My eyes travelled down to the old fellow's bleary-eyed dogs. ‘Did you get that bunch drunk?’
‘Two jin of liquor and four steamed buns,’ he replied. ‘Liquor these days has lost its punch.’
Jiaojiao was squatting in front of the dogs, prodding their oily lips with a reed stem, occasionally revealing a white fang. Their breath reeked of alcohol. From time to time one would roll its eyes and make dreamy sounds.
A man pushed a scale on squeaky wheels over to the dog pens from the warehouse, the hook swaying back and forth. For the sake of convenience, we'd built a pen exclusively for dogs near the one that held sheep and pigs. What made that necessary was an incident involving a worker who'd entered the pen holding all the animals together to pick out one of the pigs, and had been badly bitten by dogs turned half mad from being penned up too long. He was still in the hospital receiving daily shots of anti-rabies vaccine—vaccine that had already expired, according to someone from the hospital who spoke in confidence. Whether or not he'd begin to show symptoms was an open question. Naturally, the fact that a worker had been bitten wasn't the only reason we'd invested in the construction of a separate dog pen. Another was that dogs that had been plied with liquor were capable of wreaking havoc once they sobered up, attacking the sheep and pig penmates. Peace was rare in the pen, day or night. One day, after planning the production schedule, I took Jiaojiao over to see what was going on in the pen. Nothing, as it turned out, one of those rare peaceful moments. We saw dozens of dogs, some standing, others sprawled on the ground, forcibly occupying most of the space in the pen and forcing the pigs to huddle in one corner—some white, some black, some spotted—and sheep—along with a few billy goats and a couple of milch goats—in another. There was hardly any space between the pigs, who faced the railing, thus leaving their rumps vulnerable. The sheep too were clustered together, with some long-horned billy goats standing protectively. Almost none of the animals were injury-free, thanks, of course, to the dogs. Despite the peaceful moment—a rest for the dogs—the pigs and the sheep were preparing for the worst. Even when the dogs were relaxed, internal flare-ups were inevitable, including semi-serious fights between the males and the occasional cluster-fuck. At those times the pigs and sheep were so quiet that they hardly seemed to exist. But then a sort of gang fight broke out among several dozen dogs, which sent fur flying and blood spraying and resulted in some serious injuries, including a few broken legs. This was no longer a game. Jiaojiao and I wondered what the pigs and sheep must have been thinking as battles raged among the dogs. She said they weren't thinking about anything, that they were taking advantage of the dogfights to catch up on lost sleep. I would have challenged her on that, but I looked into the pen and, just as she'd said, the animals were sprawled on the ground, their eyes shut as they dozed. But dogfights were a rarity. Most of the time, the dogs, sporting sinister grins, launched attacks on the sheep and pigs. At first, the larger boars and billy goats bravely fought them off. The goats reared up on their hind legs, heads high, and charged, but the dogs nimbly sidestepped the attacks. ‘I thought you said that meat dogs are stupid animals,’ some might ask. ‘Then how could they be as alert as wolves in a forest?’ Yes, they entered the pens as stupid animals but, after being starved for a week, their wild nature returned accompanied by a surge in intelligence. They reverted to being predators, and, not surprisingly, the sheep and pigs penned up with them became their prey. After the first assault failed, the billy goats prepared for a second, rearing up as before, raising their heads and aiming their horns at the prowling dogs. But their movements were stiff, their tactics predictable and once again they were easily sidestepped by the dogs. They then steeled themselves for a third attempt, but it was a weak one, so weak that the dogs barely had to move to get out of the way. By now, all the fight had left the goats. The dogs, grinning hideously, charged their ovine prey and sank their fangs into sheep tails, sheep ears and sheep throats. The victims bleated piteously while a few somewhat more fortunate ones stampeded like headless flies. Many of them rammed their heads into the pen railings and crumpled to the ground, unconscious. The dogs made short work of the dead sheep, eating everything but the feet—unappetizing—the horns and any skin with too much fleece attached. The pigs quaked as they watched the sheep being slaughtered, for they knew they were next. Some of the larger boars tried to ward off the attack by emitting low grunts and charging like black bombs. The dogs leapt out of the way and set their sights on the pigs’ rumps or ears, which they bit savagely. With yelps of pain, the boars tried to turn the tables but were immediately set upon by other opportunistic dogs that knocked them to the ground. Their screeches filled the air, but only for a few moments. Blood soaked the ground as their bellies were ripped open and their intestines torn out and dragged round the pen.
