Whisky arrives in Canada

This was the weekend we’d be hoping for: Whisky arrived in Canada, safe and sound, and does not seem fazed by the journey!

She always was aloof, but it all came back to us when she greeted us out of her kennel on the trolley at Arrivals, matter-of-a-factly. A quick sniff of acknowledgement, then on to look at other new surroundings. It is probably a blessing that she accepts huge changes in her life so easily!

We really lucked out, after all the bad luck we had with this dog. September 2011was supposed to be the big reunion, but when she ran away in Daejeon, we thought it had all been for nothing. As luck would have it, kind souls we’d never even met volunteered to foster her for the winter after she was found, AND bring her back to Canada with them In April. This was no small favour: it meant trips to the vet to get renewed rabies vaccines, transport to the airport, and arranging all the quarantine procedures in Canada, after twenty hours of travel.

Martin and I have moved to Canada for the foreseeable future, but all that was for the dog, too! In Korea, we discussed where to settle in the West, and we were both kinda pulling for England – well, I intended to move to Europe somehow, and the first step would be getting the dog into to UK.

Not an easy task.

Great Britain has strict policies about animal immigration, since they have managed to keep rabies off the isles. Responsible perhaps, but a little excessive – we calculated the costs (in POUNDS) for many months of solitary quarantine: along with the plane ticket and stamps of approval from British vets, it would be running us thousands.

A quick check into the Canadian procedures: $35 at the gate.

Just like that, we were moving to Canada.

The plan was to get a Puppy Passport, which meant staying for six months until we had enough paperwork to take Whisky anywhere. We did not think through our plan for our own careers quite so carefully, but we had plenty of time to procrastinate while we travelled the world.

Leaving Whisky in April 2011 was hard, but we had a plan to fly her to Canada in September once we reached my parents’ as home base, even though we predicted no kind exchanges between our Jindo and their Bichon Frise. We had kind friends in Daejeon taking care of her. The thing about ex-pats in Korea is that they take their little time off enthusiastically, jetting away to exotic places as soon as they can. This was what we were doing, but now we’d passed off responsibility for dog-sitting onto generous friends-of-friends, who also wanted vacation.

Whisky did not seem too upset by the change of hands. Who knows what had happened to her in her previous life, but she always seems grateful for a kind word, pet, or bowl of food; even while apprehensive. We were just relieved to find that another couple was willing to help us out from abroad when Whisky was stranded for the winter. Regulations stipulate that dogs are not to fly to Canada in the winter, when long stints on the tarmac might prove too cold.

In the meantime, we were putting in our time with the cold, and Canadian dogs. Martin had found a winter gig up in South River, Ontario – the far northwest corner of Algonquin Park. It was working for a dog sledding company: his background in outdoor education made him a perfect guide, and my being Canadian got me absolutely nowhere. I worked at the shop packing the expeditions, but I was secretly jealous of the guides taking their teams of dogs out on the trails, even if it meant ridiculous hours for them, strenuous physical labour in the freezing cold, and very little pay. Martin and I rented a house just down the road from the dog yard: close enough to hear the howls of the 400 Alaskan Sled Dogs.

They are magnificent creatures. Working with these brilliant, strong, adoring beasts made us both fall even more in love with dogs. Every few days Martin had a new favourite, and he started to philosophize about training techniques, kennel set-ups, pairings for breeding and working it all into his future. Mushing very much gets into your blood. Most guides would bring home a special member of their team, and it wasn’t long before we had Patti sleeping on the floor of our small solar-powered, woodstove-heated cabin.

She was a strange-looking dog: too slow for her job, she’d been demoted as a race-dog after whelping a litter and now contentedly trotted in point or swing for the company expeditions. She was often traded onto client teams for her good nature with both people and other dogs. She could show puppies the ropes, and ignore big aggressive males. The importance of this was not lost on us when we thought of Whisky joining us again.

