The Last Day of Tokjai (6)

                          Chapter 6: Betrayal 

All buckets in the world are my enemies. Their diameter, depth, hardness, color — none of it really matters. If it's a bucket, it's my enemy; if it's not a bucket, I have to think about it. Not only buckets — I don't like basins either. Especially if two buckets and a basin are placed side by side — I go crazy. I gnaw them until I tear those two buckets into pieces, until that basin is full of holes. When Tossapol senses that Mother and Father are paying me too much attention, he gets jealous — but to hide his jealousy, he says, "And now you're spoiling the animal you traded for two basins and a bucket." That's what he says, but he doesn't know — it's not two basins and a bucket; it's two buckets and a basin. From where I sit now, I hear Tossapol murmuring. He whistles sometimes. The boy is in a good mood — who knows what dreams he's having, what girl's magical warmth is on his mind, what uncharted seas, what undiscovered cities. But he doesn't know — what the buckets he's filling with freshly-cut grass remind me of. He doesn't know that even the sickening smell of that plastic is enough to make the neurons in my brain hop and jump. Ahh, humans, ahh! How forgetful, how insensitive, how absent-minded you are. You spend your lives taking notes all over the place, so you won't forget, but you overlook that having a peaceful life in this world is only possible through forgetting. We dogs, on the other hand, never forget — and because we can't forget, we are always full of sorrow, always sinking into the past at inappropriate times, acting melancholic whenever we have the solitude that we yearn for. If Tossapol didn't come to visit us for three years, I would still catch his scent as he passes the nook of the market at the village entrance. I'd catch it, and my stomach would churn with joy. I'd pace the garden, waiting for the moment he'd come through the gate, my tail pointing to the sky. Not only scents — sounds and touches are unforgettable too. From the tone of a human's voice, I can tell if they're happy, sad, angry, or excited. From the touch of their fingers on my head and between my eyes, from the way their palms rub the back of my neck and my back, from how close they bring their face to mine, from the light touch of their nose to mine — I can infer how their day went, whether they made a profit or they lost money on that day, whether they had serious trouble with friends or family. Not only that — I adjust my behavior accordingly, showing the necessary attention to the needy person standing before me, especially to the ones who try extremely hard to hide their hunger for affection.

"Tokjai, are you sleeping again? You just woke up, you lazybones! Look, we're working, and you just lie around all day."

I bark once, but that's it — I'm not going to start a fight. Just so he knows I'm not sleeping. When I have an unfinished topic on my mind, I can't move on to others. With the impatience of eyes waiting for the bob at the end of a swinging pendulum to swing back, I wait for the moment to return to that unfinished topic. So, any conversation — from anyone — that interrupts my thoughts is just chatter, blather. I may be wrong — even selfish and arrogant. Spoiled as I was, maybe I'm bored with subjects other than myself. Since I can't change after this age, complaining is pointless. Life is what it is — you have to gloss over it. And it is short too; it ends before you truly understand and appreciate its true charm. Let it end — I lived happily; I'm dying happily. Let those who live and die unhappy think about the rest. I'm ahead of everyone right now. If life — the world we walk on, the universe in which we experience our existence — has any meaning, it is to have sustainable happiness and make others happy. I think I have done both fully. I have no other worries, no regrets.

I hear Tossapol's footsteps. Since he's wearing sandals slightly too small for his feet, he walks scuffing the soles. Now he has that bucket in his hand. When my eyes were good, they wouldn't dare put that bucket in the open. They knew I'd get angry, knock it over, vomit on it, or pee on it. Now that my eyes don't see, they don't pay much attention to things that annoy me. And that's one of the signs of old age: not being cared about, not being anyone's concern, being kept on a shelf and only asked for your opinion out of politeness. Those who feared your reaction when you were young inwardly rejoice at your passivity when you're old. Yet no one can deny that you were right in your reaction. They are guilty, after all — their necks bent in shame before their only dog, whom they traded for two buckets and a basin.

