Our India Mission was no vacation. Okay, they put us in the presidential canine suite of a five-star hotel, gave us a great T-bone steak a la Mughlai, and all that, but it was tough work. I mean, India may have some interestin’ dogfood but it ain’t easy to handle. For one, there’s 1 billion of them, each with a distinct smell and opinions. Like the commander-in-chief says, playin’ Cowboy with these Injuns is no pony ride.

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Our first assignment was to sniff out that huge doghouse they call Rashtrapati Bhavan. Gawd! They haven’t vacuum cleaned those kennels since ol’ Mountbatten left, I betcha. One of the old dogs out there told me a funny yarn of how his great-great-grandfather had once caught this ol’ lord under a pergola pissing into the flower beds, and took a bite off this leg — you can still sniff that ol’ man out! You know what they say about mad dogs and Englishmen! Anyway, Rashtrapati Bhavan was hard, hard work. It is so blasted big. The horses, though, were impressive, must admit.

Then there was the mausoleum for someone they call the apostle of non-violence at Rajghat. We needed to go there, our Major-General explained, because we need to tell the world that while we may have blasted Iraq back to the stone age, we guys believe in non-violence. I’m told they showed us on on TV going about our business at Rajghat, and the Indians were livid! Too bad. Do they expect us to compromise on our security? No sirree, we are Dog Squad One, and you don’t mess with us.

From there, it was back to another stone heap they call Hyderabad House for our talks. Gawd, how many more of these sandstone dumps do they have? Thank heavens that lunch was fairly leisurely. We did a quick sniff of the banquet area, and sat down for a fairly substantial repast, beginnin’ with barbequed crab-meat and endin’ with lamb chops. Gave the masala chai creme brulee a miss though. We’re advised to cut down on the cals. As our handlers say, ‘‘We want the Dog Squad trim — look at Condi Rice, we gotta be fit and trim like her!’’ By the way, we announced the nuclear deal at lunch. The Indians were ecstatic, kept jumpin’ around in joy. For an old dog like me, all this was kinda amusin’. We’ve really bow-wowed ’em, haven’t we? They’ll be eatin’ out of our hand for decades now!

Then it was back to old Rashtrapati Bhavan for the reception! Got quite tired of the place, must say. The next mornin’ though relaxed. Roosevelt House was like bein’ back home in Washington, we didn’t have to do too much sniffin’ around.

My fellow officer, Sergeant Eddy, did the Hyderabad stretch. He’s what you call a pain in the tail. A psychopathic pooch of a Doberman, trained by the Pentagon, who can chase anything — whether it’s WMD in the Iraqi sands or his own posterior! I don’t want to be a dog in the manger, but you know it’s me who does the really big assignments. Like Purana Qila. Another great big stone heap — and this one’s even older. Goes back to someone called Humayun, I believe, who slipped down its stairs and killed himself. The place is crawlin’ with snakes. Give me a good, honest-to-god American Russell’s Viper, any day — those cobras are tricky. Could sniff out the tiger in the zoo next door. And the chimps and crocs, too. Gawd, how they smell and what a racket they made. Can’t understand these Indians. Why did they want us to speak from this perch? Was this some kinda joke they sprang on us, gettin’ us to address the zoo? I sniff a conspiracy here, but will save it up for our debriefin’ in Washington.

Already missin’ home. Ah, wish they’d send us to Crawford after this trip for a break. Could catch up with Barney, Beazley, and the rest. Just want to be a watch-dog for a change. I mean, watch Lassie come home, or some funnies on TV. It’s a dog’s life we lead, and even us, First Canines, deserve a break. See ya, woof, woof!