The Last Day of Tokjai (9)

   

"Tokjai didn't eat his dinner — even though I put that much medicine in it. At lunch, he left half the bowl."

"He really didn't eat?"

"Look, he didn't! Oh well — he'll eat when he's hungry. We're leaving, son. And don't you dare climb trees in the dark. Go inside and watch TV. You and your father can do it tomorrow morning."

I stretch out like a mat in front of the old bathroom across from the kitchen. No one uses this bathroom in the evenings. Actually, no one uses it during the day either — only Father goes in once in a while, for nostalgia. There are two other bathrooms inside the house. They could tear this one down, but they don't. That's the rule of life in the village: don't tear down anything if you're not going to replace it. Since there's no space shortage in the village, unlike in the cities, every moment lived, every day experienced here, piles up layer upon layer. From Tossapol's talk, I know how cramped city life is — how people live piled on top of each other like fish in a fermented-fish jar. Ants burrow into the earth, and similarly, humans spend their lives burrowing into the sky to build houses inside it. The rest is well known! The hustle and bustle in the spaces that are still left unburrowed — the game of cornering, the exhaustion like a cat chasing its own tail… The opposite of the slowness and freedom I observe in the village must be happening in the cities. If you poke around a little here, you'll find the whole history of the house — not in secret places, chests, or steel safes, but in plain sight. A piece of paper forgotten on a table will remain untouched for ten years. A souvenir placed under the television will stay there for twenty years. No one notices, no one minds its presence. This bathroom is like that — it remains standing because it causes no discomfort. I like it here. When I come here, the household can't see me. They can't see me, but I can hear them. Their voices come to me in fragments, like a radio searching for a worthy station — interspersed with insect chirps, gecko clicks, distant barks, and Monk Watcharapong's endless sermons from the loudspeakers.

"Tokjai, you didn't eat your dinner. If you have no appetite, come help me pick the custard apples."

I don't move. If I didn't eat, there's a reason. I went to my bowl and sniffed it. It smelled wonderful — boiled rice mixed with broth, bones that Father had ground into small pieces, fatty bits here and there, not a single slice of chili — a dinner carefully prepared for Mr. Tokjai. It smelled wonderful, but does Tokjai have the stomach to digest it? I nearly vomited right there — would have messed everything up. Good thing I pulled back. I put my tongue in the water bowl, but couldn't drink that either. My condition must be very bad. I can't even remember the last time I was like this. I walked slowly, tripped on the trash basket, almost fell. I lay down by the lemon tree first, but there were too many mosquitoes there. And the damp soil made my stomach cold. So, I got up and came here. I'm in the dark — what difference does that make to a blind dog? — as if I'm doing it on purpose. Tossapol is determined — he'll pick those custard apples. What does he have to do it for? Tossapol I know — if he does a job at the most inconvenient time, it's because he's trying to avoid something more important. I can't think of another explanation. The garden is pitch dark in the evening — how will he see to pick the fruits? The light from the neighbor's garden isn't enough for anything. Don't I know that light? Coffee would jump over that wall, and I would wait for her in that faint light on long nights.

"Fine — if you won't help me, don't. Lie there lazily! By the way — you weren't offended by what I said this morning, were you? I was joking — ha ha! You know, sometimes I'm glad you can't understand me. I speak whatever comes into my head without thinking about the consequences — that's why I'm hurtful sometimes. Not everyone can stand me. That's probably why I'm alone — the reason for this ceaseless guilt inside me. Huh, Tokjai, what do you say? Ahhh, if only you were human so you could understand my troubles — we could open a couple of beers and talk under the arbor…"

How he spoils himself like a little child, how he knows what to say when his parents are away! That's love — whether human or not, it spoils every being like a baby, turns them into attention seekers. Humans use little tricks to find out if they're loved. They sleep uncovered, they talk nonsense, they exaggerate their mistakes to measure the other's reaction. Humans do that, but are dogs different? Like many other things, we've also learned from humans how to behave like a spoiled brag. On cold nights, I stubbornly sleep by the back door — do I do it because I'm cold? Of course not. I'm seeing if they'll cover me with a cloth, thinking I'm cold. When I do something wrong, I kick the ground like a goalkeeper who's conceded a goal — the comparison belongs to one of Tossapol's friends. I want them to think I've learned from my mistake. Even if I know what I did wasn't wrong, I feel bitterness inside. Because everything repeated becomes a habit. Everything that becomes a habit becomes easy. Everything that becomes easy becomes cheap.

I hear scraping sounds from under the rice barn. He's definitely getting the ladder — he'll lean it against the tree, then climb. Can that ladder be trusted? It's a rotten thing left from Father's father. Mother is right — the boy is looking for trouble. That ladder was used when this rice barn was built; that's how old it is…

"Om pra ma puud go may chia[1]"

What's with this kid? He wouldn't sing that song unless his heart was broken. Earlier, he was saying things like "I'm hurtful, then I regret it." Don't I know! The biggest problem with humans is not that they're not smart enough to understand animals — it's that they can't admit that animals are smart enough to understand them. If a feather landed on Tossapol's soul, I'd feel the weight crushing his heart before his mother would. The dots connect themselves so quickly; the picture becomes visible. So Suthina has left him — apparently. He must have done something stupid, upset the girl. He's been tight-lipped since coming home, avoiding talking about her. With his parents here, he kept his mouth shut; now that they're gone, he's acting melancholic — so there's a crack. Even worse — water is seeping through.

"Om wat ma puud go may chia"[2]

There's a buzzing in my head — I can't hear the rest of the song Tossapol is singing, only the chorus I know by heart reaches my ears clearly. Maybe he's not singing anything — the billions of images in my head are playing tricks on me. How much longer will this storm last? A ringing bell; the rustle of windblown leaves; the unnatural clatter of a mechanical repetition from afar; the high-pitched voice of the Chinese merchant who comes once a week in his pickup, selling miracle cures. All this chaos throbs not in my ears but inside my brain. It's as if I'm sleepy, but I'm not — the waters of my mind are receding, my brain is drying, a dark blue nebulous mass rubs against the inner walls of my mind, flashing, sparking — lights like cat's eyes at mountain peaks before rain — I see with my mind's eye the embers turning to flames. Thousands of photographs flash one after another in my head. In each, details of a different memory — trivial, mundane things that never occurred to me before, that I never once thought about. A clothespin falling from the line and touching the tip of my foot; the shabby rags that smell like moldy rice porridge because they got wet in the rain and weren't dried properly; my tired eyes staring at green leaves stuck to branches with glue; my triangular ears turning toward the meaningless screams of children playing badminton in front of the house; the powdered faces of students passing on bicycles, looking at me; Elder Brother Tam's laugh as he went to his death; a dry leaf falling from a tree and landing on my nose as I watched Coffee swaying away from me…

"Look, Tokjai — this is how it's done. No light, can't work in the dark, the rungs of this ladder are rotten — all excuses. Do you know what the lazy do best? Talk. How do I know? From myself, ha ha ha! How many jobs have I done since I arrived… Ahhh"

First, I hear crackling — the snap of breaking branches — then a dull thud. Paaat — something makes a sound like wood hitting wood — but also the sound of wood not hitting wood — the sound of a bone hitting soft ground. Paaat — sometimes worth a lifetime. Paaat — a summary of a life wishing to rise from its sediments. Paaat — as hard to say again as a dead person breathing. Paaat — the total weight of all the unanswerable responses to the question, "What scientific explanation can soothe a mother's pain at losing her child?" Paaat — and the vacuum of silence left behind by heavy trucks. I wait for a while — hopeful and anxious. Then Tossapol's complaint comes — very weak, like a newborn puppy yipping, searching for its mother's teat. Tossapol sounds like he's talking to himself — sleep-talking or mumbling in class.

