The Dog Days

It was a sad lunch hour. The meat was chewy, soft and bland unless dipped in the sauce, a stir-it-yourself mixture of chili paste, bean paste, hot mustard, sesame seed and black pepper. Whether you dipped it or not, it seemed to take hours to chew each piece fully, and even then you had to swallow hard what remained squishing around in your mouth—a big lump of fat. I couldn't help thinking of Oliver, my childhood pal we'd put down back in '97, when his tumors took over, his eyes dimmed, and his arthritis paralyzed. It was a dreary day in March and we had a ceremony in the front yard. Susan read the lovely prayer she'd written in the gray light of noon as family and friends who'd gathered listened and choked back their tears—after all he's just a dog. But we'd purchased him out in B'ville, months after dad was interred at St. Mary's. “Ollie” would be cremated and his ashes scattered on top of the hill in the Jewish cemetery across the street, where he used to run wild in his youthful days. This fateful day he lay on the lawn in the damp grass, sniffing the cold breeze keenly, his moist black nose flicking and twitching like new. He seemed happy it was the last thing to go, and to know it was his last chance to use it. No, “happy” isn't the right word. Rather, he seemed placidly invigorated, as we all were, though we didn't know it, by the coming of spring: dogs can smell things much farther off than people can--I remember that day as being damned cold—and even on the threshold of death, Ollie knew better than we did. After the prayer was done and the eyes dabbed with tissue, we carried him over to the station wagon and placed him in the way-back. I chose not to go with him to the vet.


I chewed and chewed, as my company kept commenting on how “savory” it was. October had suddenly come, one of the first chill days, and now, in addition to nearly a decade of time that had spun these reflections into such a distance, I had been flung across thousands of miles of space, to live the better half of it on the other side of the world. The lengthening shadows, the weakening sunlight and the pungent aroma all worked to make it seem much longer ago and much farther away.


~


Usually dog is steamed, stewed, roasted, or boiled, and eaten in summer for stamina; “...you can do it all night...” someone once told me, “...after eating dog.” On those unbearably hot, humid summer days (the “dog days of summer”, as we say in the west), dog is eaten by young and old alike. Three days in particular are observed by the faithful: Cho-bok, Jung-bok, and Mal-bok. Like most Eastern holy days, these follow the lunar calendar, taking place every ten days beginning the 20th of July and ending August 9. This is what I'd heard. Looking around the small restaurant I noticed the faces were mostly elderly faces; droopy-eyed, denture-mouthed faces, all of which somehow held that smug look usually seen on young people at 25. I couldn't help but wonder if it was already kicking in. Everyone sat Indian-style, on the floor, elbow-to-elbow, in church clothes for it was Sunday. However, unlike the clean surfaces found in a church, the restaurant was a bit filthy, the tables not wiped thoroughly, and apparently not disinfected. A film of grease seemed to cling to everything, even the antique wall-clock which was made of wrought copper.


~


I continued eating without good appetite. My boss noticed this and ordered me a bowl of rice to work as a sort of chaser. Everyone else was content with the heaping side dishes of spicy pickled vegetables, or kimchis. They waited for the right moment, when the stew was reduced to bones and only the stodgy broth remained for the mixing with white rice over the gas range which had been conveniently located in the middle of the table for all the reach. As the slurping of the steaming-hot porridge increased in frequency and volume, I excused myself and went outside for a smoke.

The street was empty save a bunch of children playing tag: “Yer it!”, I made out it their tongue. I wanted to join them, to play, to forget, to soothe myself after the trauma I'd just experienced. But instead, I matched a cigarette and walked around the corner where the soft sun was angling its way through the trees; its rays caressing everything, drawing those long shadows that make your legs look longer and your heart feel softer. A gust of wind picked up and blew a few scraps of litter, making an eddy around a large aluminum pot near the side-door. I exhaled smoke and approached the pot out of curiosity; its cover did not completely conceal the contents. An exposed chunk of pink flesh—rib-cage-like--hung over the edge of the pot. The steady plumes of steam did little to hide it as the wind whipped them away. I should have known better--a steaming pot at a dog restaurant—but it was too late. With a scrawny rack of ribs imprinted on my eye, I turned away and puked on the side of the road.