Patti was fat, and has oversized paws and ears. Her snout is too pointy, tipped with a pinkish nose, yet she has the barrel chest of a Malamute. She has very sad mud-coloured eyes and a pitiful howl. Martin fell for her when no one else noticed her, in the back of the yard. We asked her previous owner for her history, and he was happy to hear she was being adopted; she’d always been such a sweetheart. Despite the general consensus that Patti was the ultimate underdog, Martin saw something solid in her; a calm assuredness and playful nature. She took to being a house pet almost too easily, as Martin was still running her for the whole season. She loves her warm, soft bed, and is submissive without being timid. We call her the little white dog.

There was much discussion about how Whisky would get along with Patti. Patti is the best scenario: patient and unaggressive. Whisky, on the other hand, had once taken our friend`s beagle by the throat and tried to shake him to death.

Last night was the big introduction. Patti had been at the yard over the weekend while we drove four hours south to Pearson Airport. We had kept Whisky tied out back at my parents`, and closed in our room at night, away from the Bichon. Whisky accepted that she was our dog again, just like that – it warmed my heart. She was wonderful on the drive back north, gazing out the window at the highway.

I wish I could know what she thought about: how new Canada seemed after twenty hours of travel. Does she understand how far she is from Asia? Does it all smell different? Is it quieter, cleaner, vaster, wilder? She listens to birds with interest. She still dislikes wading, even when the water barely covers her dainty paws.

Home at last, I immediately drove out to pick up Patti and bring her in. We`ve had quite a few dogs visit us and stay the night with other guides who crash at our place. The sled dogs all know each other. We had gotten used to their work ethic, their approachability, their size. Whisky is tiny. We`d both forgotten how small she is – the Koreans would exclaim over her, and we`d say she wasn`t really so big for a real dog, but she really is just knee-height.

Patti went immediately up to her, and Whisky snapped, which earned her a quick correction. Martin, for a guy who grew up without dogs, has really become an excellent dog man. The right mix of discipline and affection got the two of them following him, not each other. Patti seems a little baffled over this strange visitor, but they are both in the house, and they animate when we`re walking around or call them over. Patti probably thinks this is short-term. Whisky is interested in Patti, but keeps her distance so far. What is really promising is how affectionate Whisky has become with us, coming over for pats and repeating tricks we taught her in our old apartment in Daejeon. Her sitters did a wonderful job of socializing her.

Patti, curled in her lazy ball, dreams away, while Whisky sits regally and watches me type with solemn patience. I feel like the day might come when they play together. Until then, we devote ourselves to this little two-dog family, nomadic and quirky as always, looking on towards the next destination: a place with a fenced-in yard, we hope.

In my experience in Korea, if you lose something precious (usually a wallet in a restaurant or a cell phone in a bar), you will find it put aside by some honest soul, waiting for you to retrieve it.

I did not hold out such hope for Whisky. Koreans rarely reacted well to her on a leash, let alone roaming the streets. Our friends put up posters of her. I imagined her ending up in a cage at the market.

A group of children found Whisky and contacted our friends through a number on the poster. I will forever be grateful to this honest nation, where "finders, keepers" is not a motto. 

Now, to find Whisky a foster home while we arrange her trip to Canada, AGAIN.

One Week Without Whisky

It sounds like a cause for celebration, were this an AA meeting... but sadly, it's cause for mourning, because I'm starting to think we'll never see her again.

In fact, it's been over six months since Martin and I have seen our dog. We left her with friends in April, while we packed up our apartment and left our lives in Korea. We worried that she wouldn't adjust well to a new home. We fretted that we'd have to find a way to fly her to Canada once the summer was over.

This dog, we decided was worth it. What was "it", you ask? It's hard to say... we'd invested so much money and time into Whisky's rescue, but more importantly, we'd fallen in love with her. We'd started a family with her. Whisky had bonded us as a couple, shown us a new side of Korea, and would be the token we'd take back with us, to start our new lives.

In fact, she was the reason we decided to go to Canada. Martin and I knew it was time to leave Korea, and as the end of our contracts approached, we looked at our next step, dog in tow. Returning to England, Martin's homeland, meant paying six months of her board for quarantine, which would cost us a fortune we didn't have. To bring an Asian dog into Canada, you need a rabies certificate and $35 for a vet check at Border Control. Basically, we decided to go to Canada for the winter, for Whisky.

