Explore Set - (The Second Collection of Random Thoughts)

Author: Ba Jin
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-05-01
Features: Over a month ago, I was still in Beijing when I heard a story about an artist. I remember one of the stories was about an artist and a dog. It is said that the artist lived in a not-so-large city, and the family next door had a small dog. It got along well with the artist, and he often treated it with food. During the Cultural Revolution, there was a kind of armed struggle in the city that had never been seen before, and the artist got scared and fled to hide in another place for a period of time. Later, he returned, probably dragged back by someone, accused of being a traitor and a counter-revolutionary, and criticized and persecuted. He denied it, and they beat him severely—punches, kicks, and sticks—until he was bleeding from his head and a leg was broken. After the persecution ended, he couldn’t walk and was dragged by the special task force through the streets for public humiliation. His clothes were torn, covered in blood and dirt, and he moaned from his mouth. People who recognized him saw him half dead and turned their heads away. Suddenly, a small dog ran out from the crowd, rushing toward him happily. It greeted him affectionately, jumping up to him, sniffing around, licking his face, and patting him with its paws. Others tried to drive it away, kicking and hitting it with sticks, but it refused to leave. It had to stay by its friend’s side. In the end, the special task force broke the dog’s hind leg with a club, and it let out a few mournful barks before limping away with its injured body. Blood stains were left on the ground, and a few paw prints were left on the artist’s torn clothes. The artist was locked up for several years before being released. His only thing was to buy a few pounds of meat to visit that dog. The neighbor told him that after the dog was beaten, it came home and refused to eat anything, barking mournfully for three days before dying. Hearing this story, I was reminded of the small dog I once had. Yes, I also had a dog. That was in 1959. At the time, a friend of mine was transferred to Beijing for work and was moving his family there. He wanted to give me the dog he had been raising because he had a small grassy patch in his home, which was suitable for keeping a dog. I agreed, and my son was very happy too. The dog arrived—a small yellow-haired Japanese breed, clean and well-behaved. It had a skill: whenever it had a request, it would stand up, put its two front paws together, and bow continuously. This skill wasn’t trained by my friend. It also had a Swedish previous owner, about whom I knew nothing. He left Shanghai and gave the dog to someone who had received a housing lease, and the dog then belonged to my friend. The dog had an original foreign name, which was translated as "Spouty." We simplified the name and called it "Boudi." Boudi stayed with us for seven years and got along well with our whole family. It didn’t bite people; when it saw strangers, it would bark at the gate for a while, and if we called out, it would run away. At night, when people often passed by outside the fence, it would hear certain sounds and run toward the fence, barking loudly. The barking was indeed a bit grating, but it would only bark for a few moments before quieting down. It spent more time in the yard and on the grass. Sometimes when we had guests in the living room or chatted with old friends, it would come in, bow a few times, ask for candy, and make the guests laugh. The Japanese friends were even more interested in it. Once, probably in the summer of 1963 or later, a Japanese news agency came to our home to shoot a television program, and they filmed Boudi. Another time, when the Japanese writer Ms. Yuki visited Shanghai and stayed at our home, she was very fond of Boudi. She said she also had a dog at home in Tokyo. Two years later, when she went to Beijing to attend the Emergency Conference of Asian and African Writers, she saw me and asked, "How is your little dog?" When I told her that Boudi was doing well, she smiled. My wife, Xian Shan, also liked Boudi. During the three years of difficulty, whenever we went to the cultural club for meals, she would always ask the waiter for a bone to take home and feed Boudi. P25-26