Anyone could see why the animals had to be separated, even if a dog had not bitten our worker. We'd have lost much high-quality lamb and pork, and would have raised savage dogs that we'd then have had to poison or shoot. Viewed from the perspective of entertainment, I'd have preferred not to separate them. But I was not your typical youngster—no, I was the head of one of the plant's workshops, laden with heavy responsibilities, and the last thing I wanted to do was cause financial setbacks just so I could be entertained by scenes of carnage. So we packed thirty pounds of beef with two hundred sleeping pills, and, once the killer dogs were under, dragged them over to a pen built exclusively for them. They woke up groggy after three days and their eyes glazed over as they took in their new surroundings. They then circled the outer limits of the pen, howling their displeasure. An animal's temperament and demeanour are ruled by its stomach. Before being brought to us, these dogs had been raised on a prescribed feed. Now they had to subsist on leftovers from the killing rooms and the blood of cows and sheep, reason enough for even the dumbest and tamest among them to revert to their wolfish ways only days after entering the dog pen. Part of the logic behind our decision was related to the disposal of the offal on the killing rooms floors. But we also wanted to improve the quality of the meat, and knew that these dogs would produce better meat than those animals that had been raised on a meatless diet. Winter was on its way, Lao Lan said, the season when the consumption of dog meat spikes, and it was up to us to supply a product that enhanced consumers’ vitality. Added to that was a plan to present meat from these dogs as gifts to expand the plant's customer base. On many starlit nights, my sister and I watched as some of these dogs crouched alongside the pen railings, looked up at the stars in the sky and howled, a chilling wolfish cry. A single animal baying at the moon would have had little effect on us. But joined by dozens of fellow creatures, the din turned the plant into a hell on earth. One such night, Jiaojiao and I bravely stole up to the pen to peer through the gaps in the railing. The dogs’ green eyes flashed like a panorama of bright little lanterns. Some of them howled into the night sky, others lifted their legs to urinate against the railing, still others ran and leapt, their hardened bodies leaving visible streaks in the air and their moonlit fur gleaming like fine silks and satins. This was no collection of dogs, but a wolf pack, plain and simple. That got me thinking that there must be a huge difference between carnivores and herbivores—one look at those dogs told us that. As tame as sheep and as stupid as pigs when they were on a prescribed diet, but as fierce as wolves once they began eating meat. Jiaojiao seemed to read my mind. ‘Did you and I come from wolves?’ she whispered. ‘I made a face and said, ‘Yes, that's exactly what we came from. You and I are wolf children.’
The dogs were not running and leaping for the sake of exercise—they were intent on leaping over the railing to freedom. Eating fresh meat and drinking warm blood had made them smart enough to realize what was in store for them. The onset of winter meant that they would be taken into the water-treatment building, where an infusion of water would bloat them out of shape, disrupt their ability to walk and make their eyes sink. Then it would be off to the kill rooms, where they'd be bludgeoned,
skinned alive, disembowelled and packaged to be sent into town as a tonic for men who longed for hard-as-steel erections. Not the sort of future any self-respecting dog looked forward to. As I watched the dogs executing extraordinary leaps, I was thankful that we had built the fences tall enough. Constructed of iron posts, they were five metres high and, thanks to the thick steel wire, virtually indestructible. Lao Lan and I had been opposed to the use of iron posts at first, but my father had insisted upon it and we went along with him. He was, after all, the plant manager. And he was right. Back when he was living in the northeast, he'd developed an understanding of the link between dogs and wolves. Now, as I thought back, I cringed at the thought of what would have happened if those now wolfish animals had made it out of the pen. The entire area could have wound up under siege.
The man wheeled the scale over to the dog pen, where my father appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.
‘Hey, dog-peddlers,’ he shouted to the men waiting in the queue. ‘Line up over there.’
