In almost every Indian colony, lane, or street corner, you’ll find one. A dog who doesn’t have a nameplate, a collar, or a home — but still takes responsibility for the entire area.
They don’t guard a house. They don’t belong to any one person. But they bark when an unfamiliar car idles too long. They follow the neighborhood children halfway to school. They walk beside the vegetable vendor for no reason other than habit. They chase off other street dogs when the vibe doesn’t feel right. They sit near someone’s gate as if they’re on duty.
No one asked them to. But they do it anyway.
These dogs were never trained. They weren’t bred to serve or protect. No one taught them commands. They simply made a choice. They chose a stretch of road, a group of families, a rhythm of life — and decided to stick around.
They pick up on routines. Who walks by and when. Which aunty gives leftovers. Which uncle pretends not to like them but secretly does. They learn where to sit so they’re not in the way. They wait outside shops they’re not allowed in. They vanish when the municipality truck comes by and reappear once it’s gone. They know things we don’t.
And most of the time, we don’t even notice.
We walk past them. We might call them “the street dog near the gate.” We might forget to refill the water bowl outside. We might not realize they barked through the night to scare off a group of intruding dogs. They do their job quietly. With no leash, no label, no recognition.
But if you stop and pay attention, you’ll see it. You’ll notice how they move. How they watch. How they’ve built their own systems of care. Their own roles in a neighborhood that never formally gave them one.
These dogs don’t guard property. They don’t belong to a specific person. They aren’t there for a paycheck in food or affection.
They guard the rhythm. The energy. The space. The people. And maybe, in their own way, the feeling of home.
They guard nothing. But they protect everything.
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