Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

into the middle of the street and ran up to the Jeep, leaving me in the rain, a predator without his prey. The water, which was up to my belly, slowed me down, but I pushed myself to go after the other man, who was climbing into the car. Since his raincoat protected his rear end, I sank my teeth into his calf. He screeched as he shut the door, catching the hem of his raincoat; my nose banged into the shut door. Meanwhile, the first man jumped in on the other side and the Jeep lurched forward, spraying water behind it. I took out after it, but was stopped by all the filthy water splashing in my face.
    When I made it back through the dirty water, I saw your wife with her head under your left armpit, your left arm draped loosely over her chest like an old gourd. Her right arm was around your waist, and your head was leaning against hers. She struggled to move you forward. You were wobbly, but you could still move, which not only told her you were alive but that your mind was relatively clear.
    After helping her close the gate I walked around the yard to get my emotions under control. Your son came running outside dressed only in his underwear. “Papa!” he shouted, starting to sob. He ran up to your other side to help your mother support you, and the three of you walked the remaining thirty or so paces from the yard to your wife’s bed. The tortuous trek seemed to take an eternity.
    I forgot that I was a mud-streaked dog and felt that my fate was tied up with yours. I followed behind you, whining sadly, all the way up to your wife’s bed. You were covered with mud and blood and your clothes were ripped; you looked like a man who’d been whipped. The smell of urine in your pants was strong; obviously you’d peed your pants when they were beating you. Even though your wife valued cleanliness above almost everything, she didn’t hesitate to lay you down on her bed, a sign of affection.
    Not only didn’t she care how dirty you were when she laid you down on the bed, she even let me, dirty as I was, stay in the room with you. Your son knelt by the bed, crying.
    “What happened, Papa? Who did this to you?”
    You opened your eyes, reached out, and rubbed his head. There were tears in your eyes.
    Your wife brought in a basin of hot water and laid it on the bedside table. My nose told me she’d added some salt. After tossing a towel into the water, she began taking off your clothes. You fought to sit up. “No,” you sputtered, but she pushed your arms back, knelt beside the bed, and unbuttoned your shirt. It was obvious you didn’t want your wife’s help, but you were too weak to resist. Your son helped her take off your shirt, and so you lay there, naked from the waist up, on your wife’s bed as she wiped your body down with the salty water, some of her tears, also salty, dripping onto your chest. Your son’s eyes were wet, and so were yours, tears slipping out and down the sides of your face.
    Your wife didn’t ask a single question during all this time, and you didn’t say a word to her. But every few minutes, your son asked you:
    “Who did this to you, Papa? I’ll go avenge you!” You did not answer, and your wife said nothing, as if by secret agreement. Seeing no alternative, your son turned to me.
    “Who beat my father, Little Four? Take me to find them so I can avenge him!”
    I barked softly, apologetically, since the typhoon winds had scattered the smells.
    With the help of your son, your wife managed to get you into dry clothes, a pair of white silk pajamas, very loose and very comfortable; but the contrast made your face appear darker, the birthmark bluer. After tossing your dirty clothes into the basin and mopping the floor dry, she said to your son:
    “Go to bed, Kaifang, it’ll soon be light outside. You have school tomorrow.”
    She picked up the basin, took your son’s hand, and left the room. I followed.
    After washing the dirty clothes, she went over to the east-side room, where she turned on the light and sat on the stool, her back to the chopping board; with her hands on her knees, she rested her head on her hands and stared straight ahead, apparently absorbed in her thoughts.
    She was in the light, I was in the dark, so I saw her face clearly, her purple lips and glassy eyes. What was she thinking? No way I could know. But she sat there until dawn broke.
    It was time to cook breakfast. It looked to me like she was making noodles. Yes, that’s what she was doing. The smell of flour