|A poster hanging at Lance and Ryan's school in China.|
My hostel boss, Simon, kept encouraging me to try dog meat. "You don't understand us," he said, and he was beginning to become more passionate as he spoke. "We don't eat pet dogs, just the wild yellow dogs."
"Yeah, because in Chinese medicine eating dog helps bring people balance. That's what I do, I like to help bring people balance."
And I probably should have walked away a long time ago when I first peaked my head around the corner and saw the squatter toilet, but Simon seamed genuine. I mean, you could tell by his passion for dog meat.
"Besides," he continued, "we only eat it in the winter."
"Dog meat helps keep us warm."
I only went to Yangshuo to see the mountains, and as I was, I noticed there were a surprising number of dogs running around. I even saw some people, not sure if local or tourist, with pets, like a big hairy sheep dog looking woofer. I thought it was bold bringing a dog into this K9 thirsty province, and in winter no less, it's like bringing Evan Kinne down the hooker street in Wan Chai (Asian's dig his build, but then again, who doesn't?).
I saw a lot of yellow dogs as I was biking through the countryside. All of them carried a healthy weight on their bones, none were skinny like most third world dogs. I thought about catching one and bringing it back to Simon as a gift. But none of them seemed that wild. I think, actually, they were somebody's pet, fed and fattened for a nice sell at the night market.
See, I rationalize things too. I call them wild, pagan, mysterious, Vietnamese or whatever, and hunt them down and make compromises.