Remembering Xiaohei, the Capricorn dog of Taipei [Part 2]

I have never kept a pet.

When I was little, I lived in the old community of the Tong’an people — 44 Kan in Dalongdong. Apart from temples, the area was mostly farms. 

Farmers mostly kept dogs instead of cats.

Dogs watch the house, bark at strangers and protect the house. They eat leftover food scraps from their owners and get thrown into the river when they grow old and die, their bodies carried away by the current. Or, they could wash ashore on the riverbanks and be left to decompose, inviting insects and crabs to feed on them. Before long, all that’s left of them would be clean, white bones. Seeing these bones, you wouldn’t think of them as “pets”.

Nowadays, “pets” aren’t supposed to have utilitarian value or practical use. They are purely for pampering and showering with affection, although “showering with affection” is also a very practical need.

I have witnessed the meticulous care given to pets throughout their lifetime, from veterinary care to funeral rites, treated with the same prudence as family members. Some of my students often go tomb sweeping during the Qingming Festival. Initially, I thought they were paying respects to their parents; I later realised they were mostly visiting their “pets”.   

Owners now cater to their pets, often referring to themselves as “cat slaves”.

In late 2010, I stumbled upon Xiaohei. At first, there was another one with a brown V-shaped mark on its chest, which I named Xiongxiong (熊熊, lit. “bear bear”).

Xiongxiong quickly disappeared. I would hold food and call out “Xiaohei” and “Xiongxiong” along the riverbank where they dwelled. Only Xiaohei came out wagging its tail, lowering its head to finish the food, then disappearing back into the bushes.  

There were many stray dogs along the riverbank. Although it is now called “New Taipei City”, the periphery surrounding the vibrant city core still has an air of neglect, much like a discarded shell. The city’s unwanted trash, along with abandoned pets, is still routinely dumped downstream.

Dogcatchers often patrol this area with their eyes peeled, causing stray dogs to scatter and flee. Those caught are often abandoned pets. Having known love, most of them lose their survival instincts and their sensitivity.

Stray dogs that grew up by the river, constantly vigilant and attuned to their surroundings, develop heightened survival instincts and are more adept at evading danger.

Could Xiaohei be one of these animals?

It appeared very healthy and lacked the sorrowful eyes typical of abandoned pets. Its tail wagged, but without any hint of pleading.

We interacted for about two to three months. Each morning, during my rehabilitation walks, I would bring food to feed Xiaohei.

As soon as I called out “Xiaohei”, it would emerge from the bushes. After finishing its food, it would sit by my side for a bit. I would continue walking and it would follow me for a while. Sometimes we would walk to the ferry wharf and sit by the Laorong Bunker (老榕碉堡), where I’d watch the river ebb and flow; it would also quietly watch the river.

Does this make Xiaohei my “pet”?

Sometimes, I think so. I would feel the urge to prepare the food it might enjoy and worried about who would care for it, as I repeatedly postponed my trips abroad.

But this “pet” was unique — it walked with me, sat by me, watched the river with me, yet never let me touch it.

I tried a few times, but once I reached out, it always flinched.

A “pet” is supposed to be something I can hold in my arms, cuddle and show affection to, right?

So, I always suspected that Xiaohei didn’t want to be my pet.

Or was it due to its solitary and independent nature as a Capricorn?

Having been born between Christmas and the New Year, it is quite independent like a Capricorn.

It grew up into a beautiful dog; muscular and strong, with a sleek black coat and a handsome forehead and nose bridge, it stood out among the many stray dogs.

Stray dogs often roam in packs. I suppose it is the herd instinct of animals, huddling together for safety, much like human factions (党派, dangpai). 

The Chinese character dang (党, political party, clique, faction) is very unique. Chinese idioms formed with this character often expose the purpose of factional gatherings, such as jie dang ying si (结党营私, to gang up for personal interest) and dang tong fa yi (党同伐异, to support those in one’s own group and attack those who are different).

An innocent Chinese character eventually became imbued with negative connotations, such as hu qun gou dang (狐群狗党, a gang of scoundrels). Of all the vocabulary comprising the character dang, I only like the one from the 1980s: dang wai (党外, outside the party; political opposition).