First, we were going to travel, for nearly six months. Our trip would take us West, slowly but surely, and once we landed in Canada in September, the summer-months ban on flying pets would be ending and we would get her shipped to join us and start our new North American lives. The spring and summer were an incredible adventure, and we got regular updates on Whisky from our friends in Daejeon, who were generously fostering her. She was doing well, looking beautiful as ever, and I started to miss her terribly.

Landed in Canada, we began plan for her arrival. It was an incredibly stressful time, finding a company to pick her up and fly her. We finally arranged a flight to Toronto. We were so excited! We bought a giant bag of kibble and a giant box of milk bones; we decided where she would be able to roam in my parents' backyard, where she would sleep until we got our own place. Martin bought food bowls and prepared to construct a holder for them. We priced out floor mats since she'd apparently started to sleep on soft surfaces, finally. We searched for a used car that she'd fit in the back of, to drive up north where we had a job offer at a dog sledding company. We found possible houses to rent that allowed dogs. In short, we couldn't wait. Having Whisky would mean our lives were starting to take form again.

In early October, we'd had a bad week - our Korean bank account had been hacked while we were travelling, we were having trouble getting everything set up for our jobs and a sudden lack of independence was wearing our tempers thin. I was convinced Whisky's arrival would make things better - give us some perspective and a sense of accomplishment - remind us that we cared about more than our own experiences exploring the world. The bad week was not over, though. As we settled into our laptop to wire the money to the Pet Airline company, we opened an e-mail from the friend who was taking care of Whisky. A series of panicked e-mails, in fact.

She was gone. She'd run away during her last walk mere hours before the pick-up was scheduled to take her to the airport. We calculated the time difference - it was past the hour she was supposed to leave. They were looking everywhere, but there was no sign of her. We had other e-mails cancelling her flight since she'd been AWOL when the shipment came to pick her up. It was over. We would not be seeing her that weekend.

I contacted everyone I could in Korea; I put up notices online. It's a very strange feeling to have so little control over something that breaks your heart. We crossed our fingers and hoped she would be found.

It's been one week without Whisky, and there's been no news of her. I'm starting to lose hope.

Do I try to move on? Do I tell myself she's okay? Is it her Call of the Wild; is she better off on her own? Did we do the right thing curing her of all her disease - or was it all futile? Is this Fate, telling us it wasn't meant to be, Whisky leaving Korea? I was so sure it was the right thing. Maybe it was the right thing for me, but not for her.

For now, Whisky roams somewhere in the Land of the Morning Calm. Something tells me she'll never leave. I just wish I'd known I'd never see her again.

a letter for next door

Dear 1204,

You probably know, we have a dog. We got this dog with the understanding that she would not bark. She has never barked, or bitten anyone in this building, although tenants have complained about her size. We take very good care of our dog; she walks twice a day and never does her business anywhere in the building.

Your dog, on the other hand, has been yapping since it arrived at the beginning of January. It barks pointlessly at anyone in the halls, and endlessly at the walls of your empty business, where you leave it alone all night - one such wall, you share with us. Our dog has been good at ignoring it. We, on the contrary, have been losing sleep to your dog's yips. Both of us work early mornings and late evenings, and cannot afford to be stressed over your new pet.

Please try to be both a responsible pet owner and a good neighbour. You dog needs exercise and discipline.

Sincerely, 1203.

what kind of Whisky scares soldiers and construction workers? ...

...Our dog. While the question of machismo is up for debate when comparing the East to the West, it seems almost contradictory to have grown men in uniform, or wielding hammer drills, scream and jump away from a fluffy animal standing at knee height, on a lead, with her tongue hanging stupidly out of her mouth. This happens daily on our walks. Many Korean men in their twenties will throw their girlfriends between themselves and the dog as a shield, while the girl topples around on her eight-inch heels, startled and clinging to him. You may think this is an exaggeration, and you'd really have to see it to believe it. Trust me.

Daejeon City Shelter pictures

Our September 2010 visit to the Daejeon City Shelter, where we rescued Whisky in May.