I bark into the void. Then I gather all my strength and get up. The sounds stop. Dead silence — the silence of death. Only the chirping of crickets in the air, and the noise of me bumping into things. My foot catches on a piece of paper, I break free, step on a curved shard of broken bowl. Passing between the barn and the bathroom, my head hits a long wooden stick. Worst of all — as soon as I enter the garden, the bushes brushing against my rear touch my wound. I want to scream, but I hold back. I have no time to think of my own troubles — I'm an old dog waiting for death. As Mother said, every day I live from now on is profit. But what about him — a young man, yet to marry, to become a father — a boy like a pillar. If not Suthina, there'll be another girl. Sniffing, I find Tos. There's a faint smell of blood in the air — the smell of life, mingled with sweat and grass. I find him, but I think he's unconscious. He doesn't say a word to me, doesn't ask for help. I bark again. I touch his face with my wet nose — he doesn't like me touching his cheek with my nose. I lick his ear. No response. The blood is coming from his head — behind his right ear. Terrible things cross my mind — pitch-black scenarios rising from the bottom of a well. I see Mother crying; I see Father retreating to a corner, head bowed, silently looking at the ground. Ah, Tossapol, what have you done, boy! If I couldn't hear your breath, if I didn't hear the rattle in your chest, perhaps I'd lie down beside you and wait for death to come to me then and there.

"The job is yours, Tokjai. Come on — show that you're a good friend, prove yourself one last time."

I say this to myself. I must set out without wasting time. Bantaen is four kilometers from here, and the hospital is at the entrance of the district. I don't know how long it will take me to cover four kilometers in this condition, but I have no other choice. If I bark at the next-door neighbor, will they understand that there's been an accident? The neighbors on this side wouldn't care, but the other neighbors — who use their machine to hull our rice — might help. Without thinking about what I might bump into, what might hurt, I make my way to the front gate. Luckily, the gate isn't fully closed — it's left ajar. I slide my paw into the gap and push; it opens easily. The village road is empty — the voices of young people singing and drinking come from afar, and the wind carries a smell of burning. I bark in front of the neighbor's gate for a while, but no one comes out. There's not much sound from the house either — maybe no one's home. And I have no time to lose — with Tos lying there…

I put all the strength my old legs have into it. I head toward the edge of the village, toward the pomelo market and Mother's school — like a motorcycle with a flat tire. I won't have to cross the road even once — a huge advantage. I'll walk along the edge; I'll use my nose, my ears, and my wounds to determine what's around me. My right back leg hurts badly — when I put weight on it rapidly, a pain like the wound being torn open appears behind me. Though I almost fall sometimes, I get up and continue. My legs are like a folding chair with loose screws — the bones are still intact, but the joints are untrustworthy. I find the main road by sniffing and listening, but the rest will be much harder. I'm a blind, lame dog who has thrown his injured body between trucks hauling sugarcane, zigzagging pickups, and tractors driven by villagers drunk on rice whiskey. None of that worries me — or rather, it shouldn't. Having nothing to lose will make me a cowardly hero — I know that too. I'm ready for this cheap heroism — with all my being. What matters is that nothing happens to Tossapol — that his future is saved.

As soon as I reach the corner, I turn right. At the same pace, I pass silently by loud young men on motorcycles. My heartbeat is normal; my speed isn't bad; I'm in no state to think about my upset stomach or the wound behind me. Until I reach the hospital, I am not Tokjai — I'm just four limping legs. I'm not going to change the world — I'm going to save Mother from deadly grief. Children on bicycles pass me; those who know me tease me: "Tokjai, what are you doing here?" "You've lost your way, Tokjai — turn back!" "You'll get run over — besides, you can't see." They mumble but don't stop trying to understand my situation. I continue on my way like an old explorer. Sounds and scents fill my world — I'm as comfortable as a bat ruling its cave. Still, I sometimes stop to make sure I'm going the right way. I draw my own conclusions from oncoming vehicles, lazy dogs lounging by the road, villagers drinking beer and singing in front of shops, and trash burning by the roadside. I will finish this road — I will reach the hospital gate and howl bitterly. Mother will understand that something's wrong — that Tossapol fell and cracked his head.

"What's this, Tokjai? Have you taken a liking to Zoltan? Don't let your end be like his!"

The voice comes from behind me, but I don't want to stop and answer. I don't like the dogs around here anyway, and they don't like me. They're not bothering me now, but in the old days — if I were healthy and strong — they'd band together and attack me, make me regret being born. "Go back to your village or we'll kill you right here," they'd threaten, grinding their sharp teeth. I rarely came here anyway — only on days when I followed Zoltan excessively. Or on the rare occasions when Zoltan, after reaching the lake, took the main road instead of going back the way he came.

"Fine — go on, let the cars crush you. The world will be rid of one snob. Ha ha ha…"

The laughter mingles with the roar of passing cars. I think of my old friend Zoltan — the road, the suffering that the road offers, to forget those who want me to return home.

Zoltan was a sailor from Hungary. What business does a Hungarian sailor have in a village in Isan? I had asked myself the same question. When I met him, I didn't even know where Hungary was. If you're a young dog born and raised in Thailand, with every intention of dying in Thailand, not knowing about a country thousands of kilometers away is perfectly normal. When I finally learned, my surprise multiplied tenfold. At first, I wanted to ask him, "Was there no other place to go, man, that you had to come to this village where not even the dream of the sea is dreamed?" But then I learned what his trouble was. Zoltan had married a woman who lived in our village. For six months he works at sea, earning money; for six months he rests on land, gathering his strength. He spends his days ashore in his wife's village, helping with the sugar cane and corn harvests on the fields her father bought. And they have a daughter, Mia, who goes to primary school.

I also know that he grows mushrooms in a dark shed by a small well in his garden. I saw it once — mushrooms sprouting from holes in plastic pipes — but I couldn't stand the heavy smell of mold and came out quickly. He and his daughter would go door to door selling the mushrooms. Sometimes I'd tag along. Since there were no children in our house and they had no dog, the girl and I became good friends. But my real friend was Zoltan. He liked me; I resembled the dog he'd left in his homeland. Sometimes he'd get confused and call me Okos. Then he'd add, "You're a smart dog — you deserve that name." During his days away from the sea, he ran a lot to avoid gaining weight. Or rather — like the other villagers — I initially thought that was why he ran. The foundation of our friendship was laid during these runs together. When I saw Zoltan, I'd follow him and run with him until I was tired.

What cemented our friendship wasn't the running itself, but Zoltan sharing his troubles with me as we ran. He'd tell me all his secrets — the seas, the ships, the strange events happened on them, and more importantly how the sea is a more reliable place than land. "If you live on constantly shifting ground, you have to hold the hands of those around you," he said once. Then he added, "The first test of friendships formed in hard times is easy times. I've seen so many souls that came together against a common enemy start devouring each other once the enemy was gone — I can't trust anyone in this world." He'd talk as he ran, bringing his phone and earphones so people wouldn't think he was talking to himself. He never played music — he'd talk to me or to himself. Which amounted to the same thing to him, but still. He was a full man looking for a place to empty himself — just as you don't mind spilling a few drops if you're running with a full bucket of water, he didn't regret anything that fell out while running.

Sometimes he'd ask himself and answer: "Mr. Tokjai, guess why I run?" Naturally, with my tongue hanging out, trying to keep up with his pace and ignoring distractions — chickens and female dogs — I didn't think of an answer. He wouldn't keep me waiting long. "People think I run to be healthy, to live long, to look attractive. It's nothing of the sort. I run to not go crazy — I run so that this solid ground under my feet doesn't take my mind from me. Just as a baby sleeps soundly in a rocking cradle, I'm comfortable at sea. Life on land is killing me — if it weren't for my child, perhaps…" He wouldn't finish; he'd fall silent. Of course, I didn't understand what he meant. Perhaps thinking that I didn't care — that I was just a simple dog — he'd stop in the middle of the road. He'd stare at me, look me up and down with questioning brown eyes. "I also run to have beautiful dreams. Because the best dreams are seen not while sleeping — but while running." He'd burst into loud laughter afterward. For a second, I'd be happy, thinking he'd stop running, but it wouldn't take long to realize I was wrong. That day, he ran twice his usual distance, brutally punishing his legs as if expelling some pain.