Stray dogs by the riverside also form their own groups and have their own territories. When Xiaohei walked alongside me, dogs from other territories would also attack it, baring their teeth and barking at it. 

I observed Xiaohei to see if it gets scared or intimidated when alone with me. 

Xiaohei seemed fine. Most surprisingly, it almost never barks randomly. Xiaohei is calm and quiet, observing the surrounding noises and provocations without retaliating or cowering. 

Some people add the “dog” radical (犭) to someone’s name to insult them. Apart from taunting them, it is utterly meaningless. 

After all, most provocative dogs are just using their barks to make themselves seem bigger and more intimidating.

The less confident they are, the more arrogant and fierce their barking sometimes becomes.

Xiaohei walked with me, determined and concentrated, completely focused on treading its own path. It did not even show contempt for the provocations.

Before long, I realised that I wasn’t the only one feeding Xiaohei.

Once, I encountered a woman wearing a bandana and windbreaker, who pulled out some food from her pockets to feed Xiaohei. She suddenly noticed me and seemed embarrassed, as there’s probably a sign by the river warning people not to feed stray dogs. She relaxed after realising that I was also there to feed the dogs and flashed a smile, saying to my Xiaohei, “Bye, Meimei (美眉, cutie or sweetie)!”

I immediately realised that my Xiaohei was another person’s “Meimei”.

I also realised at that moment that Xiaohei was in fact a “Meimei” (used to refer to females). 

I was glad that someone else was sharing the load of caring for Xiaohei. The pressure I’d put on myself as a “single parent” eased. I flew to Chiang Mai the next day and meditated for a week at Wat Umong.

I meditated and read the scriptures, feeling a little happy that my Xiaohei was someone else’s “Meimei”. The things around us — even if we name them — may seem to belong to us, but aren’t really ours. 

“There does not exist… the idea of self… the idea of a being, the idea of a living being…”* I read the scriptures every day, and yet my understanding of them is so superficial. 

Being away from Xiaohei for a few days and liberating myself from missing her brought a sense of relief. 

I could not wait to return to the riverbank. I brought food and called out “Xiaohei” towards the bushes, worried that it would not appear again. 

I hesitated for a moment, and tried calling another name, “Meimei”. 

Xiaohei emerged from the bushes, looking a little elated, its tail wagging more noticeably than before. 

While it was eating, I said to it, “Sorry, do you like to be called ‘Meimei’ instead?”

I was unsure and reached out my hand to touch its head. It still nimbly dodged.

I took a closer look and it is indeed not male. I have never been particularly sensitive to gender. In the eastern part of the island, I often see short-haired “handsome guys” in plaid shirts and jeans, looking dashing and spirited and riding motorcycles with a beautiful girl on the back.

My perception of them as “handsome guys” was superficial; they were actually “handsome girls”.

So, should I now call my handsome and sleek Xiaohei “Heiniu (黑妞, lit. “black girl”)” instead?

“I will just stick to ‘Xiaohei’,” I said, not wanting to overthink it.

Xiaohei gradually grew up. By February, the Chinaberry trees by the river were already sprouting tender green leaves. Before long, clusters of small pinkish purple flowers bloomed. Spring arrived and Xiaohei rolled in the grass, sturdy and muscular, reminding me of the healthy, radiant, and beautiful young women from the eastern tribes.

I once ventured past the grass and found a steep, foliage-hidden slope. Below, a rough retaining wall of piled rocks offered crevices and hollows, and it was in one of these hidden spaces that Xiaohei was born and made his home. Like Capricorn Jesus born in a manger, Xiaohei lived in that hidden cave for over two months.

The slope was close to the river mouth, with the water surging during high tide. Even inside the cave, Xiaohei needed extraordinary courage to remain calm and fearless amid the turbulent waves.  

But Xiaohei had clearly grown and the cave was likely unable to accommodate it. 

Across from Xiaohei’s riverbank home stood a large stone carving factory. For centuries, quarrying Guanyin stone from the slopes of Mount Guanyin along the Tamsui River’s Bali coastline, to create tombstones and repair cemeteries, was a unique local industry. 

However, with dwindling stone resources and less demand for cemetery upkeep in the 21st century, most workshops now import carvings from Quanzhou in mainland China, offering everything from garden ornaments like dragon pillars and stone pagodas to statues of Venus, Cupid, Guanyin and Kṣitigarbha.