It wasn't long after we started living together, in a small spilt-level apartment on the 13th floor of a Korean high-rise, that Martin and I decided we wanted a dog. It was May, many of our other foreign co-workers had taken in pups, and I had left a full-time contract as an English instructor for part-time substituting. Life was promising, and the barn-like dog shelter on the outskirts of the city was not. We went in knowing we'd probably fall in love - neither of us liked lap dogs, we didn't have the space for a hyper pet, but we had a name picked out - Whisky.

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We were pointed to the shelter by a pet rescue organization run by foreigners. The official volunteers are strict about who should adopt animals while living in Korea, since many of us only stay for the 12-month teaching contracts we are assigned. You are expected to ultimately emigrate with the animals, back to the West. I had already fostered a small dog and a cat during my first year in South Korea, and I knew that pet culture on this peninsula was not what we would call "responsible" in the West. Yes, dog meat can be found on obscure menus in this country, and I'm afraid some farms keep dogs as livestock rather than helpers, but it is not so common, in my experience. Koreans do love their pet dogs - that is, of course, if you consider inbred "toy" varieties of the canine species to be "dogs". (Yes, I'm pretty biased.)

I would have more respect for these pet owners if their pooches didn't fit so neatly into a very disturbing Korean trend - blatant and unabashed superficiality. The primping, high heels and micro-miniskirts, shiny tailored suits and over-styled coiffures, the vanity mirrors on every corner - all of this calls for a pet that is for show, and not for companionship. As you might have guessed, most dogs here wear outfits, or have their fluffy white fur dyed bright colours (orange ears and blue tail, anyone?) and cheeks blushed hot pink. They are lugged around in oversized rip-off designer bags, or pushed in baby carriages. When they are set down on the streets downtown, they are often off leash, running obsessive circles as their owners giggle and shriek.

Most of these pups are completely oblivious their their owners' squeaky pleads to sit or stay, because as an accessory, not much beyond the costume is invested into dog ownership. I've started to survey my elementary and middle-school students about dogs in their households. There aren't as many hands up as you would find in a typical North American classroom, but a good portion of kids have owned dogs in the past. This turned out to be key: when I asked what happened to the family dog, most of them would shrug. Did the dog die? No. He got older. One of three things happens then: the family moves apartments, which is common, and the new building doesn't allow pets; the dog gets too big; or the dog is no longer cute. The first is a problem we've all run into - it's true that living space is crowded here, and you should respect your landlord's rules anywhere. The second is ridiculous to me, since a larger dog is an obvious subsequence to owning a puppy. My employer once protested that she was shocked at how big her dog was getting, while she hadn't researched the breed at all, but simply picked the pup out of a pet store window one day. The third excuse is along the same lines - no wonder so many Koreans prefer the dogs that "always be cute-y puppy!" The real question is, what happens to the dogs once they've been expelled from the family?

Most of the students fall silent when I ask this; possibly because of my disapproving tone, possibly because they simply don't know.

The dog shelter told that story pretty clearly. The place screamed with the yaps of small dogs, bouncing in enclosures and cages, matted and soaked in urine. A dog-loving friend of mine, who had adopted her own small dog from such a shelter, told me the unwanted grown dogs are often just left behind in a move, or "set free" in the streets. Her university students admit this straight out - the fact is, it is not a shameful practice here. In fact, most Koreans I speak with don' t know about the shelter. (It's like the litter-free streets, despite an irritating lack of public trash cans.) Allegedly there was once a private no-kill place for strays, but these three solitary barns are now the only shelter left for unwanted pets, in a city of around 1.5 million.

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We took the subway, and then a bus, and then walked ten minutes towards the howling structure. The sound was deafening, the smell overwhelming, but the staff was very hard-working, and trusting of our unexpected visit. A truck arrived while we were there - the pound, we presume? - to deliver another handful of scraggly pets: two large dogs, a small frightened thing, and a cardboard box of mewing kittens. The workers didn't speak any English, so we couldn't ask much about the facility, but it seemed they were doing their best, and testing the dogs for canine flu and distemper. Quarantine rooms were off-limits to us, although we got glimpses inside the sad places. The newly-captured animals would be held for a couple of weeks in hopes of an owner's claim, given a number and profile on the webpage, then the case would be cleared for adoption, or euthanasia.