And one day, Zoltan left, never to return. Summer came, scorching the fields and everything in them; the rainy season came, flooding everywhere; the dry season came, chilling our evenings — but not a single word from Zoltan reached the village. Then one day, we heard that his wife had sold the house and fields and left the village. "That woman was never really from our village anyway," I heard them say once. Another time: "A ship sank — they could neither reach him dead nor alive." Some villagers didn't believe this news. "No way — he looked like a man with a lover in every port. He must have another wife, maybe even a family, in another country," most said. "Besides, he met his wife in Rayong — one of the ports where his ship docked." Words in the villagers' mouths grew longer and shorter; Zoltan's absence seeped into every house, every room, every dinner table, like a powerful medicine for boredom. No one noticed it those days, but I was the one most saddened that he wouldn't return. At the same time, I was happy for him. I always imagined he wasn't dead — that he continued breathing somewhere, with the sea alive inside him. And if I could walk this four-kilometer road — blind and lame — on this ominous evening, the credit is due to Zoltan and the legacy he left with me.

I follow the strong smell of medicine coming from my right. I feel as if I'm using the last drops of my strength. I could collapse any moment — but to have come this far, to have stolen five minutes from death — is that too much? As soon as I turn right, the asphalt road is behind me, and I enter a road paved with small stones and coarse sand. The smell increases — medicine mixed with alcohol and cleaning supplies — with a slight smell of urine and diesel. I can't tell where I am, but sensing parked vehicles nearby, I stop and bark long and hard. At first, no one pays attention, but after a few minutes, a man whose identity I can't determine comes.

"Get out of here — why are you barking?"

I keep barking. The hospital must be very close. Mother and Father must be somewhere around here — I have to reach them. No one can stop me.

"You — you! Is that you, Tokjai? How did you get here?"

I feel the man's hand on my head. His thumb strokes between my eyes. I like it, but I have no time for such displays of affection — with Tossapol lying there…

"Wait — I'll go tell them inside. Ajarn Supaporn is here — I saw her a moment ago. Did you come with them in the pickup? Well then, I would have seen you when you arrived. No, no — you just came now. But how! If you came all this way with your eyes like this…"

I hear the man's footsteps receding. I'm exhausted — I have no voice left, no breath. I feel all the world's sounds and smells rapidly receding from me. I lie down where I am — my heart nearly leaping from my mouth. I try to ignore the taste of blood pooling around my tongue, but this warm, insidious fluid keeps increasing. My stomach, my intestines — everything clenches. I rest my chin on the dry soil; there are sharp, small stones under my belly, but I have no strength to find a more comfortable spot. Soon, I hear Mother and Father's voices. "Tossapol, Tossapol — did you bring Tokjai?" they say. Then everything goes dark. The light in my mind — which I've grown accustomed to its dark blue — goes out entirely; I'm left with pitch darkness. I remember the rest in fragments; every now and then, a spark flashes, showing me what's happening: the hard, grooved, cold surface of the pickup bed touching my skin; Father driving twice as fast as normal, slamming on the brakes; leaving me in the car when they arrived home and taking Tossapol to the hospital in the other car; returning very, very late… When Tossapol's weak but cheerful voice reaches my ears, I feel a little stronger, but I no longer have the energy to show it. The way he keeps saying, "You're overdoing it" pricks my heart. I'm glad Mother asks Father for help to lift me out of the pickup. The way Father picks me up with almost trembling hands, lays me down in my favorite spot, puts his hand on my rapidly rising and falling stomach, murmuring something, lighting mosquito coils and placing them around me, covering me with a cloth… I experience all of this as if thinking of a sweet memory.

They haven't noticed yet, but I've already learned that the inevitable end awaiting me won't last until morning. The ground beneath me is no longer still — it's shaking violently, trying to swallow my body and close over me. The time will come; the earth will cave in, fill my mouth and nose, and stream into my eyes. I won't see the morning, but with my condition, I can imagine it: the back door will open, creaking as usual. Birds will chirp, sticking their heads out timidly from the narrow gaps between roof and ceiling; mosquitoes, tired from a night of work, will retreat toward the bottoms of shoes smelling of sweat; the ash from the coils around me will scatter in the wind from the open door; the hum of the neighbor's rice-hulling machine will spread to the village's remotest corners; the pigs will grunt and dive into their morning slop. Mother will take up her long-handled broom and sweep last night's dead moths; Father will plug in the thermos to make coffee. One of them will call my name: "Good morning, Tokjai," or "Are you hungry, Tokjai?" When they see me lying curled among those dirty rags, they won't realize I'm dead. "He's tired," they'll say. "He's sick — leave him alone for a while," they'll say. "He was worn out yesterday — let him rest up today," they'll say. "What a splendid dog you are — to have walked four kilometers in your condition," they'll say. Tokjai, who for the last thirteen years hasn't left a spot in the garden untrod, can no longer move even his tail — they won't notice, they won't see. Father will turn on the radio to listen to the morning news; Mother will peel and slice mam[3] for breakfast. Tossapol will come out the door, a huge bandage on his head, as if drawn by the sizzle and smell of the round slices of mam hitting the pan. His raised nose will twitch left and right. "My head hurts a lot, Mother," he'll say, afraid to mention his hunger. He'll scuff his feet for a while — probably because he hasn't put on his sandals properly. Mother will look at Tossapol with eyes that say "som-nam-na."[4] "Get up and thank Tokjai," she'll say. Then she'll add, "If you don't listen to your mother, this is what happens. And tonight, you're going to Khon Kaen for a CT scan." Tossapol will nod and come to my side, poke me left and right. "Thanks, Tokjai!" he'll say half-heartedly. "I'm very hungry, Tokjai — are you hungry? I'm going to give you the best part of my meal today," he'll say with a loud laugh. When he gets no reaction, he'll get worried. "Mother — he's not moving at all. He never used to sleep by the door when we were around," he'll say in a broken voice. Mother will come — carrying a basket of boiled rice or a meat-cutting board. She'll put what she's carrying on the table, look at me, check my breath, put her hand on my stomach. Then she'll look at Tossapol with glistening eyes and say, "Tokjai pai suwan leo."[5] A huge teardrop will appear in Tossapol's eyes. It will remain there for a long time — like an avalanche on a mountain peak, waiting for the tremor that will trigger its fall. It won't flow, won't fall to the ground, won't trickle down his cheeks. When Tossapol sees a dog that looks like me, or encounters a memory of me in some corner of the garden — only then will this drop burn his gaze, mist his pupils, blur everything in his field of vision. He'll say, "Tokjai pai suwan leo," while wondering what to do with the breakfast leftovers — and this phrase will stick to his tongue until the day he takes his last breath.

I won't be here — I won't see, hear, or smell any of it. Who knows — maybe I'll be deep in conversation with Elder Brother Tam, maybe running with Zoltan through endless meadows. He'll be telling me about his troubles again, and I'll be stopping occasionally, being lazy. Perhaps I'll see that dormitory director who let me into her room when I was injured, and I will lick her hand. Maybe I'll find that man who tried to take us to Cambodia and bite his leg. I'll meet Coffee by the walls cracked by the moonlight; I'll bark at the short-panted children returning from school in the evening; I'll walk among other dogs with pride in my uninjured body. Above all — I will become a huge drop in Tossapol's eyes when my name is mentioned, and I will continue to watch the world in all its glory from behind that water bubble. And at the same time, I'll grumble about those I've left behind. I, Tokjai Patthanachai — as the youngest son of this family — loved and was loved while living, tasted peace, freedom, and pain to the fullest, and never betrayed those who trusted me until I took my last breath. I lived quite well. I am dying well. Goodbye!

 

                                                                             ---   THE END   ---

 

                                                                                               November 2016 – May 2017

                                                                                                            Changzhou, China

* Published in Turkish in 2019. Translated to English by DeepSeek, edited by the author. 

---

[1] Even if you suck the holy amulet, I won’t believe you.

[2] Even if you suck the entire temple, I still won’t believe you.

[3] Isan-style sausage.

[4] You deserved it.

[5] Tokjai already went to heaven.

The Last Day of Tokjai (8)

 "Tokjaaaaiii… Why do you sleep so much, my boy! With all the noise I'm making, how can you keep sleeping! If my eye hadn't caught you while I was tidying up, I wouldn't even know you were here."

