It is a fact universally acknowledged that as soon as I bend down to scoop up dog poop into a biodegradable bag, an unleashed brown poodle will materialize out of nowhere and attack me and my two leashed animals. Both will lose their little doggy minds and instantly devolve from overfed lap dog to snarling wolf while I struggle to maintain my balance, hold on to their leashes, and keep a grip on the poo bag. It’s not a dignified position to be in, and I’ve become accustomed to the laughter of the other dog owner as they shake with mirth at the sight of their beloved little pet leaping for my throat while my dogs bay lustfully for its blood. The smaller the poodle, the more fervent the attack. It’s a daily occurrence, no matter the time, no matter the weather, no matter what part of Beijing I live in. Hell, it’s not even the same poodle.
English is my first language, and in moments of stress and shock I tend to let loose a string of Anglo-Saxon epithets that are pointed in the extreme. However, on occasion, when the attack is particularly virulent or the dog (or dogs) especially menacing, something inside me snaps and I find myself charging at the dog (and occasionally its owner) screaming, “Put a leash on your damn dog!” in fluent Chinese. I’m told it’s a bit like watching a fluffy white bunny turn into a killer in front of your eyes. How scary am I when I snap? I’ve made charging pit bulls turn tail and run off toward their owners, leaping dramatically into their arms in an attempt to escape the screaming foreign lady.
I seldom swear in Chinese. I know that people often want to learn the swear words in a foreign language first, perhaps so that they appear to be more hip than they really are, or perhaps so they can tell if someone is saying something mean to them through smiling lips. I don’t even know a lot of words in Chinese: my fluency in the language is a painfully cobbled-together mix of formal textbook phrases (“My, what a fine-looking building!”) and some very colorful 40s and 50s-era vernacular. My mother-in-law was a soldier at 14 and called everyone “comrade.” For the longest time I genuinely thought that meant “Hey, you.” I picked up a couple of choice swear words from a taxi-driving uncle but that’s about it. When I go on a screaming tirade in Chinese, I default to things my mother-in-law has said to my father-in-law, albeit with a great deal more venom. When my dogs and I are attacked, a steady stream of “Lazy Worm! Black-hearted capitalist! Your heart is not red!” scares the bejesus out of onlookers. I’m told I’m especially frightening when I wave a leash in the owner’s face screaming, “It’s the law, damn it!”
When I arrived in China in the 90s with a tiny infant in my arms, I had no idea there was such a vast gulf between the textbook speak of The Practical Chinese Reader and what I needed to know as a wife and mother. No mention was made of diaper rash, or any bodily functions for that matter.
While textbooks have become more sensitive to the language needs of people actually living in China, I have yet to find one that includes the vocabulary I need to fight off oncoming dogs and their lazy owners. As I was walking my dogs this morning, I realized I had only one biodegradable doggy poop bag left. Signs all over the community warn us to pick up doggy excrement and dispose of it properly or face public shaming. It’s hard enough being the only foreigner in the compound without public shaming so I’m especially scrupulous in picking up my dogs’ effluvia. One doggy did her business and I scooped it up immediately. To my surprise, a sanitation worker asked me to give her the poo bag. I found myself saying thank you, but I can’t hand the poo bag to you because the other dog hasn’t pooped yet and I have no other bag with me. Apparently, I got both the tones and the grammar correct because she nodded and told me that was the right thing to do. Score one for me: I can defend my dogs and contribute to a civilized society.
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