Time & Place:
Taipei
November 2001

Every Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, when my dad and I walk home from his office late at night, we would meet this yellow dog.

It's only natural that we see him there, because that's where he hangs out and also where he lives. In a sense, that section of the corridor is his territory and it so happens that my homeward path coincides his domain. Since his active living space overlaps mine, we have a lot of chances to observe each other's habits. I am sure he and my dad has established a similar degree of familiarity with each other. Dad and I refer to him as "that dog that doesn't sleep at night but snoozes all day."

I like seeing that dog. I suppose that's how people fall in love. There is no guarantee that the dog would be snoozing there when I go to work in the afternoon, and I don't particularly look for him when I walk down that corridor. But when I see him, either snoozing or walking around, I feel completely content, as if his presence assures me that everything in life is running on track as they should be.

Well, for the past few days, we haven't seen that-dog-that-doesn't-sleep-at-night-but-snoozes-all-day. Walking home on Thursday night, I said to my dad that the dog probably went to the market side of the neighbourhood to find stinky tofu for late night snack. But both of us knew that the dog is gone for good, captured by the stray dog patrol city workers. We know, because that's not the first time the city patrol takes dogs away. And we know, because although that-dog-that-doesn't-sleep-at-night-but-snoozes-all-day lives healthily in a territory where everyone acknowledges his presence, he is considered to be a "stray dog."