For a period, when coastal security was lax, it was common to see boxes of smuggled stone carvings abandoned by the roadside, possibly discarded by smugglers fleeing the coast guards.

After growing up, Xiaohei left the cave at the slope and moved to this factory.

In the day, there were workers at the factory, but it was empty after work. Xiaohei and a few stray dogs lived here.

There were often leftover lunches from the workers. I would also run into the lady who calls Xiaohei “Meimei”. We exchanged smiles, knowing in our hearts that we were each keeping a secret that the other knew.

Actually, I was once conflicted — I know that feeding stray dogs but not neutering them will lead to even more problems.

But Xiaohei never allowed me to touch her. It would be difficult to forcibly take her to be neutered.

I may have also privately held some (possibly) incorrect mindsets. I dislike treating animals as “pets” and keeping them confined in small apartments. I dislike taking them to be neutered and handling them from the perspective of human convenience.

Indeed, these may be “incorrect” mindsets — Zhuangzi was one of the earliest philosophers who advocated against viewing plants and animals from a human perspective.

He spoke of plants as “great trees” and reminded humanity not to see them as “beams” and “pillars” to be felled for their own benefit. His discussions of the “joy of fish” and the “horses’ hooves” repeatedly remind us that animals have their own nature and that we should not distort other species for our own selfish gain.

Watching Xiaohei grow up day by day, healthy, at ease and developing well, rid of the anxieties and restlessness of city dwellers, without worry or a scheming heart, simply staying bright and cheerful, I still wondered: should we force her to get neutered?

After the Chinaberry trees, the Chinese fringetrees bloomed as well, followed by the orangey red flowers of the cotton trees and the bright red blossoms of the Erythrina orientalis trees. The grass was covered with tiny white flowers of the Chinese Elder, alongside the blossoming narrow-leaved paperbark trees and Natal plums.

By the riverbank, from early spring to summer, I watched Xiaohei grow — what a nostalgic sight!

Xiaohei accompanied me on my walks as usual, sitting by my side and watching the river together with me. I no longer tried to touch it or had the desire to embrace her affectionately in my arms. Such interaction, this close yet distant relationship, reminds me of the two fish that Zhuangzi admired, who “forgot about each other and swam separately towards the rivers and lakes”. Their indifference towards each other seems cold and lonely, but it is still better than being caught on a fishhook, mouths gaping and gills heaving, desperately wetting each other with their saliva to stay alive. Zhuangzi felt deep compassion for such “benevolence” on the brink of death, asking, “Why not just forget about each other in the rivers and lakes?”

I also looked at Xiaohei — she is so strong and healthy, much like the many “Ts” (tomboys) I know, handsome, independent and responsible. Once, I even entertained the fanciful thought that perhaps Xiaohei really didn’t like being “Heiniu” (a girl). Her companions included a three-legged dog and an elderly dog, but no sexually aggressive males. “Alright,” I said to her privately in my heart, “Be happy being yourself… Same-sex marriage will soon be legal, yay!” 

It didn’t know what nonsense I was spouting. She glanced at me, staying calm and quiet, less biased and emotional than many people. 

Mankind’s self-righteousness often leads to unnecessary speculation, as they inevitably fall prey to the delusion that the world revolves around their own fantasies.

“Transcend illusion to reach highest Nirvana.”**

The phrases we often recite are often precisely the ones we fail to live up to. I, too, fell into the trap of my own arrogance, assuming that Xiaohei would conform to my fantasies.

I walked past the stone carving factory, calling out “Xiaohei, Xiaohei…” towards a scattered array of statues of Venus, Kṣitigarbha and Guanyin. 

Xiaohei did not appear.

Where would it have gone? It was already September, and yellow flowers covered the Taiwanese rain trees. In about a month, the flowers would fall and the riverbank would be dotted with the tree’s reddish brown seed pods in autumn.

