The Unexpected Betrayal

In our quiet neighbourhood lined with gulmohar trees and rose gardens, the Singh family was considered among the friendliest. Mr. Prakash Singh, a retired government officer with a silver moustache and a voice that carried far, was our immediate neighbour. He and his wife, Mrs. Neelam Singh, would often visit us, usually bearing sweets or small gifts on festivals. Over the years, we had come to accept their presence as a part of our lives. They had three dogs—lively, loud, and always barking in chorus when anyone passed by. Our own dog, Rex, was a golden retriever with silky fur, a calm demeanor, and eyes that seemed to understand every word we said. Rex had been with us for four years and was especially close to my daughter, Ananya. She would talk to him as if he were a person, and to our surprise, Rex always responded with understanding—following commands, fetching her books, or even just sitting beside her when she was upset. He was more than a pet; he was family. One cold December morning, a strange emptiness hung in the air. Rex was missing. We searched every corner of the house, the garden, and the nearby park. We called out his name till our voices cracked, checked with neighbours, even put up posters around the colony. But six days passed, and there was no sign of him. Ananya was heartbroken. She would return from college with hope in her eyes and leave again with tears rolling down her cheeks. The house seemed quieter. Even our neighbours, the Singhs, expressed concern. Mr. Singh told me, “So sorry to hear about Rex. Dogs are like our own children.” His wife added, “We’ll pray he comes back.” They even brought a small silver idol of Ganesha, saying it might bring some luck. On the seventh day, fate turned a page. Ananya was riding her scooter back from college when she saw something that made her brake hard in the middle of the road. There, stepping out cautiously from the gate of the Singh residence, was Rex. Dirty, a little thinner, but unmistakably him. He froze as he saw her, then ran forward. She dropped her helmet and hugged him, crying and laughing at once. Without wasting a second, she brought him home. Later that evening, I went over to speak to the Singhs. Mrs. Singh opened the door. I told her what had happened. She looked surprised and said, “Oh! I suppose he must’ve wandered into our compound and we didn’t realise. You know how these dogs are.” Her explanation was smooth, and yet, something didn’t sit right. Our Rex wasn’t the type to just “wander” into someone’s home and stay there silently for days. But I let it go. We were just happy to have him back. Days passed, and things seemed to settle—until an unexpected twist came from an unlikely source. Their driver, Kulu, a quiet man in his early thirties who’d been with them for years, had a bitter argument with Mrs. Singh over petrol bills. She accused him of overcharging them, and the fight escalated. That evening, Kulu left, his belongings packed into a rickshaw, his face tight with anger and something else—perhaps relief. Two nights later, our landline rang. It was Kulu. "Saab, mujhe aapse ek zaroori baat kehni hai (Sir, I have something important to tell you)," he said. I stepped out to the veranda to speak privately. What he told me turned our understanding of the Singhs upside down. “They kept Rex locked in the store room behind their house. Tied him up so he wouldn’t bark when people came. Gave him just enough food to survive. Madam didn’t want to return him. Said it’s a ‘prize dog’ and better trained than their own.” I felt as though someone had slapped me. My chest tightened with disbelief and rage. He went on, “I had recorded a small video the day before I left. I’m sending it to your WhatsApp.” Seconds later, my phone buzzed. The video was dimly lit but clear. Rex, tied to a pillar, whining softly, in a room with old furniture. His eyes looked straight into the camera. My hands shook. The next morning, I showed it to my wife. She stood frozen, then turned crimson with fury. “We trusted them. We let them into our home,” she whispered. She wanted to call the police, but I held her hand. “Let’s not drag this. They’ll deny everything. But they won’t be a part of our lives anymore.” That evening, my wife marched over to the Singhs’ house. I stood at the gate and watched her as she spoke—her hands gesturing, her voice firm but controlled. Mrs. Singh responded with shrugs, headshakes, and finally, a slam of the door. From that day on, we cut all ties with them. Their dogs still barked when we passed by. Mr. Singh still walked down the lane with the same slow gait. But there were no more hellos, no more visits, and certainly no more gifts on Diwali. In a way, it was sad—how trust, once broken, can never be fully repaired. Rex, however, returned to his old self. His energy came back, his eyes brightened again. He stuck closer to us than ever, perhaps sensing the betrayal we all had felt. Ananya sometimes sat with him under the mango tree in the garden, whispering to him, stroking his head. He always looked up at her with love. That bond, at least, remained unbroken. Some truths, we decided, were better known than proved. Some relationships, better ended than mended. And some dogs, it seems, can teach us more about loyalty and honesty than the people who live next door.