The weather has been abysmal here lately, and I’ve been loving it. It actually is starting to feel like autumn. The temperature is dropping—a relative concept, believe me—and everyone is walking around all bundled up. I don’t have an umbrella (typhoon season saw to that), and I’ve been chastised about that, as Jhongli used to be an industrial region, and now the rain here will mess you up.
Typhoon rain, of course, is safe.
Everywhere around town there are stray dogs. Most look hale and happy, solidly fed on scraps from the nightmarket and trash from college students left around the fields around the dorm. But lately, given the weather, some have taken on a more dour mien. Today I stepped outside with some friends to enjoy some tea and watch the rain out front of our building. When I walked over to what I thought was my friend’s backpack on the ground, resting in the corner of the porch on the front of our building, I realized it was a dog curled up.
His coat was beautiful from the outdoor living: shiny, black, surely soft to the touch. A huge gob of mucus hung from his nose to the ground, spanning the height of one paw. He looked up but did not care to move. He shivered a little, and with eyes at first plaintive, then resigned, waited for me to push him out into the rain. Which of course no man on earth could do.
I don’t want to talk about how my midterm went, I want to help this dog.
American 1: “Well, what can we do for it?”
American 2 (me): “I don’t know, take it to the vet or something. But maybe that would be too expensive?”
American 1: “Maybe a grand [NT] or so? I think I’d rather pay than see a dead dog.”
American 2: “Yeah. We can do this. We can totally do this. Where can we take him?”
Taiwanese friend: “There is no place.”
American 1: “Maybe like a hospital, not for people but for animals. Is there one of those?”
Taiwanese friend: “Yes, I know what you mean, I understand. But no.”
American 2: “There’s nothing like that here?”
Taiwanese friend: “There is, yes. But we shouldn’t bother them.”
American 2: “Shouldn’t bother whom, the dog or the dog doctors?”
Taiwanese friend: “The doctors. They cannot help him.”
American 1: “But it would be more comfortable for him, he would be warm and dry, and they would give him medicine. Right?”
Taiwanese friend: “Yes, they will do that. And then, when no one comes, they will kill him.”
And I know how right he is, I know he is only speaking the truth because he’s never been taught to lie, not even to foreigners. But why?
I would so happily give up a towel or a blanket of mine for this dog. He will be gone by tomorrow and the blanket can be thrown away, having done more in an hour than it ever would have in its lifetime.
But my friend looked at me, and urged me not to offer. He did not want to embarrass me by explaining that I would not be giving a blanket, I would be asking for one. I want, still want, to fool myself into thinking that I will see the dog tomorrow, and he will be OK. Medicine without love. Alms as subscription service to heaven.
American 1: “Do you think he would be happier—would it be better for him if we took him somewhere?”
American 2: “You’d have to ask him that.”
As is routine for our afternoon tea sessions, the three of us discussed English vocabulary. “Shelter” was a word my American friend and I went to great lengths to explain had a literary cast to it.
American 1: “Shelter is the most basic of all things. We don’t say, ‘I’m going home to my shelter now.’ Home is much more, your family is there, and perhaps food, too.”
American 2: “Shelter is like how, in a storm, you want a safe place, where there is no bad weather.”
Later, right before going back inside, we had a small recap session. My Taiwanese friend pointed at the dog and, to show comprehension, said:
“He has no shelter…?”
No, my friend. No, he does not.
And now we go inside.
