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, w
e 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?
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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.
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It took a little so
ul-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.
