Good Dog Bo Hua

Author: Eleanor Atkinson
Translator: Liu Yunbo, Liu Huijie
Country: United States
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2000-12-01
Features: The rain has turned into freezing rain. Mr. Trell can barely stand. He first goes to the famous Bookworm's Bookstore next door to see if there are any medical students. The bookstore is open, but there are no customers. He walks to the bridge, but the county courthouse, the Church of the Martyrs, various social clubs, and all the pretty shops are closed. The flickering gas lamps dimly illuminate the dark facades of the buildings. The cruel stormy night has driven all the Edinburgh people back into their homes. Behind him, a clear whistle is heard, blown by a student from the Heriot's Charity School, who was left behind by the teacher after dark because he hadn't finished his homework or had done something wrong. In fact, he is not a "pure orphan" but simply "fatherless," living outside the school with his mother. Mr. Trell turns back, passing his own shop, and walks south to Forrest Road, located at the edge of the long section of the church cemetery. From the Broomhill area down to Glass Market and Cockgate. So, Jodie Ross, full of joy, swings her arms wide and strides home with her sturdy legs. The lower part of the knitted sleeves flutters behind her like bright triangular flags. It’s as if Mercury, the messenger of Roman mythology, is rushing off on an urgent errand.
"Child, do you know where a doctor can be hired for a few shillings? There’s an old country man in my shop."
"Is he so sick?" Jodie asks with a childish curiosity.
"Yes, his head is off. Run along, child, don’t stand there making foolish jokes."
Jodie dashes across the bridge and runs to Hay Street.
Mr. Trell struggles against the wind, stepping on slippery ice, making his way back to the shop, pondering what kind of bed to let the patient make do with for the night. Tomorrow morning, whether he likes it or not, he’ll have to get him to the workhouse’s bed as soon as possible.
When he returns to the shop, he finds the door wide open, and a strong wind sweeps into the hastily abandoned interior. Ashes are scattered everywhere; the kerosene lamp sways in the gusts. Old York and Bob are gone. Mr. Trell observes the little animal with great interest. He’s grown to love Bob more and more. He might be daydreaming: perhaps he could persuade the tenant of Calderwood Farm to give up Bob. And the tenant might agree for some reason. Then he could get Bob, and transfer Bob’s love from the cold grave to the warm hearth in front of it.
Bob jumps forward, and the mouse is caught. Bob shakes his head violently, dropping the mouse at his friend’s feet to prove his skill. Mr. Trell praises the little dog. The dog thinks he’s now qualified to make a new request and runs to the door, barking excitedly and intermittently. The reason is clear: "I’ve served you. Now you should take me back to the churchyard."
Mr. Trell talks to Bob as if to a clever child. Bob listens patiently but remains stubborn. In the end, he sulks away. He’s disappointed and disheartened by Mr. Trell, but he doesn’t give up on his goal. He lies by the door. Mr. Trell watches him, because as soon as someone opens the door, this homeless little dog will seize the chance to venture out onto the street. Bob knows what the door is for, and he likely looks forward to such an opportunity. He waits patiently for a long time, then starts pacing back and forth. He uses his front legs to scratch Mr. Trell, crying and whimpering.
Finally, he lets out a howl. A terrible, mournful, heart-wrenching howl echoes between the walls. He barks endlessly, leaving Mr. Trell at a loss. To avoid disturbing the neighbors, he locks Bob in the back laundry room and tells him to stop howling. The dog remains quiet for a full ten minutes, likely observing the new place and looking for an exit. Then he starts howling again. It’s astonishing how such a small dog can howl so loudly.
The summer in Grayfriars Church Cemetery comes earlier than anywhere else in Edinburgh, and the flowers bloom more profusely here. Since the north and east sides are blocked by buildings, the damp southwest wind blows right in. Throughout the long afternoon, the sun shines on the slopes of the cemetery, warming the back windows of the economic apartments overlooking the churchyard. Before the end of May, the gatekeeper has to spend a lot of effort tending to the plants in the yard, because the lush, flowering vines might swallow up the circular paths in the cemetery; the weeds might slowly encroach on the flowerbeds. Half a century ago, there were no rotary mowers to cut the heads of red clover. Even if there had been, they couldn’t have been used on this slope. Besides, the area is covered with flagstones, grassy mounds, and annual plant nurseries and flowerbeds. Mr. Brown has to crawl on all fours, using garden shears to trim the edges of the lawn and the steep slopes, and a scythe to shape the small mounds. Thus, he might use the small spade always tucked into his belt to dig up dandelion roots, consider whether to remove the spreading crocuses and valley lilies, whether to leave room for the wild violets to bloom, and whether to leave the burdock, which serves as a screen, alone for now, until the young birds in the bushes fledge.
On pleasant mornings, Mrs. often moves a milking stool to sit on the narrow path, knitting a sweater or mending clothes while offering some small advice to her husband. Bob wanders quietly nearby, sniffing this and that with great interest, tilting his head this way and that warily. What he learns during the summer in Grayfriars Church Cemetery is to protect the foolish sparrows, thrushes, robins, and wrens who build their nests in low bushes of lilac, honeysuckle, and flowering shrubs, in wall crevices, grave gaps, or on the ground. For a little dog, this is undoubtedly a delightful thing, full of life and affection, and allows him to play a dramatic role, filling the old cemetery with the melodious songs of birds. The moment he hears a cry from an older bird or a fledgling, this scruffy little police officer reacts immediately.
