As fortunate and grateful as I am for this experience in Bengaluru, some weeks living abroad are harder than others. With some personal challenges making it feel extra difficult being far from home, and somehow the ~second~ time I have had my power cut due to my failure to understand billing timelines, this felt like a nice moment for an appreciation blog to capture one of my small joys, the street animals of Bengaluru—specifically, my transition to becoming a full-fledged cat mom after a few months of living in my flat.
Urban India is home to a very visible and kind of charming cohort of street animals, including cats, dogs, and, famously, cows. I have also seen a few baby chicks on my street, but I cannot confirm whether this relates to my neighboring chicken shop or if some chickens run wild. When living in Brazil, I was acquainted with the cachorro caramelo. This charming caramel-colored mutt is the default appearance for street dogs and a national symbol and point of pride. In comparison, the animals on the streets here are diverse in breed and color and generally have a favorable temperament by day and may run in packs by night. The presence of these animals is definitive to the urban space and has been a highlight of my experience.
My first taste of street dogs was at the Airbnb I stayed in in Indiranagar (my trendy current neighborhood) while searching for more permanent housing. My Airbnb host would occasionally serve chicken to one particularly friendly dog. I was a bit taken aback because I’m not sure if I’d ever seen anyone back in Texas intentionally feeding a street dog or even a cat, for that matter. On the flip side, this charming street was also home to a larger pack of dogs that would wreak havoc by night. My friends know I can sleep through almost anything…boat rides, circus cannons, and most movies. Still, this pack would consistently wake me up when they terrorized the pets living on this street at 3am.
Fast forward to my current apartment; I was licked (eww?) on my foot by a street dog on my very first visit to see if the flat would be a good fit. This lick may have been a sign of what was to come because I’ve now developed a fondness for the animals of my street and how my neighbors interact and create space for them. Creating space includes feeding these animals, accepting that they take up space on sidewalks and roads, and even adopting some. For example, outside my bank, one particularly tired-looking dog consistently hangs out in a ditch between the road and the sidewalk. This sweetie is now wearing a collar, and I will assume he has been taken under the care of one of the shops on the street (😭).
However great my love for dogs, the true love of my experience has been my “babies” or the group of cats living on my street that frequently stop by my door for food. Shortly after moving into my apartment, I met a small white kitten so cute that the only name I could muster was “Tiny Baby.” Tiny Baby frequently runs around with a slightly larger orange and white cat that a highly reputable source, my 5-year-old neighbor, informed is its mother. After deep contemplation and research on an appropriate name for Tiny Baby’s mom, the only name that felt suitable was “Baby.” This same neighbor has already expressed her dislike of my naming convention, but it has stuck, and I have blessed all the cats on my street with some variant of the name “baby.”
I’d shared sweet moments with Baby and Tiny Baby, including sitting in my garage and seeing which portions of a chicken sandwich they were interested in eating. Still, it wasn’t until the arrival of a new baby, Baby Cheddar, that I felt a deep connection with these animals and the role they play in my neighborhood. Baby Cheddar is a few weeks old and legitimately one of the cutest kittens I have ever seen. It also has dirty ears, which makes me think it may not have a mama kitten to care for it (😭). The whole street is quite enamored with this cat; I’ve seen it passed around from the 70-year-old shopkeeper to teen boys riding their bicycles.
My introduction to Baby Cheddar was one of the greatest whirlwinds of my time in India. Coming home from the grocery store one evening, I was greeted by the tiniest kitten at my apartment entrance. For whatever reason (now I know Baby Cheddar is affectionate to all), this kitten followed me, with some hesitation, into my elevator. I fed Baby Cheddar some of the cat food I keep on hand and sat outside my door while Baby Cheddar ate. As a thank you for the meal, Baby Cheddar proceeded to nuzzle on my legs, crawl into my lap, make “biscuits,” and ultimately, take a nap. After such a sweet shared moment, I decided to accompany Baby Cheddar down the stairs, thinking it may be confused about its whereabouts after the elevator ride. On the way down, my neighbor was standing with her giant golden retriever. Immediately, the dog barked and spooked Baby Cheddar, who ran frantically up the stairs and out of sight. After chatting with my neighbor in my broken Kannada, I went to look for Baby Cheddar in the stairwell but couldn’t find them. I informed my neighbor, and we took a quick look around and ultimately went outside the building. Across the street, two neighbors informed, to my horror, that they had seen Baby Cheddar fall from the stairs into the building utility room. This is about a five or six-foot fall, and I was horrified that such a tiny kitten could have been injured. My neighbor opened the utility room, and Baby Cheddar was nowhere to be found. What proceeded was a building-wide hunt, assembling a team ranging in age from 5 to 70+ and eventually catching the attention of all building residents and other houses on the street. Neighbors chimed in with the last time they had seen the cat, and the neighbors who witnessed the fall continued recounting what they had seen. After about an hour and my increasing panic, the five-year-old opened the utility room once more, and Baby Cheddar presented itself completely unharmed.
After seeing my concern over Baby Cheddar, primarily due to my personal accountability for the cat falling in the stairwell, all the neighbors started to assume that Baby Cheddar was my cat. I was handed Baby Cheddar, and we cuddled outside my apartment as I debated if I should break the no-pets rule in my building. Finally, I prepared a small box outside my door, but instead, Baby Cheddar decided to fall asleep on my shoes (cry).
Some context—my overall neighborhood is very trendy (read: gentrifying), but I live on a more traditional street home to a temple and many local families. I have always been apprehensive about my role as a foreigner in a changing neighborhood. I’ve mainly kept my head down and showed respect for local knowledge and language when possible. After Baby Cheddar, neighbors on the whole street now know me. For about a week following the Baby Cheddar incident, a neighboring house would call me from their balcony each evening and try to convince me to keep the cat. This is not the bonding I was expecting, but I have no complaints.
Baby Cheddar has used its charm to keep a permanent home with the neighbor with the balcony and has stopped visiting my flat for food. However, word of kindness spreads quickly between cats. Baby and Tiny Baby have returned to my life, now coming daily to receive wet cat food for dinner. Their dinner visits sometimes include an acrobatic climb up my door to catch my attention. These cats have now outsmarted me, and this morning, they tested a new practice of running into my apartment and refusing to leave until I give them food. I will not be able to outsmart these cats, and in submission, I have purchased two new boxes of cat food. After a rough day, week, or whatever is being thrown at me, these “babies” are a consistent source of joy.
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