The rejuvenation that everyone expected as
a result of the long holiday had actually only happened in the giddiness of
anticipation and preparation of the big event and was deflated and killed by
its passing. What was left in the wake among the flattened tissue lanterns and
piles of firework residue was a social landmine of animosity. Every person’s
body ached to the marrow with shivering. Most spaces not filled with human
bodies were unheated, and eyes were rubbed raw by the constant upkeep of
charcoal fires and walking amongst the bus fumes, and no one could quite remember
the exact shade of blue of a summer sky.
On this day, the sun hadn’t made its usual
sepia appearance in 13 days. It was the kind of day where normally quiet
bookish girls fogged up their glasses with their own vitriol if bumped into on
a bus. Grandmothers, who just three weeks ago gave smiles and money to the
young, beat each other senseless with rice bin shovels at the local RT Mart.
And children content with on-line gaming for four months suddenly began
convulsing for want of any sensation other than the overstuffed internet café
chair.
Wedged between a make shift store selling
Nike and Adidas shoes and a bakery selling cartoon cakes was the dog grooming
shop. A year before it had been a shop selling salted duck products. And a year
before that it had been a fruit and vegetable stall. But with the growing
middle class came large super market chains like RT Mart and enough disposable
income to buy Western fast food like KFC as well as accessories like brand name
watches and pets. Prized possessions that are subjected to the wear and tear of
walking two inches from the city’s pavement need regular maintenance. Needless
to say, the grooming shop was more profitable in its first month than the
little restaurant and produce stalls were in an entire year.
Usually the sounds of revolt coming from
the bath-resistant hounds at the grooming shop weren’t audible over the car and
bus horns of the busy street. The only passersby who noticed were dogs who
seemed ready to burst from their leads to save the day or at the very least, investigate
what the fuss was all about. But today a
small circle of on lookers were gathered outside the shop and in the center was
a syncopated chorus of four, ranging from a high pitched human voice to a low
baritone growl. The barking of the two recently coifed, lathered, and dyed
canines followed their irate owners’ shouts like a bee-bop quartet.
A man in his 40s wearing the uniform of the
newly rich: dark trousers, button down shirt, and fake Rolex watch could barely
contain the wrath of his poodle and its flaming orange ears. Whether it was the
genetic inferiority of the cockerdoodle or its obvious superior cuteness, no
one would ever know. The owner of the fuzzy brown dog had dressed it much like
herself—with layers of quilted fabrics better suited for covering windows than
humans or animals. She was short and compact and unintimidated by the man in
front of her. They yelled at one another, the primeval anger taking them back
to accents and dialects unintelligible to the onlookers and one another. It was
unclear what was wanted as no damage to the dogs or their recent pampering had
occurred.
People stood around them in varying degrees
of gaping. Retirees back from playing chess in the park seemed amused and
philosophized to one another that the frivolity of the scene demonstrated the
country’s emergence from its recent dark ages. Others, closer to the dog owners’
ages, chose sides and shouted encouragement, seeming to understand the inherent
insults, but not able to articulate them later that night when they came home. But most just watched, happy to have an
excuse to not continue on to whatever task awaited them.
Just as the owner was about to come out and
put an end to the bad publicity, the kind of randomness that could only happen
in a country of two billion people, that statistically had to happen in a
country of two billion people happened. The noise was all encompassing, barely
intelligible, like static but alive. As the sound reached its crescendo, all
could see that it was a large truck carrying dozens of mangy, flea-bitten,
street battered dogs who had heard the argument and wanted to add their 2 RMB.
Whether these beasts wanted to support and defend or tear apart their groomed
cousins is anyone’s guess. The truck came to a stop at a light a few meters
ahead of the shop. In that moment the two pets either were unable to remember
or actively shrugged off their chains of pampered domesticity and broke free of
their owners and ran. The old philosopher men recounted the story the next day
to a rapt audience and described the brief joy on each of the dog’s faces as
they bounded in their freedom next to the truck.
The light turned green and the driver, a young
man dressed in worn army trousers and flip flops despite the freezing temperatures,
flicked his cigarette into the street. And with one fluid motion and a smirk opened
his door, grabbed the two pups’ collars and threw them into the back where they
disappeared under the legs of their new large friends and the one little pup’s
orange ears faded in the distance.
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