Passing the miniatures, we came to a few cages divided with chicken wire, where previously-white, shabby Shepard-looking dogs barked loudly, a sign in Korean hanging next to the eye- hook locks as warning. These were Jindos: the only purely-Korean breed, officially listed in this country as "National Treasure # 53" and, according to Wikipedia, "celebrated in its native land for its fierce loyalty and brave nature". Next to them, a husky pup flung itself at us, clotheslined by the end of its chain, wanting to play more than anything. Finally, lying next to an old forklift pallet, her food untouched, was my Whisky.

We didn't decide to take the dog then. The smaller dogs running loose were hesitant to approach her, and she didn't even look at me when I came close to her. I ventured to pet her, expecting a snarl or a flinch, but she did not react at all; in fact, she looked as far away from me as she could turn. She had no personality, but a wise and beautiful face, and thick grimy fur that was surely the colour of a well-blended Scotch. I decided to take her out for a walk, and she stood when I attached a leash to her grubby collar.

She was obviously disturbed by the small dogs, something we had in common already - their hyperactive squealing and beady, doll-like eyes added to the bitterness of knowing that they would be the first to find homes. Martin had taken another adorable medium-sized dog out on the grounds, which seemed to be a partially-operating farm, tractors half sunken in mud mid-field. Whisky had laboured breath and coughed slightly as she walked, with no energy. With tremendous relief, she did her business out in the sunshine, away from her echoing home. She seemed calm - too calm - and sad, refusing to walk back in the direction of the barn, a look of betrayal in her eyes as I coaxed her. We would later learn that she is, at least in part, Jindo. This breed is known for being naturally housebroken - and stubbornly aloof. We would also learn just how close to death's door this dog was.

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Over the next week, we researched her breeds (a mutt, surely) and translated her profile. We figured out she was four, and had been captured by the pound while wandering in an elementary-school neighbourhood. We filled out a 12-page form for the rescue organization, and choked at the eventual cost of quarantining her to get into the UK, where we plan to return someday. We asked the rescue organization to "reserve" her for us, but were nervous that the message wouldn't get through. We both knew she would be top of the list to be put down, being larger and listless.

Regardless, we bought food, treats, bowls and brushes, and arranged (begged) for a friend to drive us to the shelter in his van. Four of us headed out early the next Saturday to pick the dog up, trying not to jinx it with promises. She was still there, to my relief, and had an untouched chicken head lying beside her. A last-meal treat? In any case, she was uninterested, so the leash was attached once again. This time, she wouldn't be coming back.

I could tell right away that our friends were hesitant about her, so apathetic, what with all the boisterous dogs about. She wasn't adorable. They had picked out their favourites to walk, and we loitered on the grounds until I managed to find a worker, and got across that we were taking this dog, citing her number. He took a final swab from her cheek, pronounced her distemper-free, and took down Martin's information, handing over papers for the vet. I had to chase the worker down to present him with the fifty thousand won's donation the rescue organization had requested we give. He refused flat-out, and so I left the bills on the desk. The poor man, whom I believe was just volunteering as a cage-cleaner, chased me down in turn and made me take the money back. We were apparently doing enough by taking this animal off their hands.

Whisky needed to be lifted into the back of the van. I grew up with Retrievers; a dog, to me, runs and pants and fetches and swims. This dog stayed stone-faced and submissive, her eyes seeming old in the way eyes do when they've witnessed more pain than usual. We went straight to the vet, the clinic I'd used for my previous pets, where we knew one doctor spoke decent English. The rescue organization and shelter have a deal with this clinic that rescued pets get microchipped and registered for free, and receive discounted treatment for two months. The English-speaking vet was not there, but we had Whisky weighed and checked for the feared distemper again.

