1. Homecoming
"Haven't you died yet, Tokjai?"
He thinks I didn't hear, but I
did. Just because my eyes don't see doesn't mean my ears don't hear! Quite the
opposite: since my eyes can't see, my ears work even better. I can hear
everything, from the rustle of a falling leaf to the crackle of dry grass under
the sneaky chickens' feet as they slip into the garden. "Haven't I died
yet?" Ha! You look to yourself, you Bangkok baby! He blurted out this
ominous word the moment he stepped through the garden gate and saw me in such a
disheveled state. Of course I barked! Why wouldn't I bark? Wouldn't you be
angry if someone said something so tactless to you? Wouldn't you shout,
wouldn't you raise a ruckus? And my reaction isn't even out of anger; it's out
of disappointment — or rather, the possibility of betrayal by an ancient friend
I considered my closest. I know he's joking, that he isn't being serious, or at
least that he said it in a moment of distraction! Maybe he's even thinking of
my well-being — who in this world doesn't want good for others! Everyone wants
good, yet the world is overflowing with evil. So, wanting isn't enough! People
just don't understand this. They think that if your intentions are good, you'll
spread goodness into the world, that happiness will ripple across the earth
because of you, all problems will be solved, and love will conquer the hearts
darkened by hatred. But you need to use the right method, the right tone, the
right steps; you must turn your back on all guides except the truth… Above all,
we must be patient, stubborn, and careful. Even I, in my dog's state, am aware
of this. Unfortunately, Tossapol isn't very different from other people. The
tools he uses and the way he uses them are flawed — what can he do? He's
condemned to language, that inadequate adjutant so prone to misuse.
We dogs don't have the problem of
being misunderstood. Why? Because we communicate perfectly with our tails, our
heads, our tongues, our paws and noses when needed, our teeth and eyes when
needed. Only with each other? No — we communicate well with all other animals,
including humans. That's why we never do anything that would require us to
apologize. Humans, on the other hand, trust their intellect far too much and
can never accept the rusting of their natural abilities, which grow stumpier
each day from disuse. So they make blunder after blunder, most of the time
not even realizing their tactlessness, and their hurtful words go unpunished.
"Why do you talk like that,
son? Tokjai will take offense! Especially these days…"
Thank goodness the mother rushed
over immediately, choking off that sentence as if shoving a dirty, rusty rag
into his mouth. Women — especially those who have given birth — are more
sensitive to pain. Even if they can't help, they don't fail to respect those
who suffer, lessening the pain. That's what I've learned in all my years of
life. Unlike men, who turn pain into a point of pride, they chew the thorn when
necessary and swallow whatever belongs to the past. Because they realize very
early that pain is inevitable. They know all too well what it means to carry a
life, what hardship the one who gives birth endures to bring a life into the
world. They also know that no scientific truth can console a mother who has
lost her child. Because they know…
"Oh, come on, Mom! I'm
joking. What's up, Tokjai? How many years has it been — two or three?"
Not two, not three! This fool was
here last year. He even brought a girl along with him — a jasmine-scented,
thin-voiced, tiny, timid thing. I kept sneezing, then moved away toward the
back of the garden. Now the girl isn't with him. I haven't caught her scent or
her voice. Is she still in the car, maybe? I doubt it! What would she be doing
in the car in this heat? So, they've split up. How many is this now, Tossapol?
And you people accuse us dogs of promiscuity. Because we're animals, we have no
morals, we can't restrain our bodily desires, right? At least we make babies,
returning to nature what we take from it. You humans spend your time amusing
your hearts, passing the time, wasting both time and resources. Worst of all,
those who can't even do that accuse those who can of surrendering to
"animal instincts" with such ridiculous charges! I mean, bravo —
you're both guilty and powerful.
"Let me see, has your
surgery wound healed? Ooooh, the wound has healed, but you still stink to high
heaven, Tokjai. Fifteen years have passed, and you haven't bathed once."
He's talking about the tumor on
my left front leg. The vet removed that calcified tissue with surgery last
year. I was limping back then, but I surprised everyone by healing completely —
most of all Tossapol. He must have heard on the phone that I'd healed, so now
he's pretending in front of me. Fine, let him do his human flattery; I'll teach
him a lesson when the time comes. Though I've grown quite old now. I've become
indifferent to such small faults. I no longer get angry at the stray dogs
loitering in front of the garden gate, nor do I chase the chickens that sneak
in from the neighboring garden. Was I like this in my youth? When I barked, the
roof of the neighbor's chicken coop would collapse. The road in front of the
garden would instantly narrow, and those stray dogs would look for holes to
flee into. Now I've even come to miss my own voice — it's like almost
forgetting how a healthy organ felt after it's been injured and unused for a
long time. Ahhh, old age! All the world's hubbub, with its vibrant colors,
parades before me, and I just stand aside, content to watch all this beauty. I
don't lift a paw to join the game. I just watch; a rigid remorse settles inside
me, and the pains enveloping my body stab into my bones as if taking revenge
for all the things I didn't do in my past life.
