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?

- To be continued...