I was about three and a half then. I had a large body, a loud voice, strong legs, and an insatiable appetite. I could run from one end of the garden to the other in seven seconds, jump the wall without stopping, and throw myself outside in two leaps. Everyone in the village knew me. Every morning I left the house with Mother. Mother rode her green Kawasaki motorcycle — back then, they hadn't put the third wheel on — and I ran behind. The villagers who saw me smiled and cheered, "Run, Tokjai, run… Come on, you're almost passing the bike!" And I'd see myself as a marathon athlete, running to the end of the road with my tongue out and tail up. Mother and I would go to school together. She'd go into class and teach the letters of the Thai alphabet; I'd either doze in the back of the room or play in the schoolyard with the children and occasionally with the stray dogs. Life was good for me. I had breakfast at home and knew I'd have dinner at home too, so I was relaxed about food. That didn't stop me from eating the biscuits and snacks the children dropped or freely gave me, of course. I am a dog — even if I'm not very hungry, if another dog or human eyes my food, I can't stand it; I raise a ruckus. A few incidents like that happened, and in the end, things got unpleasant.

Once, for instance, a child dropped his biscuit — so he said. In my opinion, he threw it in front of me so I could eat. So, I reached for it and took it. What else was I to do? Say, "No thanks, I'm full"? Then the child started hitting me for taking the biscuit — with a freshly snapped tree branch, not once, not twice… I didn't make a sound at first, but the child wouldn't stop. I turned and barked at him. I growled like a rabid dog, drooling, showing my teeth. Not just him — all the children playing in the yard were scared. They went and complained to the principal. After that day, Mother didn't want to take me along, but I kept going. I wasn't the guilty one — why was I being punished?

Another day, a commotion broke out in the classroom. While I was sleeping soundly, some students, taking advantage of the teacher's absence, started playing with my ears and nose. Am I a toy? Once — I'd call it a joke. Twice — a prank. But what's the point of repeating an act that disturbs someone's peace and annoys them? Who benefits? When they wouldn't stop, I started barking. And I mean barking — it had pushed me to my limit. The classroom rattled; windows and doors shook. If my voice had been any louder, people would have thought it was thunder, and the clouds would have poured rain. My eyes red with anger, my ears pricked and alert! The children scattered like chickens to the corners of the room. I was furious. I wasn't attacking anyone, but it was only a matter of time. One more step and I'd bite a random leg. Then Mother came, calmed me down, grabbed my head, and took me outside. Then she went back into the classroom and shut the door in my face.

After this incident, the downhill path to my planned end became clear. I was bored sitting in the garden all day, and Mother wasn't pleased with me coming to school and disturbing people. Failing to find a middle ground — they tried putting me in a cage once, but I barked nonstop for twenty hours and let no one sleep — Mother and Father decided to send me away. They would get rid of me without telling Tossapol. But they don't know that the biggest obstacle to getting rid of something we want to send away is the fear of being alone, left behind, forgotten — a fear we can't express, that we hide even from ourselves, that we get angry about if others mention it. Still, my folks got it in their heads — they're going to send me away. But how? When? And most importantly, where? They've made the decision, but they don't have the courage to act. So, they keep putting it off. They're hesitating! If an opportunity arises, maybe they'll do it; otherwise, they'll postpone it forever. Next week, the beginning of next month, in the middle of Songkran, after the schools close… They're both afraid of Tossapol's reaction and of not being able to get used to my absence. At the same time, they're worried that the disturbance I've caused isn't over and will happen again. But that's life — it confronts you with your fears at the most unexpected moments, takes its revenge, turns your weaknesses into your greatest enemies, and forces your powerful body to its knees. That's how it was with me — at a time I least expected, in a way I least expected…

It all happened one afternoon when even time had melted from the heat and fell asleep in a quiet corner. A truck pulled up in front of our house — slowly, slyly, with the timidity of a squirrel afraid of its own shadow. I was dozing on the damp ground under the newly finished concrete rooms. I half-opened my eyes, looking around without lifting my head, with a demeanor that fooled even myself. Mother was talking to a man at the garden gate. In the back of the truck were colorful basins, clotheslines, plastic stools, ladles, and buckets. At first, I didn't understand what was happening. "Mother must be replacing the basin she does laundry in," I thought. Because the one at home had torn — it leaked water when filled with clothes.

