Chinese Dog Stories

Yesterday I wrote about one of my adventures while living in Taipei, Taiwan during my adolescent years. In the process of writing that post, numerous memories came flooding back, so I thought I’d share another one with you today.

The Chinese people eat dogs. This is a fact. It’s not a fact that I’m very happy about, but it is a fact. As any reader of this blog knows, I am a dog lover to the bone and the thought of eating one of these dear creatures is simply beyond my comprehension. We do eat cows and sheep and chickens and pigs, but somehow, dogs and cats are just totally different in my mind. I suppose it’s because they are our pets and “family members” rather than being farm animals. I’m very sure that a lot of my feelings are also culturally based since our society does not view dogs and cats as edible. However, clearly, other cultures do.

During the time we lived in Taipei, I often went wandering off and did lots of exploring of the countryside in and around our home. I went to the local marketplaces, I walked on the narrow strip paths of the rice paddies, I hiked in the local forested areas and I climbed in the local mountains. I found a stable nearby that rented horses for $10 an hour in Chinese money. At that time $10 dollars in Chinese money was equivalent to .25 cents in American money so with even my small allowance, I was rich! I rode for many hours a week.

The Rice Paddies Near Our House
I had a free and easy childhood and I rode my bike, went horseback riding and did lots of walking, exploring pretty much any area that I found particularly interesting. Remember, we are talking about the 1950’s and a much more innocent time in the history of our world. I don’t believe my folks worried about me overly much and my bike and I covered a lot of ground and saw a lot of interesting things in the years we spent there.

One day in my travels, I happened upon a small marketplace. It was not far from our home and the various stalls were filled with fresh fruit and vegetables and all sorts of delicacies for the table. I had a dollar or so in my pocket and I knew a bare smattering of Chinese, certainly enough to negotiate the price of a head of cabbage or the like. As I strolled through the stalls, the vendors in their baggy pajama-like suits and coolie hats, looked curiously at me and bowed and nodded. They held up their vegetables and fruits and invited me, in rapid-fire unintelligible speech, to look at what they had for sale! I looked and oooohed and aaaaahed appropriately. I’m sure I was quite a curiosity to them for I was the only non-Chinese to be seen in this relatively small neighborhood market.

A Chinese Marketplace

As I walked through the marketplace, I came inevitably to the meat stall. There were chickens and ducks and other unknown kinds of meat hanging on hooks ready for the buyer to point at and purchase. They also had live stock on hand that would be killed on the spot at the request of the purchaser. This, I assumed, would assure the buyer of the freshness of their purchase. I saw chickens pecking, a couple of goats munching away and then, to my everlasting horror, I saw the pen full of puppies.

At first I didn’t understand. I just thought he had a bunch of darling puppies and that he was selling them to new homes. I already had a dog at home and I knew my folks would not let me have another, so I didn’t even consider it. However, that didn’t stop me from bending over the pen, letting the puppies lick my fingers, stroking their soft furry heads and cooing to them. When the stall owner saw my interest, he immediately hurried over, picked up one of the puppies and handed it to me. Again, I misunderstood, thinking he was trying to give me a puppy. I said “No” but I still took the puppy from his hand and commenced cuddling and holding the sweet pup. The vendor did not understand my hesitation and, perhaps, thinking I was worried about the butchering process, he picked up a huge knife and indicated very clearly with his hand signals that he would do the beheading and skinning for me. And then I understood. These were not puppies to be loved, puppies to be kissed and spoiled and played with and taught to walk on a leash. These little guys were meat for the dinner table and they were in the marketplace waiting for a buyer, just like the chickens, and the ducks and the goats.

As the horrible understanding washed over me and ripped my heart open, I burst into tears, ran for my bike and raced for home. When I got there, I threw myself into my Mother’s arms and told her about the puppies. She held me as I cried great heartrending sobs. She stroked my hair and murmured to me as all Mothers of all hysterical children have done since the beginning of time.

Today, 50 years later, a part of my heart still cries for those poor, sweet innocent pups. I understand cultural differences, but how could they? How can they?

After all, DOG spelled backwards is something pretty special.