I began to feel the questions behind the assistants' eyes, the typical Korean sort: why this dog - this large, old, dirty, sickly thing? Yes, four years is much too old of a dog to take in, and where will these strange foreigners keep this huge animal, almost 20 kilos of her - in an apartment? How many pee-pads must they go through? See, Koreans seem to like their tiny pets to do their business indoors, since walks in the harsh sun or rain seem impossible - and besides, the little creatures will be carried as trophies much of the time outdoors. Foreigners have been lectured by locals for not picking up their mutts in elevators. These are things we won't be doing with Whisky. As much as we try to integrate here and respect the culture of our hostland, there are some social rules we will be willing to defy in this next expat adventure.

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It's strange to think Jindos are a National Treasure in the face of all this. "Korea is a country of double standards" - this pronouncement is not my own, but one given to me recently by a proud woman on an interview panel at a local university. She was speaking in terms of gender roles at work, in the brazen way one can when her culture has yet been carefully sheltered from sexual revolution. As shocking as this seems to a young Westerner, raised in that liberal-political-correctness that centuries of cultural clashes brought to North Americans like me, it is also refreshing to get straight to the point: there's no such thing as equality here. This country seems modern on the surface, with cutting-edge technology and scantily-clad pop stars at every turn, but the truth is, it is one of the most stubbornly-Confucian societies left standing. While we foreigners confront this daily (we are firmly at the bottom of the hierarchy at all times), it is interesting to apply this double-standard idea to something as specific as dog ownership. Koreans want so desperately to "catch up" to the West, and somehow, what has filtered through to their superficial lifestyle as such, is only this Beverly Hills image of tiny, totable forever-puppies.

Left behind in the dust is the beautiful and unique Jindo, which both parallels the ancient Korean bloodlines, and adapts well to apartment living. Why have these dogs been rejected so bitterly in recent years? Would they not tie well into that coveted all-American family image? What I've seen of them has been calm and intelligent behaviour, especially tolerant of the erratic tugs of small children. Yes, we walk Whisky two or three times a day, but at home alone, she has never wre aked havoc, or even paced in boredom. She is amazingly good with people, even complete strangers, especially considering that she has four years of mystery behind her, which could have been filled with any form of abuse.

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Whisky does not seem abused, but she has been thoroughly neglected. Martin ends up carrying her over his shoulder the ten blocks between the veterinary clinic and our building, when she refuses to walk any more on our first trip home. No joy registered in her demeanor, no matter what we offered her. She did eat willingly - a habit learned quickly on the streets? - but that cough and wheeze I noticed on our first walk at the shelter continued. It worsened at night, culminating in violent hacking, then subsiding into sneezes and wheezes once again. Martin slept through it, but three days in we decided to go back to the vet, for a full check-up.

When we finally got to see the English-speaking vet, I wondered if he recognized me. The girl who rescued that kitten, that tiny unweaned animal, that she brought back on a train from Busan, curled into the corner of a cardboard cake box. Can Koreans tell us apart? Foreigners are a fairly new phenomenon in this city. Do they think we're naïve for wanting to take care of these rejects, for funneling our teachers' salaries into vet bills? Do they know where we're coming from, or can they just sense the disgust we feel over animal treatment here? In any case, there's a reason the rescue organization and shelter both recommend this vet - he sincerely loves animals. It seems like an obvious precursor to pursuing this profession, but many people I speak with get the distinct impression that veterinary medicine is a "plan b." to human medicine here, a career settled upon begrudgingly when things don't pan out for doctorhood.

Why are certain pets not only treated flippantly by their owners so often here, but sometimes outright resented by the society at large? The answer came to me when I travelled with a friend through Southeast Asia, a region disdainfully regarded as "dirty" and "poor" by Koreans (again, by a wide survey of my students). Said friend pointed out that the mangy, flea-ridden mutts that trotted through the streets in these colourful countries were mascots for an Asia Korea was still trying to set itself apart from. In some places, old superstitions hold that dogs are bad luck; in others, dogs are used for protection. Maybe the fancied lap dogs are simply a sign of wealth to Koreans, of a pet taken in because it's cute, and not as a symptom of a negative part of their world.