I don't answer Tossapol. He's just talking nonsense anyway — chattering. What can I say? Should I bark and tire myself out? I'm exhausted as it is — like a dried-out, frayed coconut or a wrinkled apple rotten inside. He's the opposite of me — he has time, energy; strength in his muscles, brightness in his eyes, countless options before him. Life is a forest of dense trees for him — not a single path. Whichever two trees he passes between, both he and those who follow will say, "Look, there's a path here too." So, he uses his freedom to the fullest to make pointless remarks. What about me? Old age on one hand, illnesses on another, blindness on another — add the predatory claws of memories to all these afflictions… Walking from one end of the garden to the other, sniffing as I go, tires me out. The wound on my rump aches badly. As if I'm being constantly beaten, as if needles are pricking my back and butt every second. Despite all the medicine and Father's ceaseless efforts, the wound grows and deepens, literally conquering my body from the inside. I've always said, you can't repair a structure from the outside if it is rotting from within — living or dead doesn't matter. A day will come when Tossapol too will grow old, and the wounds he received in his youth will spread inside his body. His cheeks will resemble a mango that rolled under the table and was forgotten there; the area around his eyes will look like dried plums. The small troubles he ignores now will grow larger, festering wounds will cover his body and mind, and microbes will feed on his life while slowly hollowing it out. Maybe then Tossapol will understand my state — my silence, my defeat, my reluctance to fight. But by then, I'll have long been mixed with the soil — neither my flesh nor my bones will remain.

"You must be hungry, Tokjai. Let's go behind the house."

Yes, I must be hungry. I say "must be" because I usually get hungry around this time. When the household speeds up dinner preparations, hunger so occupies my mind that I can't focus on anything else. But now, I don't feel like eating at all. My stomach feels strange; whenever I open my mouth, I smell a disgusting odor — not a rotten tooth, not a sour stomach. A smell from inside, from damp depths, from inflammations I wasn't even aware existed. Maybe I'll skip dinner this time. I won't die from missing one meal. I'll go and lie on the rags in front of the shoe rack. Father will light mosquito coils near me. Before going to bed, he'll come and check; if it's finished, he'll light a new one. If I cry, if I moan, he'll say, "Hold on, Tokjai, hold on — morning is near." Then he'll return to the house with a bitter heart. That pain in his chest will spread to me, of course, soiling me like pungent black water running through the streets. I continue with memories from where I left off — those dilapidated joys that no longer hurt me, my heart tired of being loved, my ever-more-hated existence like a harsh-voiced magpie, the millions of wild possibilities evoked by a falling leaf.

"Come on, get out of there. Look — while you were sleeping, I mowed the whole garden. And you're still sleeping…"

My feet are numb from sitting; as if I've touched a live wire and all my nerve endings have shortened out. To avoid the seat of the swing hitting my head when I try to get up, I attempt to crawl out. In doing so, the dirt my back paw kicks up gets into my wound. A sharp pain — as if a hot iron is touching my flesh — envelopes my body. I moan with all my breath — I'm crying, really — complaining silently to the world I can no longer see but know is beautiful.

"What's wrong, Tokjai? Can't get out of where you went in?"

Tossapol's hands touch my front paws. He strokes my weak feet with his fingers. Then he grasps the upper part of my legs — where there's no fur left. He's trying to decide where to grab and pull — perhaps trying to map out the spots that don't hurt. Do I have any spots that don't hurt, Tossapol? Any spots that haven't sagged or rotted? Contrary to what you might think, there is no such thing as getting used to pain. There's only reaching an age where you're ashamed to complain about pain. Those who don't make a sound don't have high pain thresholds — they just don't want to ruin their image.

"Come on, Tokjai my dear — don't hit your head on the swing, come out slowly…"

He puts one hand on my head so I won't hit the nails under the swing. With the other, he pulls me gently. Look at me — I don't even have the strength to get out from under a swing. What good am I? Let them sell me now — send me away like they did ten years ago, to the other side of the Mekong. Let them sell me, get rid of me, celebrate for seven days and seven nights. It'll be easier for them and for me. The pain will stop when I die anyway, won't it? And my consciousness will be shut off too. Oh, how nice — I'll live on in memories, wander the minds of those who know me. Tossapol will remember me now and then, get melancholy at the most random times. He'll remember that time when, after they surgically removed my testicles that got infected and swelled like tennis balls, I slept like dead for almost twenty-four hours from the anesthesia, and how he checked my breath with his hand, thinking I'd died, and realizing I wasn't dead, he dragged the cloth under me to the sun so I could sunbathe. Mother will smile, thinking of my clumsiness, my innocence. Sometimes she'll burst out laughing, remembering my antics, and start sentences with "If Tokjai were here…" Father, coming from the fields, will no longer lament, as he opens the garden gate, that Tokjai might find an opportunity and slip out. And this lack of lamentation, this ease, this carefreeness — like the sweet memory of a worry that no longer exists, like the momentary dizziness and anxiety of a step that suddenly disappears from under your foot, like the emptiness you feel when you visit a house and realize no one's home — will hurt Father's heart. It will blow a cold wind over his heat-drowsy mind, his eyes will drift for a few seconds, and he'll imagine me where he looks and cannot see — limping, half-furless, tongue out. "Should we put up a statue of Tokjai in front of the house? We shouldn’t let the villagers forget him!" he'll say in the evenings, after finishing his second beer, when his mood lifts. Even though I won't be here to see it, these things will happen — I know it quite well.

"Almost there, Tokjai my dear — one more step. Come on, my lion! Like in the old days — how you used to hop and jump…"

I wish I had long arms so I could jump and hug Tossapol, put my head on his shoulder and let him feel my breath on his neck, lick the back of his neck, our body heat mingling like fire and smoke, make him feel that my friendship and gratitude will never end until I die. When I was little — small enough to fit in his arms — he'd carry me on his shoulder. My white, hairless belly would rest against his shoulder bone, and I'd stay there like a  little folded pillow. "Look, Tokjai," he'd say, showing me interesting things. "See this model? It's a project for our electronics class. If I don't get above 70 on it, I won't pass the course." Sometimes he'd open his wallet and complain, "Out of money again, Tokjai my dear — no movies with the girls for a while." At times like that, I'd be sad that he could never truly understand me — the frustration of not being able to teach him or any human my language properly would sit in my stomach like a heavy iron ball — just like the day I was taken back home, leaving my friends behind, and was devastated that I couldn't tell Mother, "Save everyone in the truck, not just me."

"There — you're out. Don't go back in there — you can't get out. Come, let's go behind the house."

I limp toward the back of the house. I sense Tossapol has stopped. He's waiting for me to pass him, probably looking at me from behind.

"Motherrrr — Tokjai doesn't look good at all. He's so weak, so tired!"

Mother's voice is faint — she's either cooking in the kitchen or peeling vegetables on the long bench in front of the rice barn.

"What can we do, son? We took him to the vet — he said, 'There's nothing more to do.' What's gotten into you all of a sudden? At lunch, you were saying, 'Let's kill him and put him out of his misery.' Did your conscience prick you after spending a little time with the poor boy? It's just as I said — from now on, every day he lives is a profit."

That last sentence echoes in my ear. It's being engraved in my mind like an unchangeable law of nature — as true as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, as rice fields needing a lot of rain, as stray dogs always going hungry, as mangoes ripening and splitting their skin in May. Every day Tokjai lives from now on is clear profit. If he lives three more days, we'll rejoice that he lived three more days; if he lives three more weeks, we'll rejoice that he lived three more weeks. No, I'm not offended, not hurt. I lived a happy life and I'll die happily. Why should I worry about death? Let those who died without ever living — without ever being truly happy even once — worry about that. I didn't live like a tree — a slave to stone, soil, and water — I lived my days fully as a dog. I loved, was loved, protected, was protected. When and where necessary, I fought; when and where necessary, I made peace. How does a tree live? It lives long, lives strong, is dignified and wise — but it is not free. It spends a whole life rooted to the same spot. If you'll watch the sunrise from the same place every morning, watch the world sink into darkness from the same angle every evening, if you can't even move one step from where you were born, let alone see other lands — what good is that kind of life to me? Whether you live five hundred years or a thousand— the butterfly's one day of freedom stands against the tree's centuries of bondage. All that beauty, that splendor, that elegance in the fluttering of its wings — all for one day. You spend your long life crawling as a caterpillar, dreaming of the day you'll fly. When you grow wings and become light, you die! Is that life? The truest thing is to reconcile the contrast between bondage and freedom through communication and self-confidence. That's what we dogs do. I've struck a balance throughout my life between responsible freedom and conscious bondage. I've neither chased a freedom that would crush me nor become a slave to my food and water bowls. I've lived a balanced life satisfying both sides. I never allowed a collar around my neck, but I never betrayed my owners — I even quickly forgave them, surprising myself, when they stabbed me in the back.