I walked to the riverside and it was low tide, revealing a large expanse of tidal flats. In the distance, I saw Xiaohei running; its sturdy physique resembled a strong, well-fed black horse. Because of the distance, Xiaohei was but a tiny black dot, and she was followed by an army of stray dogs, some indeed old, some with collars around their necks, some limping, and some mangy. It was a long line of dogs and I was still lost in my own fantasy, watching this procession running wildly across the tide-exposed riverbank at the turn of summer and autumn. “What is happening?” But I immediately understood: Xiaohei was in heat…

On the riverbank exposed at low tide, a long procession chased and mated, propagating their own species. From afar, it looked magnificent and somewhat heart-wrenching. Xiaohei, strong and swift, raced ahead, leaving behind a panting pack of pursuers — limping, mangy, thin and old. Her heat had brought a surge of restless energy to the desolate riverbank.

I walked away silently, feeling it best not to intrude on such private matters.

A few days later, I walked along the river as usual, and saw the authorities culling and removing the African sacred ibis. It was said that this bird species, due to its large size, had encroached on the native heron population, prompting human intervention in the ecosystem. 

I continued to call out for Xiaohei at the stone carving factory, and she crawled out from beneath the statue of Kṣitigarbha. I gave her some food, and she finished it readily and accompanied me on my walk as before.

I asked a friend about the signs of pregnancy in female dogs, and secretly observed Xiaohei, but couldn’t find anything. Xiaohei walked with me as usual and nothing was amiss.

A month later, Xiaohei’s body became a little swollen and her eyes were depressed.

A plump woman from the neighbourhood often walked her dog along the same path. Her brown poodle, also quite plump, was usually carried but this time was placed on the ground. Unaccustomed to walking, the poodle hesitated. The woman stomped her feet behind it, urging, “Walk, baby, walk. The doctor said you need to exercise.”

When we walked past them, the poodle barked furiously at Xiaohei. Usually extremely dignified, Xiaohei suddenly went wild, turning around and quickly pouncing on the poodle.

The poodle and the plump woman screamed in terror at the same time. The woman glared at me, “Your dog…”

Xiaohei let go of the poodle, left me, and simply departed.

I shrugged, unsure if I should reply “yes” or “no”.

I could still hear the plump lady’s pettish voice in the distance, “Mongrel...”

A month later, the Taiwanese rain trees were ablaze with colour and the Chinaberry trees bore golden berries, marking the transition from autumn to winter.

I knew that Xiaohei was pregnant. Her belly was swollen and she looked at me with a strange expression. I said with a laugh, “You did nothing wrong.”

But I was really a little nervous. How do I care for Xiaohei when she gives birth? I was completely clueless. Just as I was about to ask my friends for advice, I saw Xiaohei standing in the corner of the stone carving factory one morning, with eight puppies standing and sucking milk from her.

Xiaohei saw me and was perhaps famished, dashing over for food. Two or three puppies still clung to her nipples.

The scene was somewhat hilarious, but I dared not laugh. I reminded myself that Xiaohei had changed from a handsome young lady into a mother, nurturing and protecting her eight puppies.

Sensing the hardship of feeding eight children, I occasionally brought a large bag of duck necks provided by friends from Taipei restaurants. Xiaohei devoured them, while her puppies continued to suckle from her nipples in various positions, not letting up as well.  

The little puppies gradually grew up. One day, I saw Xiaohei jumping into the river and circling it, coming ashore with a fish in her mouth. She placed the fish in front of her puppies, watching them eat, without taking a single bite herself.

I guess all of my love or worries for Xiaohei were unnecessary troubles I created for myself. She had her own way of surviving in this world, as if she had come to liberate me from my attachments.

One day, Xiaohei disappeared along with her puppies. The stone carving factory was cleaned up thoroughly.

I should have known that it was just a matter of time before Xiaohei disappeared, just like I understood that no embrace lasts forever, although I never hugged Xiaohei. 

I looked at the statue of Diting next to Kṣitigarbha, the stone sculpture cold and silent.

I missed Xiaohei dearly, not knowing where she went. For a long time after that, each time I walked past that stretch of riverbank, I still called out “Xiaohei” or “Meimei” in my heart.

Whenever I think of Capricorns, the first one that comes to mind is not myself, but Xiaohei.

This article was first published in Chinese on United Daily News as “懷念，摩羯小黑（下）”.

*Translated by Max Muller from Sanskrit to English at vincentpoon.com

**Translated by David K. Jordan, Professor Emeritus of Anthropology, UCSD

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