But things didn't unfold as I expected. Mother opened the garden gate. There was no iron gate in those days — just a primitive wooden door separating the garden from the street. The man came inside. In his hand, a long stick with a tightly woven net of white strings at the end — a thing I'd never seen before. How was I to know his intention was to catch me? On the contrary, since Mother had let him in, he must be a good man, I thought. Though when I got a little closer, I sensed the evil in his heart — but it was too late. I saw the cigarette in his mouth when we locked eyes. His face was wrinkled like clothes that hadn't been ironed in decades, his forehead and neck sunburned, his hands and arms covered in cuts and scrapes… He looked less like a merchant selling plastic household goods and more like a criminal who, in the blink of an eye, snatches children who've strayed from their parents' sight and sells them to the organ mafia. I sensed it, but it was too late. When he saw me, he smiled faintly. His chin moved left and right as if trying to dislodge a piece of meat stuck between his teeth. Then the stick in his hand rose into the air, stood there perpendicular for a moment. He waited, and I stared dumbly at the stick. The sun was in my eyes, so I couldn't see the net at the end. There was a cloud at the end of the stick — a small white cloud left over from the morning's downpour. The rest was blue. To avoid being dazzled, I turned my head slightly downward, but it didn't help much. I could only see the man, his raised hand, and his leering, pockmarked face. I also remember Mother trying to pick out basins from the truck behind him. Then the man's hand came down, and the net on the end of the stick enveloped first my head, then my entire body. I remember being very itchy at that moment — an intense itching covering my whole body from tail to nose. The net touched me everywhere, and at every point, sparks seemed to fly. Whether I thought, at that moment, that the days ahead would not be bright, that I wouldn't see the blue sky when I turned my head, that I wouldn't feel the damp grass when I moved my feet — I don't recall. I know I struggled; I growled and barked. And I remember the man approaching me with a syringe in his hand. He had caught me fast, and now he would inject me and put me to sleep. Having experienced the vet's anesthesia, I knew about needles. A thin pain starts, then disappears, replaced by a spreading ache. Then the injection site numbs, and the numbness spreads to my legs, my neck, and my head. As my ability to control my body diminishes, I feel like a guest in someone else's body — a visitor saying goodbye to the host at the door. I'm about to leave; the door will close behind me, and I'll be free. But what freedom, what kind of freedom… Finally, my eyes grow heavy; the world becomes a tattered picture seen from under a descending curtain. After a while, the connection breaks completely. I wait for hours in pitch darkness. I don't remember that darkness because my consciousness isn't open. All I have upon waking is the shock and questions that take hours to answer. Where am I? Why am I here? Who are these people? Why have they laid me on this table? Why can't I walk?

That day, it was exactly the same. I remember seeing Mother just before I closed my eyes. She had two buckets and a basin in her hand. The ugly-faced man who had dragged my body, now no better than a sack of rice, said something to Mother, and Mother, not wanting to leave his greeting unanswered, had put her things down. Then I felt the truck's engine start. I couldn't hear it, but my body — however weakly — perceived the vibrations. Finally, even that vibration stopped. I felt a lightness, a coolness as if I'd begun to fly. And then darkness fell completely over me — not just visual darkness, but one that would blind the other four senses as well. When I opened my eyes, I was crammed into a dirty, narrow cage among dozens of dogs. The space was so tight that my feet touched the head of a dog in another cage. There were cages below, above, beside us, and all were filled with dogs of all sizes. In some cages, two or three dogs were piled on top of each other. Surrounded on all six sides by dogs, we were moving in the back of a truck. It didn't take me long to understand that.