I checked the bathroom and found a small lake of dog pee on the floor. Poor thing. I apologized profusely, and as soon as I’d cleaned up, I took her downstairs to her preferred toilet stop in the bushes near the entrance.
The only thing Gobi didn’t like was being left alone in the flat. I tried to leave her as little as possible, but there were times when I had no other choice. If I needed to go to the gym to run on the treadmill, or if we were out of food and I needed to go to the supermarket, she had to stay back. Almost every time we did go out together, we would be spotted at least once or twice and asked for a photo. Gobi’s story had been a huge hit all over China, and leaving her tied up outside a supermarket or Starbucks while I went inside wasn’t a risk I was prepared to take.
But leaving her was hard. I’d try to slip out the door as quickly as I could, often having to gently block her from following me. I’d always check and double-check that the door was locked, and as I walked away, I could hear her making the same noise that she did at the river crossing. That pained, high-pitched whimpering sound cut through me every time.
As tough as it was to leave her, whenever I returned, she was just as overjoyed as she had been at the Ma family house the night we were reunited. She’d spin and sprint and yelp with pure adrenaline-rush excitement. Eventually she’d calm down enough for me to pick her up, and a deep sense of calm would fall over her, again just like at the river crossing. It’s still the same today; whenever Gobi is in my arms, I’m convinced that she doesn’t have a care in the world.
To be trusted so much by a living creature is a powerful thing, especially when you know it could choose to leave at any time. But Gobi never showed any signs of wanting to be anywhere other than right by my side.
Every morning I’d wake up and find her staring at me, her head so close to mine that I could feel her breath on my cheek. Most days, if I didn’t start playing with her soon enough, she’d start licking my face. That was one sign of doggie affection that I didn’t find quite so cute back in the early days, and it got me straight out of bed.
We’d get downstairs quickly so she could do her business, but it was always obvious to me that what Gobi wanted more than anything was to get back up to the flat and settle down for a good cuddle.
For me to be on the receiving end of that kind of love and devotion is a special thing. To be able to care for her, to be able to give her the kind of attention and affection she needs, touches something deep down in my heart.
Love. Devotion. Attention. Affection. In many ways I feel they all disappeared from my life when I hit ten. A whole decade would pass before I met Lucja and felt all that good stuff begin to flood back into my life.
What Gobi introduced to my life was the chance for me to treat someone young and vulnerable in the way I wanted to be treated when my life was shaken out of control. Gobi needed me. Even though I’m still not sure I can adequately put words to the feelings, I know that rescuing her has healed wounds I didn’t know were within me.
Not that it was perfect. The TV, for example, was terrible.
I expected there to be at least a basic range of channels. Maybe a little BBC or some Fox News from time to time. No chance. All I could get were two channels: a Chinese news service that looped an hour-long summary of the previous day’s events and a movie channel with the occasional Hollywood offering presented with Chinese subtitles. I got my hopes up when I discovered this second one, but it turned out that most of your favourite B-list movie stars have an awfully long catalogue of films that are so bad they’ve never made it to our Western screens. I watched some truly terrible movies in those early days. I eventually got bored and gave up trying. I was fed up with nothing to do.
The Internet was a problem too. It took me a week to work out how to get around the extensive filters the Chinese authorities put on the web, but my hack made streaming any video content almost impossible.
Gobi and I tried to spend more time outside. The mile-long footpath along the canal was always a good place to walk, especially when the construction workers were on their breaks. They ignored us as they gathered around the food vendors on the street, who had a great trade going among them. Gobi and I soon learned that the best stalls of all were the ones serving jianbing—what I called a Beijing burrito. Think of a thin crepe with an egg cooked inside it and a load of crushed, crispy fried wonton, delicious spices, and chilli. Gobi and I couldn’t get enough of those.
We had got thrown out of almost all of the coffee shops we tried, but, thankfully, we found a Starbucks that was happy to break the rules and let us sit outside. Best of all was a little independent café where the staff not only allowed us inside but even ignored me when I put Gobi on the seat and fed her a bit of my pastry.
For a city that doesn’t allow dogs in taxis or buses, and has only recently passed a law allowing guide dogs to travel on subways, this was a major success. We made sure we supported them well throughout our stay.
As fun as it was to learn about this new life together, one thing continually worried me—Gobi’s damaged hip. She did her best to hide it and had learned how to skip along without putting too much weight on it. But if I ever picked her up the wrong way or tried to hold her on my left side instead of my right, she’d let out a little cry of pain.
In addition, the injury on her head hadn’t healed as well as Kiki or I had hoped.
So after a week in the flat, I broke the bad news to Gobi.
“No café for you and me today, little one. We’re going to see the vet.”
22
I couldn’t stand the noise. I stood in the corridor and tried to block out the sound of Gobi gripped by pain and fear, but it was no use. Those squeals and cries were the most horrible noise I’d ever heard in my whole life.
I’d read somewhere that to prevent dogs from associating deep pain and fear with their owners, you shouldn’t be in the same room with them when they’re given an injection. Even without that advice, I don’t think I would have been able to be by her side.
When the anaesthetic kicked in and she finally grew quiet, one of the nurses came and found me.
“She’s fine. Do you want to come in?”
Thanks to Kiki, Gobi was about to be operated on in one of the top veterinary hospitals in the city. And thanks to the Chinese media, all of the nurses and doctors had already heard of Gobi. That (plus a good word from Kiki) meant Gobi had the most experienced surgical team and both Kiki and I were allowed to wash up, put on the blue scrubs, and join the team in the operating theatre.