That summer I grew attached to Blackie, a dog that roamed our compound. Though people began to think of me as his owner, I could hardly take care of him. A dog doesn't eat grass like a chicken, so I couldn't feed him and he had to look for food on his own. All I could do was fill a chipped crock with water for him. Whenever possible, he'd steal a bite from the kitchen, where some of the cooks would threaten him and even thrash him with a broom.
There were a good number of animals in Camp 13. Our kitchen raised a pig and a dozen chickens. We often heard hens cackle, but had never seen an egg drop in our soup. Apparently the leaders and the cooks ate them. Several inmates each raised a chicken themselves and bartered eggs for things they needed. One man even kept a small nanny goat that wasn't old enough to give milk yet, but he didn't have her for long – the animal got out of the camp one day and didn't return. We guessed she must have been killed or shut away by some civilian. Her owner was devastated and for days waited in vain at the front gate, expecting her to reappear.
Blackie had wandered into our closure the previous winter and stayed. He must have felt safe in the camp, because he wasn't a strong dog; somewhat stunted, he couldn't fight the wild dogs in the marshes. Besides, the Koreans loved dog meat and wouldn't think twice about catching and killing a stray dog. The prisoners called him Blackie on account of his dark coat. He was small in size and almost devoid of fur, scarred in places, but he had a fluffy tail and white eyebrows like a pair of moths. Some men believed he was a Japanese pointer and some said he was a Chinese retriever. I'm not sure what he was, maybe a hybrid. I often patted and stroked Blackie, who enjoyed being touched, and any expression of human affection seemed to give him intense pleasure. Sometimes I would beg the young cook named Nanshan to give him some leftovers – half a sweet potato or a ball of stale barley. Like the inmates, Blackie was undernourished, his ribs showed sharply, and he always seemed hungry, hanging around the mess lines at mealtimes and licking up spots of spilled soup.
As I spent more time with him, he seemed to acknowledge a special bond between us, following me whenever I was in his view. He'd trot beside me with an air of some importance. I was glad to have him around. Before Blackie, I had never really liked any animal, but now my thoughts would turn to him first thing in the morning when I woke up. I wouldn't let him get out of the camp, fearing he might go astray. Whenever I returned from swimming, he would prance at me, whining with such happiness that I would be moved to caress his lop-eared head or squat down to play with him for a while. He would roll on the ground or lie on his back with his paws held back for me to poke his belly, which I would do. Sometimes he nuzzled my face and sniffed at my hand as though eager to get something tasty from me. He made me realize that none of us, the POWs, could ever have his kind of simple pleasure and genuine trust in a man. This realization made me treat him more like a friend, who evoked in me a tenderness that I dared not feel toward anyone around me for fear of embarrassment and betrayal. For this beneficent influence I was grateful. I promised him that I would feed him a lot of meat once we were free.
Most prisoners called Blackie by whistling, at which he would run to them, wagging his tail. If he recognized the man, he'd leap up and place his paws on him, expecting to be stroked. He was such a friendly dog; he seemed to know only the goodness of man.
One night in early August Blackie sneaked through the fence and didn't come back. I searched here and there within the enclosure but couldn't find him. I was afraid some Korean might have kept him or even slaughtered him. Blackie was a grown male now and might have been in rut. To my knowledge there weren't many dogs around the camp. He would have to go a long way to a fishing hamlet beyond a lagoon to find a bitch, and those fishermen wouldn't hesitate to butcher him if they caught him. I waited and waited that night, but he didn't return.
Some men said I had spoiled Blackie, who should have been gelded long ago. I told myself that if he came back, I must take measures to stop him from chasing bitches, or there would be endless trouble.
Early the next morning, my eyes still heavy with sleep, I heard a dog yapping. I jumped out of bed and rushed out. There was Blackie, his scanty fur soaked with dew, prancing around Nanshan, the round-faced cook, who was kicking a shuttlecock like a schoolboy at recess. I whistled and Blackie stopped short, then scampered all the way to me, wagging his tail and whining loudly. He reared up and put his paws on me, licking my hand and belly while his expressive eyes glistened. I noticed a gash on his rump, about two inches long, though the bleeding had stopped. The wound must have been inflicted by a pitchfork. Without delay I took him to the medic, who sterilized the cut with iodine solution and applied some antibiotic ointment to it.
I didn't have the dog neutered, of course. I just couldn't do that, although a fellow who had once been a goat castrator volunteered to do the job. Instead, I got a rope, about thirty feet long, and tied it around Blackie's neck so that I could keep him from running out of the compound. But for the protest of some shed mates who said Blackie had fleas, I would have cut a hole in our door to let him in and stay with me at night. Every night before going to bed, I would tether him to a young poplar. Asleep with his head resting on his front legs, he seemed at home within the confinement. Also, I set a large wooden box on its side against the tree and roofed it with a piece of asphalt felt held down by two rocks. When it was windy or rainy, Blackie would lie curled up in the straw in this makeshift kennel. If I forgot to leash him at night, he would invariably sneak out of the prison. He was a clever dog and always managed to return soon after daybreak.
As we were preparing to leave for the Korean mainland for the final persuasion, I began to worry about him. We were not allowed to bring any animals with us, but if I left him behind he might soon perish, because he'd have to go to the civilians' homes or the airfield to steal food. I wouldn't have minded if a GI had adopted him; the Americans could always feed their pets. Wang Yong told me to abandon the dog. "It's just a dumb animal," he said. "Let it go, all right? We have enough humans to take care of." I knew he'd get rid of Blackie without a second thought.
Desperate, I went to the kitchen and talked to Nanshan, who was in the habit of feeding the dog. I begged him, "Can you take Blackie along when we're headed for the Neutral Zone?"
"I'll try, but what if he barks?"
"I don't know. I just want to keep him as long as I can. If that happens, I won't blame you."
"Officer Feng, you have a kind heart like the Buddha's. Whatever you say I'll do."
His effusive words amazed me.
Nanshan kept his promise. He got some sleeping pills from the medic and ground them. Before we boarded the ship, he hid Blackie in a field cauldron. He broke a potato in half and smeared both pieces with the sleeping powder and fed them to Blackie. Soon the dog dropped off to sleep. Nanshan covered him with an empty gunnysack, and so Blackie passed the guards undiscovered.