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Regardless, Whisky had become a part of our lives, and our home. The fate was sealed when we agreed to treat her for a bad lung infection, brought on by an even worse case of heartworm. Neglected for a year at least, she was well on her way out when we picked her out of that shelter. The vet wanted to know if we even wanted to go forward with the treatment, since it would be pricey and lengthy. We didn't flinch - another Western absurdity? - and asked for all the tests, handing over our bank cards for never-ending strips of waxed-paper pouches filled with colourful pills. We were secure in knowing this would all cost ten times more back West. I had the time to bring her in weekly, sometimes having to flag a few cabs before one would take us when Whisky was too weak to walk. We crushed pills into her food until the cough went away, then had the vet inject her with painful shots of something arsenic-based to kill the heartworms. Did she know it was all for the best? Was her life already better with us? Never mind; broken English explanations, very modern medicine, much internet research - our lives were revolving around this dog at this point.

We found ourselves getting defensive of Whisky, myself in particular. It would enrage me when grown women and men would squeal upon seeing her and hide against walls. Although she didn't look it, she was very sick, and the look it her eyes was undeniably pitiful - how could it ever be mistaken for aggression? She walked with a lowered head, barely acknowledging anyone, and certainly never snarling, even when kicked out of the way. Some residents of our building refused to get in the elevator with us, gasping when they saw her sitting calmly in the corner. I considered picking her up, but then remembered how freaked out people seemed when I got fed up with her ridiculous fear of drainage grating and would lift her over the offending pieces of sidewalk. Seriously, people? She's only 20 kilos; I can handle her, even if I am a girl. I tried to master an insulting laugh to show them how ridiculous they were being about this poor helpless animal, but often would resort to scoffing and telling them so to their faces, which they most likely never understood. My poor Korean vocabulary probably saved me some trouble then.

The overprotectiveness came in handy when the apartment authorities finally kicked up a fuss. Granted, we had asked Martin's employer (and our de facto landlord) if we could get a dog, and had been told we could do so only if we had her bark surgically removed. Thankfully, Whisky had never made a sound, so we thought we were in the clear. Then one day, Martin and I were coming out of the elevator to the lobby, when the security guard, in uniform, and a man in a suit (building manager?) were waiting for us. Had they been there all morning? Had there been a scramble to assemble at the door when we were spotted in the security cameras coming down? Regardless, there they were, stopping us.
"Live here?"
"Yes."
"Number." Phone or apartment? We give all our information.
"No. No dog. Not here." He points up.
"Well, we're keeping her," Martin stated. It was a fact, not a possibility. I batted my eyelashes up at my dreamy boyfriend, being all tough.
There was a possibility we could be kicked out of the building, since we didn't really know the rules. The lease through Martin's employer was an oral agreement, as you do in Korea. We'd decided we would move if it came to that, but we were pretty confident it would be more of a hassle for them, since they would have to deal with the apartment owners as a middle man. We also knew a fellow employee and three Korean residents of the building who owned dogs there. Whisky doesn't bark - doesn't make a sound! - or bite, she doesn't scratch or stink up the apartment - she doesn't even tear apart our open trash can, full of food scraps! The problem was obvious. Whisky was big, and some people weren't used to that.

The men shifted uncomfortably, and we wedged our way out of the conversation, and the front door, in turn. I've learned a bit (all by trial and error, to be sure) about Korean business and social standing in my time here. They like consensus, and to beat around the bush if it gets awkward. (They would take well to filibusters.) Meetings can go on for hours for this reason. Usually, those in lower social standing will have to concede to their higher ranks. There is no creative solution or original thought expected from the lower ranks; they are there to climb ladders . This clashes remarkably with the ideals of the hoards of Western teachers Koreans have hired to teach their children. Often, if we have an idea we think is good, we push it, stubbornly. We come to Asia with a (perhaps unjustly-earned) superiority complex, and are thrown in to the lowest rank of all: foreigner. The funny thing is, when we don't accept this, they really don't know what to do.

Martin and I have a cause now; we're mad, we think it's unfair, and we're not going to let it control our lives. The dog stays.