"Leave Tokjai alone now. Look, it's getting dark — aren't you going to pick the custard apples? So, you've gotten out of work again. You're just like your father."

"I'll pick them, Mother. The dark won't stop me. Besides, I have that cap with a light — I bought it when I went to the caves in Petchaburi. I wonder where it is — probably in one of the drawers."

Plastic bags left on the ground catch my feet. They must have gone shopping. I must be under the table. The smell of a wet rag comes to my nose, then others follow: the thick plastic from the shoe rack, the indifferent odors of red onions and garlic by the wall, the rotting flesh from a dead frog — probably on the bottom shelf covered with oilcloth — the lingering varnish from Father's bamboo chair, the sea breeze from Tossapol's bag. I move toward Mother. No — she's not peeling vegetables; she's mashing boiled eggplants with a knife. The steam from the eggplants comes to my nose, the dull sound of the knife hitting the cutting board, the chirping of sparrows eating fallen grains of rice, the gurgle of water from under the lemon tree by the sink, and Mother's complaining.

"It's dark, son — you can't do it at this hour. You'll do it tomorrow."

Tossapol doesn't hear his mother. He's gone behind the rice barn — probably dumping the cut grass at the base of the garden wall. They used to spread it in the garden for fertilizer; he's likely doing the same. A few months ago, when I went out to pee, Mother and Father appeared beside me, and I overheard their conversation. "Look, these are the most untouched spots in the garden. When Tokjai dies, we'll bury him in this corner. In the other corner, I burn the trash." Mother, annoyed by Father's matter-of-fact attitude, scolded him: "You foul mouth! Why do you keep bringing up dark subjects?" Then she added, "Even though stating what everyone knows doesn't add anything to anyone…" She didn't finish.

"When will dinner be ready, Mother? I'm very hungry."

"Dinner is ready, son. Your father went to get grilled chicken from the shop. When he comes back, we'll sit down to eat."

"Good — I'll give the chicken bones to Tokjai. Bones have protein and calcium — he'll get stronger, won't you, Tok?"

"You don't understand how to feed Tokjai— your father handles that."

"What don't I understand, Mother? I'll mix two bones with boiled rice and put it in Tokjai's bowl. You've treated me like a child! I've grown up — I'm a working man."

"No, son — your father breaks the bones into small pieces, removes the sharp parts. Does Tokjai have teeth to chew hard bones? His mouth gets sore, and then he can't eat anything."

"Oh, I didn't know that. Poor Tokjai. You used to grind even stones in your mouth. So now you can't even break chicken bones… Hah, Father's back."

I hear the creak of the garden gate. An insect chirps nearby, like a cheerful child. The scuff of Tossapol's sandals is drowned out by Father's anxious voice. I can't make out his first words because of the rustle of plastic bags. Then the words become clear.

"I just saw Jiep. Big Uncle is sick. They've taken him to the hospital in Bantaen — he'll spend the night there. Jiep says it's nothing serious, but still, after dinner, let's go and pay our respects. And if the children are there, we'll see them too. I haven't seen the little ones for a long time."

Big Uncle — the old man who designed this house and many others in the village, Mother's older brother. After losing his wife, he married a young nurse named Jiep. They had two children. When the children were still in elementary school, Big Uncle had an accident. From that day on, he can't walk — he's paralyzed from the waist down. He has a three-wheeled motorcycle; he goes around the village, chats with neighbors, and makes small purchases from the village shops. He likes me — when he sees me, he leans over from where he's sitting and pats my head. If he has any nearby, he gives me biscuits or potato chips. He gets sick like this occasionally — gets an IV at the hospital and goes home the next day. Mother is a little angry with him — especially the gossip his young wife spreads is often discussed after dinner at our house. Since Na Jiep demanded two shares of the inheritance — because her husband has two families — their relationship has been strained. Not only with Mother — the other siblings' situations seem the same, I sense with my dog's mind. Of course, knowing the details is impossible for me!

"It's probably nothing — Jiep is exaggerating. Did you ask what's wrong?"

"The usual — his blood pressure is up. If you don't come, Tossapol and I will go alone."

Mother doesn't seem interested — she neither wants to hear nor say anything on the subject.

"Bring the chicken here — since my hands are already greasy, I'll cut it up. The eggplant is done."

"We're going, right, Tos? Father and son…"

"I'm not going, Father. You and Mother go. Mother didn't say she wouldn't go!"

Father takes plates from the dish basin by the kitchen wall. The clatter of forks and spoons is as cheerful as ever. Mother gets up, scuffing her sandals — clearly annoyed — and goes to the table.

"I'll go, I'll go. If I don't, there will be a bitter talk — they'll say behind my back, say things like the sister didn't go to see her sick brother. Her jaw -she means Na Jiep- never stops, ever since that land case. Anyway — these things shouldn't be discussed before a meal — don't spoil our mood. Come on, let's eat; I'll rinse the dishes, then we'll leave."

"I'm not going, Mother. You two go. After dinner, I'll pick the custard apples."

Chapter 9 (End): Yer Üstünden Notlar: The Last Day of Tokjai (9)

The Last Day of Tokjai (7)

I don't know how long we traveled in that truck that smelled of urine, mold, rotten meat, and shit. I remember it stopped at some point, but the doors didn't open — if they had, I'd have felt the cool of the air on my face. We waited in the dark for hours, no different from rotten onions. Then dawn came. The morning light and scent — yes, no matter how hard you try, you can't overcome that pungent smell — entered through the cracks and poured over us. Still, I did nothing, lay motionless — like a broken-hearted lover, like a hopeless mother, above all like a betrayed dog. My body was so numb that I didn't want the journey to end. Whether it was because I feared something worse or from genuine laziness — it's hard to know the cause of this lethargy! Honestly, I didn't feel anything — I was aware I wasn't dead, and that was all. Like a fungus multiplying in a damp, airless room, like a weak weed growing by the wall, like maggots breeding in a festering wound, like mosquitoes swarming around unwashed dishes left in the sink… There was only a faint consciousness floating in the darkness that I could perceive; my legs, body, neck, even my head, seemed like pieces of meat not belonging to me, placed far apart from each other. As if, if the truck stopped, the cage door opened, and they said, "Come on, Tokjai, get out," I'd refuse life's generous invitation, saying, "I'm fine here, thank you." Only my eyes moved — looking at the light leaking through the truck's ceiling, dreaming, transferring the pain of the betrayed body to the soul, trying to stop the feeling of defeat mixing into my blood like a venom. And my ears — with difficulty, heard the whispers of the dogs in the other cages, their bitter complaints, their voices sometimes rising to a roar, their speech forked with fear. I couldn't see who was who, what the speakers looked like, but it didn't matter much. On a ship heading for death, it wasn't our differences that mattered, but our shared fate.

"How did they catch you, Wednesday?"

"I was sleeping — when I opened my eyes, I was here."

"Get out of here — how could you not wake up from all that jolting? Did they carry you wrapped in silk handkerchiefs?"

"They must have injected me in my sleep — I really don't remember anything."

"What about you, Curly? How did you end up here?"

"My owner of ten years sold me. They hadn't been taking care of me since I injured my left leg — not like before. They'd gotten a new dog — younger, more active, livelier. Next to him, I looked like a stray. The first chance they got, they got rid of me."

"Hmm, ungrateful humans. And you, Yellow?"

"I've been a street dog my whole life — can't you tell? I never had an owner. I always envied the dogs kept in gardens, courtyards, in front of barns. All my life, I've filled my belly from trash and under the tables of street vendors. I drank from puddles or the small ponds in the large gardens, usually after sunsets. So, this is how it ends? Such a life, such an end — I'll curse this whole business…"

"Enough with the self-pity. That's not what we asked you — tell us how you were caught."