Then there are the jealousy fits
that have been cropping up lately. If I don't go mad before I die, that'll be a
miracle. Is it easy to leave the village to these inexperienced, work-shy,
idle, ungrateful dogs? I hobble around here, perform my guard duties without
fail even when I'm sickest, wander the garden whose every corner I know by
heart without bumping into a single tree despite my blind eyes, share in all
this family's troubles in good times and bad — and before I've even died, these
three or four mangy mutts of unknown origin try to claim the garden and divide
up my inheritance? No way! At least until I die, until I'm buried in the nicest
corner of the garden, until a rickety fence — even if just made of tree
branches — is built around me, I won't give up my soil. I'm aware they're
waiting for me to die with bated breath, so that dawn can break for these
marauders, right? Let them come and pee on the bushes in front of the house if
they dare. I'll make them regret not just being born, but being brought into
the world as dogs.
"You know Tokjai's
condition, son. The vet came last month. He said there's no saving him. It's
cancer — even surgery can't help now. He's gotten so old. Look, all the dogs
from his time are dead, even the puppies they gave birth to are dead, but Tokjai
is still alive. He holds the title of the village's oldest dog ever, and he
won't give that title up easily."
Yes, the tumor from last year
healed completely, but afterward, a huge wound formed where my right back leg
joins my tail. It wasn't the same vet who'd done the surgery, but his assistant
who came this time. A young girl who smelled strongly of soap and whose body I
imagined to be as slender as her voice. She gave me medicine, but it hasn't
done any good. The wound keeps growing, and the area I need to lick with my
tongue keeps expanding. Even though I can't see it, I can guess the wound's
size and how disgusting it must look to outsiders. The father — Tossapol's
father — applies the medicine morning and evening, and I growl at him a little
because it hurts. The medicine numbs the wound so I can't feel that part of my
body for a while. Also, they think I don't know, but I notice them putting
painkillers in my food. I sleep constantly after meals — not just a little, but
for hours on end, soundly. I wake up when the painkiller wears off. Then more
food, more sulfur-smelling powder on the wound, my whimpering bark like a fussy
child, the medicine taking effect, and another long, deep sleep. That's how
boring the cycle of old age is. Whether you're a dog or a cat, even a human —
it doesn't change. Don't I know death? Grandmother passed away right here in
this house. That poor woman suffered so much from her liver. Medicines,
needles, pains, aches, moans, doctors, that gloomy atmosphere that settled over
the house after death… At least Grandmother had her children by her side. I
will die alone — maybe Mother and Father will be nearby. My greatest wish now
is to breathe my last while listening to their everyday conversations, even
from a distance. Yes, let them talk about ordinary daily tasks when I die. I
don't know, something like, "It hasn't rained in a long time; if the water
level in the dam drops any lower, the rice in the fields will be ruined."
And the other, "The neighbor's daughter will be riding on the water
buffalo cart at the Som-o Festival." Let them even have fun, play music, and sing songs. Let Tossapol's young uncle drink beer and sing his favorite Isan
songs with his raspy voice. While they're talking about such things, answering
death in the most beautiful way with joy and dancing, I'll quietly close my
eyes and take my last breath. I'll slip away into nothingness like a guest who
no one noticed arriving or whose departure is only realized long after.
"Well, fine then, Mother,
let's just give him poison and let him die quickly. Isn't that better for poor Tokjai?
Look at him! His suffering grows worse every day."
No, he didn't say those words. He
couldn't have said them! Even if he did, it doesn't matter much, because he
couldn't do it. Humans are like that — they love empty talk. Challenging,
threatening, making plans, dreaming, deceiving others. They need to make plans
to feel good about themselves, to prove to themselves that they can do
something worthwhile. Let alone Tokjai, his companion of fifteen years — he
couldn't even kill a grasshopper that jumped into his lap. Look how much he
loves me. His fingers stroking the top of my nose, so soft, like the careful
touch of someone trying not to wrinkle a silk shirt. With the nails of his
other hand, he cleans the gunk from my eyes. What a beautiful feeling this is,
how pleasurable — I can't describe it. Our friendship, which hasn't diminished
over the years, hasn't lost its intensity, and grows inversely with distance.