Sure enough, Martin got a call from his boss (a dog owner himself) shortly thereafter. The landlords had received complaints. No, nothing specific. Six? Probably that overly-made-up witch on seven, the boyfriend who had to deal with the adult temper tantrum in the lobby, and the neighbours who like to gaze in through our open door as they pass, only to gasp at the giant beast lounging in the middle of our floor. Who else? The security guards talk to her in the elevator. (Maybe about all the complaints they're having to field?) The man who owns the convenience store in the lobby routinely leaves his till when he sees us walking her to say hi, give her a good ear rub and whisper advice in her ear, if not feed her whole dried squids. The workers outside stop construction dead to put down their tools and ask if she's a Jindo, then what sex, how old, etc. etc. In fact, it seems like an older generation do regard her as a National Treasure. They are proud to tell us she is a Korean dog and very intelligent (debatable), and they like to note that we are foreigners who have taken her in.

Martin tells his boss as much. Without any solid charges against us, we have no reason to get rid of her. He tells him how sick she is, how much money we're pouring into her treatment, and basically, to take these anonymous complaints and chew on them. I'm not much for confrontation, but this felt like winning.

The building men appeared again when Martin took Whisky out a week later. They asked to walk her, Martin obliged, and after a block, they brought her back. Things are constantly being said in Korean, and often we don't know if it's to each other, to the dog, or to us. In any case, it is falling on deaf ears most of the time, and Martin's reaction is to nod and agree dumbly with a huge sarcastic smile across his face. Still, each incident makes us nervous, but also braces us for battle. Is this what it's like to be in the minority? Always fighting for your right, whatever you perceive that to be? Are we starting a revolution here, or being obnoxious?

-

Going to the vet became a happy errand, because Whisky was getting healthier by the day. The apprentices began to exclaim her name when we entered the waiting room (I'm sure our outrageous patronage at the clinic had provided them with many unusual educational opportunities), and the vet expressed a few times how well she was doing. "Did you just wash her? Her coat is beautiful and shiny." Martin and I became quite proud to be such acclaimed owners there. Martin was particularly puffed up to learn that the vet had described him to the rescue organization as "a handsome man".

Finally, Whisky was healthy enough for the anesthesia she would have to undergo to be spayed. Apparently it is common in Korea to neuter male dogs and leave females intact, since the full operation is extensive and expensive. This seems to leave too much to chance in my opinion, and the vet agreed to operate while we still received the shelter discount at the clinic. We've also heard that it is common to snip off the ends off a female's ears if she is spayed, to identify her as barren. Another double standard?

Upon my return to the clinic, I was relieved to see her sweet fox-like ears poking out of the cone of her Elizabethan collar, which she wore in a sulk, and pushed firmly against the wall of the vet's office when I came to pick her up. The vet turned the monitor of his computer around, which assaulted my unsuspecting eyes with pictures of my dog open on the table. I'd had similar experiences in Korea with doctors and dentists who like to show you high-definition videos of your infected ear canal and before-and-after shots of plaque on your teeth.

What he wanted me to see was that Whisky had a very large tumour on her ovary, which they were able to remove, but which had a slight chance of being malignant. Yet another problem, yet another cost. I handed over my card for swiping; the desk girl giggled at my dramatic sigh over the cost, and once we were out on the sidewalk, hit with the gloomy humidity of the summer afternoon, Whisky vomited all over her cone.

-

It took a little soul-searching to decide what we would do if Whisky had cancer. There's no point in turning back now? There's a limit to what we can spend? At least we gave her a good last stint? How long will she be around, anyway?

No need for worry; the biopsy was negative and so were her final heartworm tests. It feels like we're finally out of the woods, and yet still ready to fight the good fight. Whisky now loves other animals - in that she wants very much to hunt them down. We've been working hard to train her. Will I, alone, be able to convince these high-heeled urbanites to leash their hyper yap machines, lest Whisky eat one for breakfast? Has Martin inspired an apartment building rebellion by confirming to a new resident that dogs are allowed? The new tenant was confused, yet delighted, to see Whisky waiting patiently for the elevator to arrive. I guess there's hope.