"Dogs like me are easy to deceive. The man picked me up from the sidewalk. He put food in front of me. I ate it — I was very hungry. At first, everything was wonderful — I really liked him. I even stuck my tail up, thinking, 'Finally, someone's taking care of me.' Then my surroundings started to blur; my legs and chin shook; my stomach cramped. I thought I was dying. I didn't die, but you'll understand I wasn't too pleased about that news."

"You sure talk a lot! A story that could be told in one sentence — you ramble on and on. No wonder no one's taken care of you all this time — you'd bore anyone to death."

"Leave him alone, youngsters — when will this truck stop? Does anyone know anything?"

"I don't know anything."

"Me neither."

"Me neither."

"Me neither."

"Me…"

"Enough, stop it. If you don't know, shut up. Why are you making so much noise for nothing?"

"Dog meat isn't very common in Thailand. They're either selling us to Cambodia or Vietnam."

"Maybe China."

"Yes, China is possible, but China is far. Vietnam is far too. I think the destination is Cambodia."

"In cold weather, dog meat is supposed to warm the body. That's why people in Hanoi like it — I've heard my folks talking."

"Let them choke on it. If you want to warm up, wear a sweater, a coat — what do you want from innocent dogs?"

"Why say that? You eat chicken. People eat it too. Have you ever heard chickens complain? They're as innocent as you are."

"What's the connection? Are chickens friends of humans? What can they give humans except their meat and eggs? Besides, they shit around, scratch the ground, eat vegetables from gardens we dogs don't guard, and don't even recognize their owners. We dogs give humans our loyalty, friendship, love — in short, our lives. And what do they do? When they're done with us, they get rid of us and make money from our meat."

"I think it's time, long past time, for some self-reflection. The rules of nature are clear: the strong crush, use, and exploit the weak. Humans act as it suits them. Compassion, mercy, generosity… These are empty words. Since we can't object to humans eating chicken — because we get the chicken bones — when the time comes for them to eat us, we shouldn't object either. That's the objective conclusion — nothing can be done about it. It's another thing if we see ourselves as superior to other animals. Then we'd be making the same mistake humans do."

"But chickens are raised for their meat and eggs. That's their purpose — they provide no other benefit to humans. What could be more natural than their being eaten and exploited? Besides, I've never seen a villager name his chickens. Without a name, you're not an 'individual' in human eyes — you're a 'thing.'"

"Ha ha ha, go tell that to the chickens in our garden. No chicken wants to die, just as no dog wants to die. From a chicken's perspective, it doesn't matter whether you're useful to humans or not. It thinks it exists to live and is ready to do whatever it can to live even one second longer. Also, it's a huge lie that chickens can't befriend humans. I saw on TV: a French explorer took his chicken on a voyage to the North Pole. The chicken went everywhere with him on the boat. The man even had a sweater knitted for his chicken so it wouldn't get cold. Like everyone else, I thought it was a joke at first, but the news was quite serious and the footage real."

"Enough with your senseless chicken talk! We're going to our deaths, and you're still going on about what chickens think, what chickens do. Those near the holes should look outside and tell us where we're going. Maybe we'll pass near a police station — we can all bark together and get the attention of a good cop."

"I've been looking — no police. The only thing I see from this side is rice and sugarcane fields."

"I wonder where they're taking us?"

"Hah, we've gone in circles and come back to the same point — just like idle humans."

"It's not like that everywhere, you know? Dogs aren't eaten in every country. In some countries, they're raised just for food. We've lived pretty well, I'd say. It seems like it'll end badly, but oh well."

"By the way, that new white dog — with the pale-yellow spots on his nose — he's been sleeping since he arrived. It's been over half a day since he was brought in. The truck stopped, we spent the night quietly — he slept. Morning came, we set off — he's still sleeping. Did they give him too much of that stuff? Or did the poor thing die? Hey, white dog! Heeeey! You without the collar!"

I couldn't tell where the call was coming from. It sounded like a puppy's voice. That the first helping hand came from an underage youngster made me happy. Perhaps the reason for that happiness was that I think the feeling of mercy suits a puppy best.

"A dead one wouldn't be worth anything — they'll sell us alive to the restaurants. The restaurant owner will want to be sure we're healthy, not carrying infectious diseases. That white dog isn't dead — let's wait a little longer. He'll wake up when the drug wears off. Or maybe he's given up hope. In that case, we won't be able to get a word out of him. Forget him."

The big black dog across from me looks at me for a few seconds. There's more pity than curiosity in his gaze. It's impossible not to feel the piercing power in his eyes.

"Hey you, white thing! What's with you? You're spread out at the bottom of the cage like a doormat! Get up, say a few words, come to yourself. Don't give up to despair — it's not worth it! Okay, we're all on the same road. What can we do… Even if we die of sorrow, no one's going to take pity and help us — don't wear yourself out. We should grieve for our fate as much as pigs, chickens, and cattle do. At least we've had what could be called a good life until now. Our overall benefit is still considerable."

I knew he was talking to me, but for some reason, I stubbornly didn't want to let on that I'd heard him. I know humans do the same. They do it to appear important, to look down on others. They want to be the one seen, not the one seeing; the one noticed, not the one noticing. What about me? Humans are selfish, conceited, hypocritical… What about me? Could it be that after all those years with them… No, it can't be. Maybe I really had fallen into deep despair; maybe the wound in my soul was worse than I thought. There was no point in letting myself fall deeper into this vicious cycle — since my mental faculties were working perfectly, I should speak up. Otherwise, they'd think I was staying silent because I was stupid and ignorant.

"I'm fine, I've been listening to your conversations for the last fifteen minutes. I heard everything — chickens, humans, mercy, ingratitude, and so on. I haven't given up to despair — where do you get such ideas?"

A pair of eyes in the darkness sparkles like glass this time — black inside black, I can't understand for a moment how it can be so striking. I turn my head and look at his body, slowly emerging from the darkness, becoming more real as it emerges. He doesn't look at all like the rude, arrogant, dirty type I'd imagined.

"You say you're fine, but you haven't said a word, Collarless. Join us — we have plenty to say. You'll feel better, your spirits will lift. If there's anything worse than dying, it's dying unhappy."

"You're right," I say faintly. My giving this short answer isn't because nothing else came to mind. The whole truck has gone quiet; everyone inside is curious about what I'll say. So, I'm a little hesitant. The dog talking to me seems experienced, probably older than me too. There's a seriousness in his voice that comes from experience. He doesn't talk idly, and when he does, everyone around falls silent.

"Of course I'm right. Let me know your name. Better not to be without a collar — not good! Mine is Tam. They gave me that name because my fur is pitch black. The other dogs in the village call me Elder Brother Tam. Before being crammed into this cage, I was the oldest dog in the village — I'm exactly eleven years old. See, I've introduced myself. Now it's your turn…"

"I'm Tokjai. Everyone in the village calls me Tokjai," I say without thinking, without weighing.

"So, why are you here? Are you a stray? Where's your collar?"

"Collar? What collar? I've never worn a collar my whole life. When they tried to put one on me, I growled, barked, raised hell… Do I look like a city dog to wear a collar?"

"Fine, okay, we get it — they never put a collar on you."

"It's not that they didn't — they couldn't! I wouldn't let them."

"Whatever you say. So, tell me — what did you do to make your owner tired of you? Or did they run out of money and find selling you to be the answer? He he, they would do that! They're human — you should expect every kind of evil!"

"No, it's not that they ran out of money — because I'm naughty. At least, that's what they say. I used to go to the village school, and a couple of unpleasant incidents happened there. After that, they started looking for a way to get rid of me."

"That's how it always is. Everyone here has a story similar to yours, Tokjai. I'm telling you this so you won't be sad. It's not your fault — it's your so-called owners. They're all ungrateful; they don't have even a thousandth of the loyalty they expect from us. No matter what we do, in their eyes we're animals — just animals. Maybe a little more valuable than a chicken, but not much. They think we can't think like them. Actually, they do all this fussing because they can't admit that they themselves think like animals."

