Instant Noodle

Meet Noodle. 

I found her in a hutong (one of the historic Beijing courtyard neighborhoods that are currently stirring up controversy) on a scorching afternoon, crouched under a bench, half-dehydrated and half-conscious.

Most of the go-to stereotypes about the Chinese and dogs are a bunch of bullshit.  Yes, dog is served in some restaurants here, or at least, it will be once the Olympic games are over.  And, yes, it's disturbing to many Westerners that an animal that we domesticate could be consumed, over rice, at a family meal.  But as far as dogs as pets goes, the Chinese are incredibly diligent in caring for their pooches.  Dogs here are well-groomed and jaunty, intelligent and incredibly well-trained.  More often than not I see them scampering along off-leash, several feet in front of their owners, stopping at curbs and waiting for the command to safely cross.

So when I came upon this tiny dustball, tongue hanging down to the ground, barely able to muster the energy to scratch her own fleas, I knew that something was wrong.  

I had a mostly-empty bottle of water with me, and when I offered her the remainder, using the bottlecap as a makeshift dish, she drank voraciously, giving my fingers a feeble lick when she'd finished.  At that, my heart shattered.  What was this tiny puppy doing in the middle of the streets on a sweltering day, without water, without an owner in sight?

Still, she must belong to someone, I reasoned, and, giving her one last pat on the head, I headed off further into the hutong, determined to find a cafe with cold beer and decent food.  With every step I took away from the dog, the more guilt I felt. 

Fuck.

I found a vendor, bought another bottle of water, and headed back towards where I'd seen the dog.  There she was, belly up on the pavement, still panting.  She drank the entire bottle of water, and an old man sitting on a nearby bench chuckled at what, to him, must have been a bizarre scene; a foreigner attempting to sustinate a local stray.   

Using hand signals and broken Chinese, I asked if the dog belonged to him.  He shook his head, and, using both hands, gestured to the neighborhood around him, telling me, I think, that the dog belonged to everyone and no one. 

A sidebar: I am unable to resist stray dogs.  Back in Boston, I've got a 90-pound redhead named Murphy, adopted eight years ago from a dingy Indiana shelter.  He'd been thrown from a car, suffering a broken leg and a lifetime of neurosis.   After that, I found Tasha--part German Shepherd, part schizophrenic dingo--in a dumpster, so mangy and starved that she looked like a hairless jumble of chicken bones, held together by canvas skin.  (Two years later, my ex-boyfriend got her in the breakup).  My brother has Maggie, a three-legged wondermutt, and my parents have Callie, found in the woods in Georgia, covered in wounds and barely able to eat.  She's now the fastest, healthiest, most fearless animal I have ever seen.  And she's fucking crazy.  

I sat with the dog for nearly an hour, scratching her belly, letting her gnaw on my fingers.  People came and went and came and went, but nobody claimed her.   When I finally rose to throw away the water bottle in a nearby trashcan, the dog got up and followed me, and I made up my mind. 

And so, I am now the proud human mama of a Chinese dog. I took her to the vet to get a check-up and vaccines, and, besides playing host to a nasty congregation of fleas, she is in great health.  She's on antibiotics, just in case, but, once she gets the rest of her shots next week (too young to get them all at once!) she'll be ready to bring back to the U.S.  According to the vet, "It's easier to get a dog back into the States than it is a human." 

I named her Noodle.  She's a wiggly little ball of fantastic, who likes to sleep on my smelly shoes.