Dog to Man: Still best friends, or what?
By Da Gou (Big Dog)
Zhuzhou City, Hunan Province
First, let me thank you for some steps you've taken recently to uphold and extend our historic alliance. Perhaps you've not noticed the improved quantity and variety of delicious litter on the roads, but, trust me, we have!
I attribute this development to a few things. Foremost among them, though, is Da Hui Lang's (Big Gray Wolf) -- the waigoren -- refusal to touch some of life's treats. His discards are our treasure: piles of cow liver, sheep brain, peacock neck, carp head and pig's heart are readily available on the streets of Zhuzhou City, thanks largely to him. Among us, he is a popular man, especially immediately following dinner. Hence the papparazzi-like gathering outside the door of whichever restaurant he's in that night.
Regarding that point, we've done our best to keep our troops outside the restaurants, although a few, in their zeal, still wander in while you, humans, are eating.
Now, we appreciate the efforts of some restaurant owners to help with enforcement. Their methods? When one of us snoops too closely to the oil-drum stove on which they're stir-frying, or wanders within sniffing distance of the cow carcasses that hang on hooks beside the State Highway for the Insane, the restaurant owner showers the offending canine with boiling oil from his or her wok. We applaud these brave acts and recognize them for what they are: tough love.
Further, let me reiterate my gratitude for your opposition to the proposed One Puppy Policy. You show amazing selflessness in defending our right to unlimited procreation, given that you, humans, don't enjoy this same right. You continue to point out our undeniable value to your society: friendship, obedience, protection, protein.
We feel that we hold up our end of the bargain, too. You asked that we resist our strong temptation to sink our rabid fangs into the exposed calves of Da Hui Lang as he runs along our roads. Not only have we resisted this temptation, but we've also done our best to bark at him exclusively in English. And he, in turn, has given us a profound education in English vulgarities. We greet him as a friend, doing our best to perfect our barken English, and he responds with phrases that, well, it's a family blog.
Perhaps Da Hui Lang, not being born into this culture, fails to understand the importance of our species. He comes from America, where farmland is plentiful, available food supply far outstrips demand for it, and you humans have the luxury of viewing us, dogs, as best friends, to be petted, adored, taken for walks and given pedicures, but never stir-fried with cauliflower.
We, Chinese dogs, understand the culture into which we're born, and cherish our role as best friends, whether in being tail-wagging companions or tender, juicy meat cubes. In fact, our eventual status in the wok works very much in our favor: you want more and more of us, which encourages us to procreate more and more. As a male dog, I have two words: Aw yeah!
That said, recent actions by you regarding this last point have given rise to our eyebrows and caused our tails to cease wagging. If they were done to elicit a response, here it is.
First, what's with packaging our heads, with fur, eyes, teeth and nose still intact, in the frozen meat department at the grocery store? When my wife was taken away, I recognized the glorious role she was about to play in keeping the pure, virtuous Chinese people well-fed. How else can they protect this great land from Capitalist Roaders, or stand in brave defense of Chairman Mao? To be honest, I wished it was me, not her, who was off to the wok. I trust that, someday, I'll get my chance.
Imagine my horror, then, to see her entire head in a plastic tray, wrapped in transparent cellophane, her unbrushed teeth exposed, her eyes dull and sunken, her thinning hair still attached, her ears flat against her head? While I understand the necessity of her going away, I wish that my memory of her alive, walking proudly and resigned to her fate, would last in my memory. Instead, I'm faced with her post-mortem, still intact. This sight, I must say, was provocative.
A trip through the grocery store revealed the intact head of only one other creature: fish, specifically carp. Pigs' heads? Nope. Cows' heads? Nope. Sheep's heads? Nada. No, among mammals, only we dogs are displayed with fully intact heads, there for family members to view and weep over.
Have you ever read
The Oresteia? Neither have I. But, I do know that a pretty massive feud erupts, the resolution of which requires three Greek epics, because one man served another man his children. For supper. Let that be a warning.
Further, you can imagine our horror at the discovery, yesterday, of two of our fallen comrades, inert and with blood dripping from their mouths, in the bed of a Toyota Tacoma. Are we upset that they were slaughtered? Of course not. Were we surprised? No.
We were, however, shaken by the lack of respect given to them. You humans don't face the reality of the butcher's knife. Imagine for a moment if you did. After the fact, would you want your freshly dead body, still dripping blood, to be laid to rest in the bed of a Toyota Tacoma? At the campus gate? For all to see as they wandered by? I didn't think so.
Worse, the freshly killed dogs were stunning because of their symbolism. If you didn't notice, they were close likenesses of one of our heroes, Benji. For us, Benji embodied doghood at its height -- such loyalty, but with an independent streak; such comfort in his own fur; such resourcefulness; such grace. To view the Benji-like colleagues, inert and blood-soaked, was to lose a bit of hope in the values Benji embodied.
Imagine, again, that your life was lived in the constant awareness of the premature death you'd meet. Now, imagine encountering the freshly butchered body of one of your heroes, or of someone who closely resembles one of your heroes, in the bed of a Toyota Tacoma.
All we ask is that, as meat sources, you at least keep us anonymous. Our fate in the wok is glorious; our appearance under cellophane, or in the bed of a Toyota Tacoma, is not.