What human can emerge victoriously from a love constantly tested by distance
without losing anything? We dogs are different — we have a love that ignores
time and space. He touches the top of my head with his palm from time to time,
stroking my fur backward. His voice trembles when he speaks, like a student
unsure of his answers in an oral exam. I know, I know it well! I've gone with
Mother to school many times. Until she retired, we left the house together
every morning and returned together the same way in the evening. She taught,
and I dozed either by the classroom door or under the desk at the very back.
Sometimes I didn't doze off — I listened to the lesson. I watched the children
most of all — how they went to the board and answered all the questions
excitedly, how they shouted out together, the immense happiness spreading
across their faces when they got praise from Mother — it all made me happy.
"Would such a thing be
right, son? He's been our dog for fifteen years; he's part of the family. How
could we take his life with our own hands? Don't you know what a great sin it
is to take a life? Just because you live far from your family and do business
with foreign companies in the big city, have you forgotten the most basic
principles of our religion? If that's the case, come to the temple once in a
while. The new young abbot explains beautifully how we should live our lives,
giving examples from the Buddha's life and adapting them to our times. He's
been abroad, and because he explained Buddhism to foreigners, he simplifies
everything, choosing his examples carefully. Come, you won't regret it!"
She pulls her hands away from my
head, and I remain motionless in the same spot. My tail, like a car wiper
running out of power, starts to stutter, then stops. Maybe Tossapol is quite
serious in his words; maybe he really did come here to kill me. In his mind,
he'll ease my pains, save me from my suffering. But he doesn't know that my
deepest suffering is leaving this family, this village, this house, and the
children who pass by the front of the house on their way to school. How it
wrenches my heart to know that the coolness the rain brings will still make the
village dogs happy after I'm gone. Yes, even when I'm not here, the morning sun
will warm the delicate bodies of the sleeping dogs; even when I'm not here,
village children will pedal their bicycles to school; even when I'm not here,
Ya Pik will come with his plastic bags full of snacks. I wonder, will they ever
say, "There used to be a white-furred, beautiful, sweet dog here"?
They won't! When even humans are forgotten after two or three generations, what
is this longing in me? What am I so worked up about? And does this idiot think
it's easy, my illness? Is my loyalty to the Patthanachai family being tested by
such pains? Does he think it's easy for me to go out the garden gate, barely
make it to the spot where I always pee, leave my scent there, and then return
to the garden without anyone noticing my blindness? Is it easy to leave Mother
and Father alone in this huge house? Why do humans always center themselves
when thinking about the living beings around them? Tossapol thinks I need his
pity and can't live without his help. But what about the reverse? Can you live
without me? You tried once, and you saw you couldn't. Now as the inevitable day
approaches, the fear that those days will repeat grips Mother and Father.
Tossapol is young, so he doesn't know the anxiety of being left alone, but
Mother and Father… There's only one Tokjai in this world. If he departs, what
will become of you?
"Well, Mother, is this
really better? Look, it's not just Tokjai suffering — you two are having a lot
of trouble too. I love Tokjai as much as anyone, but it breaks my heart to see
him like this. Look at that wound — soon there'll be maggots breeding in it.
Maybe they've already bred and we just can't see them! There's already blood
pooling around the edges, like a lily pad shriveled in the middle of a marsh,
dripping onto the concrete drop by drop."
I hear footsteps. Father walks
past us with bags in his hands. He rarely speaks; he knows these conversations
are a waste of time. The garden gate closes. They haven't brought the car
inside yet. I wonder why? Slowly, I'll withdraw to a corner. The family is
together; they have much to talk about. Mother will surely ask Tossapol about
that girl. Father is also unhappy. "Come back to the village, take care of
the fields," he says, but Tossapol's head is in the clouds. Would he ever
come back to the village? In Bangkok, he has air-conditioned bedrooms, offices
with white plaster ceilings, living rooms whose walls aren't prowled by
insects, bugs, and various reptiles on their evening hunt. And why would a
sensible young man leave behind the fair-skinned, well-groomed girls of the big
city to return to the village? What would he do in the village? Hang out with
the dark, skinny village girls whose greatest dream is to find a foreign
husband and leave not only the village but Thailand itself? Doesn't he know that
life here isn't for him? Is that return only possible when the fire of life
begins to lose its flame? Life in the village is like an infection that never
heals, seeping into the skin like hot, sticky pus, boiling away there. Inertia
isn't a choice; it's nature's domination over humans. Once the drought sets in,
the villagers' state is no different from frogs floundering in a dry riverbed.
