For over two decades in India, I’ve seen how stray dogs—though not pets—are cherished members of their communities. They endure hardship yet offer companionship, security, and joy, absorbing and returning the scraps of human affection they receive. Plans to remove them may address safety concerns, but risk erasing a piece of India’s compassionate spirit. Once gone, this bond between streets, strays, and people—woven into daily life—will be nearly impossible to restore.

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This week’s headlines about removing stray dogs from Delhi’s streets ahead of Independence Day have left me unsettled. These animals—though not anyone’s official pets—are far from unloved. They are woven into the fabric of their neighborhoods in quiet, enduring ways.

There is the night guard who tosses a roti to the same dog every evening and enjoys the company during long, solitary shifts. There is the elderly widow who feeds every stray in her lane, knowing each by sight and story. There are the children who squeal when they see the wagging tail of their street’s friendly dog, and the pet owners whose own dogs mingle with the local pack.

Yes, there are bites. I understand this firsthand—I was bitten deeply just yesterday in Kasar Devi by a pet Saint Bernard. It was painful, and I understand why some people call for stricter control of street dogs. But these animals are not useless, and their removal will not simply erase the risks. Stray dogs serve a social and emotional purpose, even if we rarely acknowledge it.

I feel that these dogs, who certainly endure their share of abuse, also absorb and thrive on the leftover bits of affection from their human neighbors. And the same goes in both directions—they give companionship to the lonely, a sense of protection to those walking home late, and moments of joy to children. They are not just scavengers of food, but scavengers of love, taking in whatever kindness the streets have to offer and giving it back in the only way they know how.

When you walk down India’s streets, you feel life—messy, imperfect, and alive in ways that ordered cities cannot replicate. This is another step toward sterilization, toward killing everything that isn’t wanted by the people in control. We might not see it immediately, but when those animals are all gone, something in the people will shift. Emotional outlets will quietly disappear. The small daily exchanges of affection, the joy of an unexpected wagging tail, the quiet comfort of a presence that asks for nothing—these will be gone. And in their absence, anger and hostility will find more space to grow.

Though I’ve been here for 21 years now, I say this as a guest in India. I can imagine the passion with which the advocates for this removal are fighting, and they have every right to shape the space they want. This change brings me a deep sense of losing something important and special. I know this is an irreversible step toward the kind of social sterility I left behind in America—the kind that makes life comfortable, yes, but also numbing.

India’s street dogs are a living reflection of her deep Hindu roots of compassion toward all souls. In their presence, there is a certain acceptance of imperfection, of coexistence, of community responsibility. To see them swept away feels like losing a small but vital part of India’s heart. And once gone, it will be hard to bring back.

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