I am a reasonably compassionate person. I feel for the plight of a wounded animal or bird though not as much as my mother and sister. They love all living beings. My sister has the unique ability to admire a scary crow cawing grossly on the window pane, watch a repulsive lizard's movements with awe and run to the SPCA animal hospital with an injured crow in a cab. It is common to find her squatting in the middle of a room trying to save an invisible insect from certain death beneath someone's feet. She scoops up the little fellow very gently on a tiny piece of paper, finds a safe spot for him and deposits him there. Periodically, she also checks on him if possible and, if further possible, she drools over his God-given personality.
No, I am not in that space. I feel sorry for creatures with four legs or two wings; the others can take care of themselves. But I was always wary of the four-legged fellows. I stayed away from them as much as possible. I would be slightly nervous when a dog hovered nearby. All this changed when we met Pixie - the tiny pup we had a tryst with for a few months. When I saw her in our garden, she was a month old. It was pouring and she was in a drain, shivering. My heart went out to her. But being too finicky about touching an animal, I couldnt bring myself to pick her up and bring her home. That job had to be done by my husband. I could get myself to clean her poop, much as I resisted it internally, but even that was not good enough to get me to touch her without a mild sense of fear and revulsion.
For almost a month that she stayed in our car shed, I took care of her without so much as touching her. At times, I would stroke her gently, and withdraw the moment she turned to look at me. This went on for a while till she had to be hospitalised for a severe bout of jaundice. On discharging her, the doctors told us Pixie would have to be kept at home under strict watch for at least two weeks so that she does not eat any junk. We put a leash on her and kept her at home. Her debilitating weakness notwithstanding, Pixie hated the leash. She chewed up two of them, and when she couldnt eat the third one because it was metallic, she tugged and pulled at it fiercely all day. She hated being indoors and would pull towards the door all the time. She equally hated her medicines and would wildly shake from side to side the moment the offending dropper appeared in sight. The strong-willed woman kept us nervous and on our toes all day.
Whenever my husband took her out for a walk, she would literally dig her heels into the ground and refuse to turn back. All our pulling at the leash had no effect. It strained her neck and made her breathless but to no avail. She was clear in her head that she would rather die than get back in that hellhole where she was chained to a table and had no free air. When this clash of wills had played itself out, my husband had to pick her up and carry her home. She always re-entered our home after every walk  in my husband's arms.
All these days, my phobias were intact. I shuddered at the thought of lifting her till the day I had to. Hubby had not woken up and I had to take her for a walk. We went through the routine of  me pulling at the leash and she digging forcefully into the ground. I looked around desperately for a sign of my husband and cursed myself for forgetting to take the phone with me. The house was well within sight but he wasnt. Eventually, I realised there was no go. I sighed, shut my eyes, lifted her, and walked back, all the while furiously wishing my home moved closer.
On entering the house, I dropped her hurriedly on the floor and earned a morose look, "Why do you bring  me back here? Its horrible." After that, there were occasions when I ventured to lift her either to make her squat on the window for a view of the world outside, or to deposit her in the car or on our fight back home from a walk.
After the doctor gave the green signal, I began bathing her too. Since it took all of hubby's might to hold her in place, the job of soaping and scrubbing her fell upon me. By the time Pixie recovered, I too had grown free of my thousand inhibitions.
And by the time we removed the leash, Pixie had decided she wanted to bound back to her hell hole on her own. It was home after all.

After recovering, we went back to our normal lives. She hung around my husband's office for two-three months, following him like a shadow everywhere till one day, we didnt see her. We dont know where she is to this day though it is certain she would not have left on her own. It is a wrench and we live in hope.  

Today,when I see a dog, I see Pixie and there is tenderness in place of anxiety. 

Thanks a million, sweetie, for teaching us a few things about life and helping us grow. We love you and miss you. Hope someone is taking care of you.