I like Elder Brother Tam's thoughts. These are issues I haven't thought much about before. I want to respond, but nothing serious comes to mind. Then a thin voice emerges from an indistinct point in the darkness — a voice I haven't heard until now.

"We're going to our deaths, and you're still concerned with how humans see you. We haven't learned a thing! That's the problem — despite all we've been through, we still define ourselves by how humans see us. Yet it's time, long past time, to determine our own identity independently of humans. We need to create a dog identity that can stand on its own and work to maintain it. Isn't that right, Elder Brother Tam?"

There's a silence in the truck for a while. The beam of light from the ceiling vibrates with the swaying of the truck, barely touching the bodies of all the dogs inside before continuing its wanderings. Seeing Elder Brother Tam yawn at length, I realize he's about to start a lesson that won't be short. In his eyes is the boredom of someone about to answer a complaint he's heard often. He looks blankly toward the direction of the voice for a while, then begins.

"You're right, young brother, but it's not as simple as you think. It's not nearly short enough to be summarized in two or three sentences of propaganda. We are the descendants of ancestors domesticated tens of thousands of years ago. Having given up a free life for prepared food, clean water, and safe shelter, we've abandoned any identity independent of humans. Trying to regain it now would be both meaningless and a waste of time. We dogs — those like you and me — if released into the forest, could no longer survive; we'd die of hunger in two days. Our ability to survive in the wild has atrophied over tens of thousands of years of continuous humanization. We now eat like humans — don't we all eat two or three meals a day? — think like humans — we have no other choice to adapt — live like humans. To deny this is to deny the choice our ancestors made. Yes, you have the right to refuse the past, but that right doesn't give you the power to change it. Unfortunately, the wall we've leaned on for so long has made us weak. Not only weak, but just as lacking in will. Do you know what that means? The creature called the dog has been recreated by humans, attached to the human mind, shaped by human arrangements. Today, we cannot think of the word 'dog' independently of humans. We're not whales, tigers, or elephants. Those animals can live, multiply, and die happily without ever encountering a single human. But what about us dogs? Cities have become our home; even the freest of us depend on human food scraps to fill their bellies. Without humans, there are no dogs. The talk about collars reminded me of this. In my youth, I lived in Bangkok for a few years. I had a collar, and when my owner took me out, instead of being ashamed, I was happy to be let outside. When I saw a female dog approaching, I'd wag my tail and want to approach her — but my owner would pull my rope, restrain me. Why? Because he didn't want me to be with the female I desired, 'now' and 'here.' That is, he objected to my being a dog — he wanted me to deny myself. Because they themselves can't live as they desire, because they constantly postpone all beautiful things to another place and time, and above all because their purpose in life is to be successful and powerful even at the cost of unhappiness — they impose their own boring, restless lives on us. They frame it differently to us. With soft rhetoric like 'Dog equals human's loyal friend, aide, guardian of the home when needed, last resort against loneliness' — they try to ease the pain of what we've lost, supposedly. But the truth is much harsher, much more wounding. The modern dog has become part of human social life, family, even education and morality. Since turning back from this point is impossible, let's skip that question. If anything is to be done, it's to ask how we can put a stop to this tendency. To ask that, you need to find dogs who are dissatisfied with their situation. Here, right now, captive and about to be sold, is there anyone who longs for freedom, for a return to true dog identity, for the beauty of the wild? I doubt it. We're all quite comfortable. Even though we know the food scraps our owners give us could feed two dogs, don't we choose to growl rather than share it with stray dogs sticking their necks into the garden? Look — didn't we even silence Yellow, who was telling us his troubles a moment ago? Haven't we failed to put ourselves in his place? We can't even stand to listen, let alone empathize. You don't even know his name — you call him 'Dirty One' among yourselves. Then you come here and drone on and on about dog identity and dog pride. Where was that dog pride when you claimed ownership of the food given to you and condemned the dog on the street to hunger? Where were the ideals of equality and justice you claim burn inside you when you looked down on others, relying on your soft fur, your rare breed in Thailand, or your cute little size? Where were the moments when you pretended to seek that unknown identity you call 'the true dog'? Now you're in a bind — you're looking for a principle, a momentum to motivate you and get you out of this difficult situation, an anchor around which to revolve. For that, you're taking refuge in the freedom of the wild — something given up tens of thousands of years ago and never once looked back upon. Excuse me, but in my kindest words, I call that naivety. Not knowing yourself, selfishness, refusal to give up comfort — I call it amateurishness. And let me add…"

"Sorry to interrupt, Elder Brother Tam, but I think the truck is stopping. Listen to the engine!"

I didn't know who said that last bit at the time — though later, thinking calmly, I decided it could only have been Curly. But then the back of the truck erupted in noise. This intense shower of sound — for which words are insufficient — lasted so long that at one point, I thought it would never end. Elder Brother Tam's warnings — "Enough, children, be quiet so we can hear what's happening outside" — finally, though late, began to take effect, and the noise dissipated like mist scattered by rain. The truck had stopped at the side of the road; a black water canal was visible ahead, and beyond that, pomelo orchards… First came music. Pi Bird was singing "Abnaam gan, abnaam gan." Then we heard a door closing. Chaaaht! Then a few words of greeting. Have we arrived? Is this where we'll be sold? I pricked up my ears like sunflowers on a sunny day and listened to the sounds outside. The truck driver — the man who caught me — was talking to a woman.

"I want my dog back."

At first, I wasn't sure who the voice outside belonged to. The voice sounded strange somehow. Whose head wouldn't be turned by a helping hand from far away — from very far away? Just when I'd gotten used to the bottomless well awaiting me, just when I'd surrendered to the monster's hands… After all, I had accepted my approaching end. That's what it's like to know the future — you can prepare yourself for even the worst outcomes, numb your soul. Nothing can hurt you anymore; when you know death is prowling nearby, you stop being afraid of anything. If a living being's most valuable possession is its life, why worry about the rest, why chase after trivial calculations? My only wish was that it be painless and quick. I had no strength left to want anything else.

"Give me back my dog. I couldn't sleep all night. I made a mistake — I'm very sorry."

Yes, it was Mother. That was her voice, her worry, her remorse. This was a moment I would never forget, would never let anyone forget, would tell every dog I met. Coffee must have heard this part of the story from me ten times — she listened and got bored. At every opportunity, I'd quote it, comparing a feeling or situation to this "moment of rapidly rising from the depths," and I'd take insane pleasure in that comparison.

"Don't be silly, sister. You gave the dog away once. And I gave you all those basins, buckets, clotheslines, and clothespins in return."

"You gave me two buckets and a basin — you didn't give clothespins or a line. I'll pay you back the money, don't worry."

"But it doesn't work like that, sister. We traded. We agreed — time has passed. On top of the two buckets and one basin, I'll ask for money too."

The dogs in the back hadn't yet realized who the woman outside had come for. Knowing she hadn't come for them must have hurt — the increasingly thin walls of that glass palace inside them. Being chosen from among them and taken out also created an inexplicably heavy guilt in me. As if I had eaten too much and couldn't move, while dozens of dogs around me were starving to death. Knowing this would happen, I felt the sting in advance. The anxious silence in the truck was broken by Elder Brother Tam's whisper-like voice.

"Who has this woman come for? You or Curly?"

"No, not me — that's not my owner's voice. I wish it were, but it's not."

"What about you, Wednesday — is this woman your owner's mother?"

"No — that's not Pornsuda's mother's voice. I've never heard it before."

"So, whose is it then? Whoever it is, come forward, so we can congratulate you."

"Mine."

"Tokjai?"

"Yes, mine. That's my owner's mother's voice. You don't mind, do you?"

"Ha ha ha, why would we mind? If we're unlucky, it's not because of you; if you're lucky, it's not because of us. Go, live your life. Run through your village streets, the fields, along the canals, lie down by the fishermen mending their nets by the pond, enjoy the sunsets at the temple for us too…"

Suddenly, the truck was filled with bittersweet congratulations. All the dogs — whose names I knew and didn't — tried to hide their jealousy and sadness with words like "Congratulations, Tokjai," "Live for us too, Tokjai," "What a kind-hearted owner you have — you're so lucky, Tokjai." I could feel it, because if I were in their place, I'd be jealous — even a little resentful and irritable. When the shower of congratulations died down, leaving only scattered drops, Elder Brother Tam spoke again.