Idleness so enslaves the young that, with no work to do, they find solace in
mischief, alcohol, and, rarely, drugs and violence. What can Tossapol do in
this desperate place where everyone except the elderly and children dreams of
the big cities?
"Leave Tokjai alone now. Go
wash your hands thoroughly with soap in the sink. It rained this morning; all
the pots are full to the brim. Then we'll eat. Don't worry about Tokjai either.
We take care of him; we manage somehow. Where has it ever been seen to grow old
without pain? If we killed everyone who suffers, no living thing would remain
in this world. He'll live with us until his appointed time comes. When death
separates him from us, we'll bury him in the corner of the garden."
The voices grow sparse, turning
into intermittent murmurs from a distance. Only Tossapol remains by my side
now. On the other side of the garden, where the tables and chairs are, they eat
three times a day. After meals, they give me the mash they make from the
leftovers. Since Mother's retired teacher's pension and Father's income from
the rice and sugar cane fields all over the village bring in good money, they
eat meat-heavy meals, and naturally, I get good leftovers. Compared to the
other dogs in the village, I'm very lucky. That's why the vet says I've
survived all these years, shrugging off every illness I've caught and even
maintaining my weight, thanks to this food. In all my years, the number of
times I've lost my appetite and refused the food put before me is less than the
fingers on one human hand. In this way, Mother compares me to her son.
Sometimes she quietly comes over while I'm eating and watches me admiringly. I
can feel her breath, her affectionate gaze; as I lick the bottom of the bowl, I
sense the satisfaction mixed into her breath. "He eats just like
Tossapol," she sometimes says, "smacking his lips, rudely, as if he
hasn't had a single bite in a week…"
"Okay, Mom, I'm coming. What
is that heavy smell? It must be from his wound. It'll be hard until I get used
to it."
When he too leaves my side, I
sniff the ground and find the swing set up by the mango tree. The shade beneath
it never disappears; this spot is cool all day. Sitting down hurts a little —
when I bend my leg, my wound screams, like a broken bone being stepped on. To
lessen the pain, I shift my body weight to my front legs and squat down slowly,
stretching my back leg. After my chin touches the ground, I slightly bend my
back leg and move into a lying position. After they've eaten, they'll call me.
Until then, I'll listen to the sounds of cars and motorcycles passing by. These
sounds are good for me — for my old age, and most of all, for the jealousy
building up inside me. Silence is the worst; when it's quiet, I feel forgotten,
tossed aside. Listening to the flow of life, knowing that despite my advancing
age, I'm still witnessing this flow — that's the most effective medicine for me.
In the past, I barked at every passing motorcycle, jumped over the garden wall
to chase cars, and chased the dust cloud behind a car until I reached the main
road. Now I only bark at other dogs, and even that is low in intensity. I don't
want them to see me — to know that my eyes don't see any longer, that my legs
have lost their strength. Oh, those days — in my youth, I'd even confront dogs
twice my size, challenge them fearlessly. Especially that black dog in
Chonburi… Was it black? Yes, it was black, pitch black. How could I forget!
Could I ever forget?
"Mom, there were mangosteens
in the bag. A friend from the office gave them to me. He picked them from his
garden. Let's not forget them."
Voices come, laughter; everyone
is happy, cheerful; there's a mountain of hope for the future at the table.
When the son of the house comes, each person's share of total peace increases.
There's a pleasant smell in my nose, something sweet, but I can't figure out
what it is. From the barn in the side yard come the grunting sounds of pigs. A
rooster crows in fits and starts, as if he has a bone stuck in his throat. A
motorcycle passes the front of the house, kicking up a cloud of dust. The smell
of dust fills my nostrils. Life flows like a river, diminishing and increasing.
And here I am, on the damp soil, tongue out, eyes blind, waiting for the moment
when the huge wound on my rump will grow and swallow me whole. I have no choice
but to recall the old days. Whatever exists lies in the healing power of
memories — the only pleasure of old age is being grateful that painful days no
longer cause pain. Most of all, there was that moment when that huge black dog
came at me, stared into my eyes with his venomous gaze, grabbed me by the
scruff with his trap-like teeth, and lifted my feet off the ground…
"Okay, son, we'll eat the
fruit after the meal. Come on, sit at the table now. It's almost two o'clock;
we're all hungry. Besides, sit down and let's talk about that girl — what was
her name?"
- To be continued -