The old fellow squatted down, picked up his shoulder pole and straightened up, lifting the four dogs off the ground. Oh, there's one thing I forgot. People who raised dogs believed in marking their animals, including clipping their ears and inserting nose rings. This old fellow, shunning such half-baked strategies, actually removed his dogs’ tails; it gave them a dopey look but increased their agility. I wondered if his tailless dogs would turn wolfish in the pen and, if so, if they too would leap about in the moonlight. Let's say they would. Then would they be more graceful than the others or would they bounce about like billy goats? We fell in behind him, feeling sorry for the dogs yet knowing what hypocrites that made us. Showing sympathy to a dog was asking to be eaten by it. And what a waste, albeit insignificant, that would be. In ancient times, human flesh had probably—no, definitely—been a delicacy for beasts of prey, but in present times a human being eaten by beasts of prey would be turning the world upside down, confusing the roles of eater and eaten. Their purpose in life was to be eaten by humans, which makes sympathy for them both hypocritical and laughable. And yet, I couldn't help feeling sorry for those pitiful creatures hanging from the man's shoulders—or perhaps I should say that I found the sight hard to endure. Wanting to clear my head of these weak, shameful thoughts, I took Jiaojiao by the hand and headed towards the meat-cleansing workshop, where we watched as the dog-peddlers laid their animals, one on top of the other, onto the scale. The only signs of life were their low moans, a bit like an old woman with a toothache; it was hard to imagine them as living creatures. The scale operator skilfully moved the slide across the arm and announced the weight in a low voice. Father, who was standing to the side, said unemotionally: ‘Deduct twenty pounds!’
‘Why?’ the seller protested loudly. ‘Why are you deducting twenty pounds?’
‘Because you stuffed each of them with at least five pounds of food before you left home,’ Father said coolly. ‘I'm deducting only twenty to save you a bit of dignity.’
‘No one can put anything over on you, Manager Luo,’ the man confessed with a wry smile. ‘But these animals are here to be slaughtered and we had to let them eat, didn't we? I raised them myself. They're like family. Besides, don't you fill them full of water before you kill them?’
‘You'd better be ready to prove that,’ Father said with a steely look.
‘Seriously, Lao Luo,’ the dog-seller sneered, ‘if you don't want people to know something, don't do it in the first place. Everyone knows about your meat-cleansing technique. Who do you think you're fooling?’ The man glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, said, ‘Am I right or am I not? You're the head of the meat-cleansing workshop, aren't you?’
‘We don't infuse our animals with water,’ I responded. ‘We cleanse the meat. Is that something you can understand?’
‘Cleanse the meat?’ the man sputtered. ‘You fill those animals almost to the bursting point. Cleansing the meat! Well, I have to give you credit for coming up with such a fine term.’
‘I'm not going to argue with you,’ said Father angrily. ‘Sell your dogs for twenty pounds less or take them back home with you.’
‘Lao Luo,’ the man said, squinting, ‘you're a different man now that things are going your way. I guess you've forgotten the time you went round picking cigarette butts up off the ground.’
‘That's enough,’ Father said.
‘All right,’ the man conceded, ‘you win. You can tell when a man's luck is up by the state of his horse, and a bird of prey is always round when a rabbit's luck runs out.’ He reached down and arranged his dogs on the scale and then, with a forced smile, he said, ‘Not wearing your green cuckold's hat today?’
Father turned red all the way to his ears. Words failed him.
I was about to shred the man with my razor-sharp wit when I heard shouts coming from the ‘meat-cleansing’ station. When I turned to look, I saw the so-called goat-seller racing down the path to the main gate, followed by a posse of plant workers. He kept shooting them glances over his shoulder and they kept shouting: ‘Grab him—don't let him get away!’
Something clicked in my head, and I blurted ‘Reporter!’
