its toughness by having the heaviest kid gently lean on it. It held. We had done it.

“Now,” I announced to my dusty, tired, but proud crew, “we must have a housewarming party!”

The next day was a function the likes of which our street had never witnessed.

We all brought offerings—toffees, chocolates, and fruits. We chanted some half-remembered mantras we’d heard our parents recite during pujas, completely butchering the pronunciation and probably accidentally cursing the puppies instead of blessing them. Rohit rang a bicycle bell with the seriousness of a temple priest, closing his eyes and nodding gravely with each ring. Amit sprinkled water around like he was performing a sacred ritual, though he mostly just soaked his own feet. We even made the puppies sit in a line like they were part of the ceremony—though they kept wandering off to sniff each other’s bottoms, which we decided was their way of showing respect. It was the most important street function of the year, at least in our 10-year-old minds.

The adults watched from their doorways with their mouths hanging open, looking like they’d witnessed aliens landing.

Some shook their heads in disbelief, others whispered to each other with expressions of pure horror, probably wondering what kind of madness had possessed the neighborhood children. Of course, the next day, a few parents came to our house to complain that their son was following “that crazy Tarun” and his wild ideas. My mother scolded me properly while the other parents nodded in agreement. But as they lectured us about our “crazy behavior,” I caught the eyes of my friends who had gathered nearby. We exchanged secret winks and silent smiles – we all knew we had won.

Our mission was accomplished. The parents weren’t entirely wrong – it probably did look pretty crazy from the outside. But you know what? Our little construction project worked perfectly – though it took some effort to convince Maala and her puppies to actually use it! Initially, we had to gently push them inside and block the exits so they’d stay put. But after a few days of this “training,” they finally understood this was their safe space. From then on, they lived there happily through the entire winter until the abandoned house was finally renovated months later.

Looking back now, I realize my mother wasn’t entirely wrong about the “temple” part. We did treat that little house like a sacred place, complete with offerings and ceremonies. And yes, maybe I was a bit crazy, and maybe I did make all the neighborhood kids crazy too. But you know what? Sometimes the world needs a little more crazy. Because while the adults were shaking their heads at our “Dog Temple,” we had built something that actually kept those puppies safe and warm.

So the next time someone calls your ideas crazy, just smile and remember: every great project starts with someone crazy enough to believe it can be done.