"Try to live well, take pleasure in life. Look, I'm eleven years old. Above all, live at peace with yourself, love yourself — not selfishly and arrogantly, but value yourself. I don't know if you can grasp the difference. Don't despise yourself, your needs, your pleasures either. Live so that when death comes, you won't say, 'I wish I'd had another life.' Do you understand, Tokjai? Be happy."

Just then, sounds come from the door of the truck bed. The rusty lock squeals like a mouse held by its tail and shaken in the air as it's removed from its hole. Then the door opens. Sunlight pours in like floodwaters hitting a street at the most unexpected moment — so fresh, so magnificent, so beautiful — the world repeatedly existing before my eyes, so splendid the riot of colors, so distant and unreachable. Ohhh the blue of the sky…

"Tokcaaaay… My baby, are you all right?"

"Don't you go in — I'll get your dog for you. Your baby? Don't you have children? You call a dog your baby?"

"What's it to you, man? I have both a child and a dog! Mind your own business. Give me my dog."

"I'll give him to you, don't worry — just hold this lock a moment."

All the dogs in the truck start barking at once, showing their teeth at this demonic man, but he's afraid of nothing. What human would be afraid of slaves in cages? He knows we can't hurt him while we're caged, so he doesn't care about our barking. He pushes the latch on my cage door, unties the rope. Here are the man's hands — he grabs and pulls me; I'm like a corpse dragged by floodwater. My feet leave the ground; I'm in the hands of the man who could be my killer. Inside me, a growing wave of guilt, an excess I don't know where to put, a huge tumor on my back. When Tossapol in melancholy, he says, "A person never knows what they're missing until they encounter it, but they know what they have too much of as long as they carry it." Those words came to mind at that moment. I didn't know what I was missing, but I felt what I had too much of — in the very middle of my heart, with all its weight. Being chosen from among all these dogs made me ashamed, as if I had gained unjustly. I had taken what belonged to others — to others. If only the freedom Mother brought could be divided among the number of dogs here, and I could take my share and be content. Elder Brother Tam's words "Be happy" ring in my ears. "I can't," I say to myself. "I can't."

The man grips me with his huge hands, tucks me under his arm. With his other hand, he covers my mouth so I won't bite him. I give no reaction — neither struggle nor bark. My head tucked to my neck, my eyes wet, my ears covered in cage dust…

"Tokcaaay… How are you, my baby!"

I don't answer. Mother takes me in her arms. She looks at my head, my ears, my feet. Seeing that nothing's wrong with me, that no wounds have formed on my sides, that nothing's been torn off, makes Mother happy. She puts me in the back of the Isuzu pickup as if snatching me from the man, saying, "You sit here nicely, okay? The road is long; if it gets too hot, we'll bring you inside." I don't wag my tail, I don't bark. I tuck my head between my front paws and curl up like a ball of wool. Mother looks at me anxiously — I know this, but there's nothing I can do. How can I be happy while my friends go to their deaths? How can I rejoice at being saved? How can I believe that life will be the same after that day? How can I believe that this moment won't haunt me later?

"Come on, let's go home, Tokjai."

I hear Father's voice from inside the car. Though weak, I can clearly make out what he's saying. So, they came together, but Father never got out of the car. Maybe he's angry at Mother. "You gave Tokjai to that man — you get him back," he says.

"Did you also pay?"

"I paid a little — but it doesn't matter, we found Tokjai. We caught them thirty kilometers from the Cambodian border."

"We're lucky. If we'd left the house a little later…"

"Yes, Tokjai is lucky too. But I'm the luckiest. If I hadn't found him, I would never have forgiven myself. I would have waited my whole life for the karma that my cruelty would bring. How did I manage to dull my conscience? How did I lose my sense of mercy?"

"Forget it now — never mind. We found Tokjai. That's what matters."

"You say that, but will Tokjai forget? He must be angry at us."

"He won't be angry, don't worry. Dogs don't stay angry. And if he is, you'll make up soon."

"Fine — let's go. Nothing left to do here. I don't know why you turned off the engine. I said I'd be back in two minutes — and here I am."

"Why waste gas? Besides, it's not that hot yet. I opened the window and watched the surroundings."

"This car doesn't run on gas — it's diesel," Mother says, closing the window with one hand. Their voices slowly drown out. I hear the engine's hum then — the pickup shakes as if struck by a hard blow from outside. We pull onto the road. We're going home, but I don't know if that's still my home. Despite what Father says, I am angry — very angry. "Love makes you forget the rope around your neck," we dogs say when a collar is put on us. Though I've never worn a collar, I've heard those who do use this excuse and accept the situation. But my problem isn't like putting a collar around my neck — it's outright betrayal. They stabbed me in the back at my weakest moment. Don't humans feel the greatest disappointment and heartbreak when they are betrayed? Why should we dogs be any different — especially after living with them for tens of thousands of years, sharing a common fate, learning so many things together? Whatever the excuse, however it's rationalized, the result for the betrayed remains the same: you've been deceived by those you trusted, tossed aside, and left to be forgotten. Could there be a greater insult, a heavier humiliation than that?

I lay motionless in the back of the pickup the whole way. At one point, they stopped. "The back of the pickup is hot, Tokjai — let's bring you inside with us," they said, wanting to pick me up, but I resisted — I growled at both Mother and Father. They gave up, left me alone. If they can say, "He's a dog — he doesn't know how to be angry," why did they come and get me? Or was it Mother's fear of karma that set them on the road? Perhaps conscience is just a veil invented to hide the fear that something might happen to me. Fine — let's say they see themselves as smart, conscious, responsible humans toward their own kind. But what about me? Doesn't it ever occur to them that I might have responsibilities toward my own kind? Now and then, I stuck my head over the side of the pickup and looked at the roads, the fields, the water buffalo lying in water-filled potholes to cool themselves, the free village dogs wandering near them. How beautiful life was, how joyful to live. A voice inside me said, "Come on, Tokjai, jump down, dive into those rice paddies, disappear among the grass" — but I knew very well I didn't have the courage. Perhaps fear of regret is the greatest obstacle to freedom, but regret is just as real. The greatest success in life is to live as long and free as possible; the greatest success is to achieve sustainable happiness — especially for us dogs.

Sometimes my eyes would well up; the tears that spilled wouldn't run down my nose but, swept by the wind, would streak down my temples and wet my ears. If you do wrong to someone and have no way to make it right — Mother had a way and she fixed it — you become a prisoner of that wrong for life; its victims will spit in your face at the most unexpected moments. Yes, I was not the cause of Elder Brother Tam's, Curly's, Yellow's, Wednesday's, and the others' deaths. But could I have done nothing? After Mother put me in the Isuzu, if I had jumped down and gone back to my friends and barked — wouldn't they have sensed my trouble? Perhaps they would have known I meant "Save them too!" But I acted selfishly to the core — I threw myself into Mother's arms and acted as if I were very grateful to her for saving me. I clung to my saviors like a sycophant, like a flatterer. I sold out my friends! And now I'm annoyed with myself. I'm kicking myself — just to rid myself of guilt and break the vise gripping my heart. Could I go on living like this — eating, running? Could I break free of the clutches of memories and get used to living in the present? How long would it take? Mother didn't yet know I wouldn't make a sound for a week, that I'd wander the garden half-dead. For days to come, every time I saw a black dog, Elder Brother Tam would come to mind — Curly, Yellow, Wednesday… the others whose names I didn't learn, the terrible death awaiting them. I wouldn't eat properly for four days — Mother didn't know that yet either. I'd just drink water and sleep. They'd take me to the vet. The vet would say, "Nothing's wrong — his psychology is disturbed," surprising Mother and Father. I'd continue — watching life flow past the house from a distance, turning my back on the cycle of the universe — until the poison of memories weakened and let me be, let me rejoin life. And it was during this turbulent time that Coffee appeared. Her contribution to getting over the shock was not small. Perhaps it was because of my depression that they allowed Coffee to stay with me in the garden. Who knows?

Chapter 8: Yer Üstünden Notlar: The Last Day of Tokjai (8)