Driving at 70 Kmph along the Metro line, heading towards City Center, past the traffic island at Golf Course – I noticed a cement mixer truck three cars ahead of mine swerve to the left. In fairly quick succession, the next two cars swerved too, one to the left, the other to the right. It seemed like the driver ahead of me was thinking the same thing too, as we both took evasive measures and yanked left – not really knowing what to expect.

We zipped past a black-nosed, chubby, fluffy puppy, wailing, right in the middle of the road. How it was alive even at that point in time was a miracle. What followed next warmed my heart – except for the first two in the ‘convoy’, three cars, including mine, stopped. We jumped out and sprinted to the puppy – a good 50-60 meters behind us. There were three of us – and we were talking to each other – each hoping that it was still alive.

We were too late. But happily so. A biker had already backtracked and picked up the cutie-pie. A family from the adjacent village was walking by, and they offered to take the puppy home and make it their own; their little boy’s eyes sparkling like stars under the sodium vapour lamps! And that was that. We barely saw the puppy for 30 seconds in all.

As the three of us walked back to our cars, we were silent. Perhaps it was nervous relief. Perhaps, the joy of witnessing a tiny miracle of sorts. Both, perhaps? Or, maybe, because all of us were choked up. As we broke up the ‘mission’, we three strangers just nodded goodbye and went our separate ways.

On a cold autumn night, three cars, a biker, and a family from the nearby village stopped to make sure a puppy had another shot at life. It felt good to be part of that group. It felt nicer to witness a tiny miracle – a pup with two lives.

Woof!