The number of night-foraging beasts is decreasing; occasionally, a hidden cat is driven away in a panic, scrambling over the graves and climbing walls to escape. They sit at a polished pine table, drinking tea in the best blue cups, eating cream cakes and strawberry jam. Bob eats his porridge and broth in front of the hearth. The coal crackles in the fireplace; the blazing firelight shines on the sparrowcage and the copper pot. Mr. Brown takes out his flute and plays "The Lovely Dandi." The silvery-gray Bob tries to dance but stumbles clumsily, apologizing with his head bowed, realizing that his time for dancing has passed. He lies there with his tongue out, blinking at the floor, until the Baroness gets up to leave.
"I’m just passing through. I’m visiting Balmorell Castle in Brema for a few days. I really hope I can take Bob along to show the Queen."
"Good heavens!" Mrs. exclaims.
Meanwhile, Mr. Brown’s favorite pipe has fallen to the ground and shattered. Bob jumps on her and starts crying, clearly saying, "Don’t go, Madam!" He acts like an affectionate old man, deeply moved as he says goodbye to someone he now cares for. He clutches her long dress, nuzzling her hand, then follows her unhappily to the waiting carriage.
As she leaves, the Baroness says, "The Queen will come to see Bob."
"What a lucky little dog you are, Madam," Mrs. stutters. Mr. Brown is so moved he can’t speak.
The Baroness doesn’t say anything more. She looks at the foundation of Bob’s memorial fountain, covered in canvas for warmth. She has to wait—for the spring when the rivers in the earth thaw; for Bob’s story to be inscribed on the bronze plaque; for the portrait of that fluffy Scottie to be cast in bronze and erected; for—when the Queen comes to see Bob, he will likely know nothing more.
On some public holiday, the town clerk and city council members, professors and students from Edinburgh University, soldiers from the castle, nobles from nearby areas arriving in carriages, farmers and shepherds from the Pentland Hills, children from Heriot’s School walking over, and children from the economic apartments in festive attire will gather on George IV Bridge, Grayfriars Street, wide Chambers Street, and the following candlemaker’s street, together commemorating a loyal little dog.
But by then, Bob might not know anything more. He’ll never hear the military music again, never see the flowers again; he’ll never hear the prayers of the minister from the old Grayfriars Church or the speech of Lord Provost again. When the bronze statue of the little dog, who looks back at the churchyard gate with reluctance, is unveiled, and the fountain gushes forth to quench the thirst of passersby and small animals, the Baroness will surely be moved to tears, but Bob will know nothing more.
"Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, Bob, the most dear, the most lovely, the most charming little dog in the world!" she cries. Tears like raindrops and sweet voices fall on Bob’s scruffy head. Then the Baroness’s carriage leaves in the dim twilight of the drizzling rain.
St. Giles Church bells ring once an hour; the castle blows the sunset trumpet. It takes Mr. Brown a long time to unbolt the back door, close the two tall doors, and lock the churchyard gate. The wind picks up, and the air grows colder. Gas lamps flicker one by one in the gale on the bridge. Huge, velvet-like black shadows are cast over the wet, low, square Glass Market.
Suddenly, the cemetery gatekeeper shouts in a hoarse voice, "His head is cold."
"You’re an old dog, Bob. You can’t deny it. On foggy nights, you’ll have to sleep indoors."
Bob doesn’t want to be separated from them and follows the old couple to the small stone cottage, watching them enter the cozy kitchen. However, when the door is opened for him, he wags his tail and says goodbye, then runs around the church. Due to his age, the only concession he can make on bad weather days is to sleep under a collapsed coffin box.
It was a rainy evening in Grayfriars! It was a bleak moment, a bleak season. All unforgettable things wereed and happened there. Rows of ghostly-looking tombs lurk in the cemetery, shrouded in mystery; mist swirls with the wind, and smoke coats the outer layer of the dim graves in gray; families gather tightly around insufficient dinners, with the light of candles and oil lamps flickering faintly; the sun halo is faintly visible atop the castle; the occasional footsteps of passersby are heard at the cemetery gate;—a late arriving carriage creaks; the sound of the church bells drifts from afar.
But even on such nights, the windows of the poorhouses open, and little faces look out at the melancholic churchyard. Candles flicker in the darkness for a moment. The children in the apartments call out in sweet, clear voices, "Good night, Bob!" They can’t see the little dog, but they know he’s inside. Now they know that even if they can’t see him anymore, he will still be there—in his body, part of the earth; in his fame, one of the immortal souls cherished in this ancient cemetery. They can visit the small cottage to see his famous collar; they can admire the bronze statue on his fountain. One day, when the mysterious gate of death opens for them, they will see Bob, see that handsome little dog running behind his master on the green grass, by the quiet spring, because: if the love in this world is not enough to fill the space of love in God’s heaven, Bob will have to "go home."