When I was a kid, around six or seven, I remember being utterly enchanted by a children’s magazine called Tinkle. Where Chandamama, Balhans, Parag, Nandan, and Lotpot were all wonderful in their own ways, Tinkle felt like it belonged to a different league altogether. It wasn’t easily available in our town, so I used to walk to the library just to read it. Even now, I can’t quite believe how, with his modest means, my father managed to get me subscriptions to every children’s magazine I ever wanted. Comics were negotiable, but magazines—those he never said no to. They arrived tucked inside the morning newspaper, and the anticipation of unfolding the paper to see whether today was the day was a joy like no other.Perhaps that’s why, even today, I still read Tinkle on my Kindle. It takes no more than a few minutes, but whenever I open my Kindle, I somehow end up opening Tinkle first. And the other day, I came across a story that stayed with me.A lion was walking through the forest with his young cub when a rabid dog suddenly appeared, barking and snarling. The lion didn’t even turn his head. He simply walked on, majestic and unbothered. After a while, the cub asked, “Papa, you are the king of the jungle. Why didn’t you teach him a lesson?”The lion stopped and said gently, “What glory is there in defeating a mad dog? Tomorrow, the animals won’t say, ‘There goes the mighty lion.’ They’ll say, ‘There goes the lion who fought a rabid dog.’”We live in a world full of barking dogs—snide comments on social media, curt remarks from relatives, strangers eager to pick a fight, old friends who have become old wounds. Most of them aren’t even rabid; they’re simply bored, hurting, or hungry for attention.The question is rarely can we respond. Of course we can. The real question is: should we? And what will it cost us?Every battle, even the ones we win, takes something from us—time, energy, sleep, peace. A part of us lingers on that battlefield long after the fight is over, replaying the scene, sharpening retorts for next time. If the prize isn’t worth the price, then we haven’t won; we’ve only lost more slowly.Nasrudin once said, when told that a butcher had insulted him, “When a dog barks at the moon, does the moon bark back?” The dog tires itself out. The moon keeps shining.Life will always have its butchers, its mad dogs, its kicking donkeys. They are part of the scenery. Our task is not to silence them but to remember who we are in their presence.I’m not suggesting withdrawal or passivity. I’m saying: pick your battles. Fight for something worthy—your dharma, your loved ones, your purpose, your awakening. Suffer, if you must, for something magnificent.Before you let anything unravel you, pause and ask yourself: is this worth my roar?