When I looked at Father, I saw he'd turned ashen white. I grabbed Jiaojiao's hand and took off running to the gate. I was excited, pumped up, as if I'd spotted a dog running down a jackrabbit on a humdrum winter day. Jiaojiao was slowing me down, so I let go of her and ran as if my life depended on it. The wind whooshed past my ears. There were chaotic shouts behind me—barking dogs, bleating sheep, grunting pigs, lowing cows. The man stumbled on a rock and thudded to the ground, his momentum carrying him a good three feet on his belly. His bulging canvas bag flew off and an inhuman ‘oof!’ burst from his mouth, like a toad getting squashed. He'd taken such a fall that I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. We'd built the path with a mixture of old bricks, gravel and cinders, all unforgivingly hard. At the very least, he had to have a bloody nose and cut lips, maybe even a lost tooth or two. Broken bones weren't out of the question. But he scrambled to his feet, staggered over to his canvas bag and picked it up. Ready for another run, he froze when he saw—as did I—Lao Lan and my mother, two formidable opponents, standing like sentries and blocking his way. By then his pursuers had caught up with him.
Lao Lan and Mother were in front of him, Father and I were behind him and the plant workers all round him. With a wave of his hand, Lao Lan dismissed the workers. The hapless fellow turned round and round, looking for a way out of our human cage. I think he assumed that I was the weak link in the chain but then he noticed Jiaojiao and the knife she clutched in her hand. His next avenue of escape was past my mother but her expression changed his mind. Her face was red, her gaze unfocused, the quintessential look of distraction. But it made him lower his head in defeat. Father, on the other hand, suddenly looked the picture of dejection. Turning his back on the reporter and ignoring the queue of animal-sellers, he headed to the northeast corner of the plant, to a rebirth platform made of pine. That had been Mother's idea. She said that a platform was needed to perform regular Buddhist rites in order to help the sad ghosts of all those creatures that had served mankind move ahead on the wheel of life after we killed them. I didn't think that Lao Lan, a lifelong butcher, believed in ghosts and spirits, and so I was surprised when he accepted Mother's idea. We'd already performed rites on the platform—we'd invited a senior Buddhist monk to recite sutras while several lesser monks burnt incense and spirit paper and set off firecrackers at the base of the platform. The senior monk was a ruddy-faced man with a booming voice and high moral airs. Listening to him chant the sutras was a deeply spiritual experience. Mother compared him to the Tang monk in the Travels to the West TV series. When Lao Lan jokingly asked if she wanted to feast on the Tang monk's flesh to achieve immortality, she kicked him in the calf. ‘What do you think I am, some kind of demon?’ she'd grumbled.
My father was a regular visitor to the platform, which stood ten m
etres tall and gave off a pleasant pine smell; he sometimes stayed up there for hours, not coming down even at mealtimes. ‘Dieh,’ I once asked, ‘what do you do up there?’ ‘Nothing,’ he said woodenly. ‘I know,’ Jiaoajiao said. He rubbed her head, looked glum and said nothing. She and I climbed up there a few times to look round and breathe in the scent of pinewood. We saw distant villages, the river, a misty line of riverbank scrub brush, uncultivated land and all sorts of vapours snaking skyward on the horizon. The vista emptied us of our emotions. ‘I know what he does up there,’ she said. ‘What?’ I asked. Sighing like an exasperated crone, she explained: ‘He thinks about the forests up north.’ As I looked into her moist eyes, I could tell there was more she wanted to say. I'd heard Father and Mother argue over this very thing. ‘I'm like a carpenter wearing a cangue she made,’ Mother said. Father replied, ‘Don't use your narrow-minded view to judge a broad-minded person,’ replied Father. ‘I'm going to ask Lao Lan to take that down tomorrow,’ Mother declared. Father pointed his finger at her: ‘Don't talk to me about him!’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Why not?’ she responded, just as angrily. ‘What's he ever done to you?’ ‘Plenty,’ Father said. ‘Let's hear it, all of it.’ ‘Are you saying you don't know what I'm talking about?’ Mother's face reddened and venom seemed to shoot from her eyes. ‘Dry filth doesn't stick to a person,’ she said. ‘You can't have waves without wind,’ he said. ‘I've done nothing to be ashamed of,’ she said. ‘He's better off than me,’ he said. ‘His family's always been better off than ours. If you'd rather be with him, I won't stand in your way, but you'll have to settle with me first.’ He turned and stalked off. Mother flung her bowl to the floor and smashed it. ‘Luo Tong,’ she snarled at his back, ‘the next time you browbeat me like that I'll do what you think I already did!’