When she gets home, Kendra goes online, searching for ‘Korean’ and ‘dog meat’.
Her heart pounds as she reads:
Consuming dog meat is an ancient Korean custom, its advocates maintaining that the only difference between slaughtering a dog for food and slaughtering a cow or a pig is the culture in which it is done.
But the average Korean does not consume dog meat, as it is generally considered a medicinal dish (either to promote male virility or to combat the heat in summer).
Even more upsetting is a subsequent passage:
The dogs are often beaten to death by clubs, as a way of tenderizing the meat. Some vendors claim they put the dog through considerable pain and torment during the slaughter, as this is thought to increase levels of adrenalin and thereby improve the value of the meat as a source of added virility.
So the lesson is, if you have a dog with you in Korea, lock it up and keep it inside. It may be stolen, as dog meat is very profitable.
Kendra prints off some of the papers, then heads out into the street. Walking for a bit, she passes one blue police patrol car, then another, until they thicken, spilling out into the adjoining streets like casino chips toward their concentration in one parking lot at the side of a building that sits imposingly on the corner of a city block. It bears the sign: CITY OF CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT.
The desk officer is munching takeout and drinking coffee from Dunkin Donuts. As Kendra walks in, her untied hair swinging wildly, he licks his lips. — Yes, miss? he says obsequiously, his eyes going straight to her cleavage.
— My dog has gone missing.
— That’s too bad. Well, we got a little form for you to fill out with some of the details. He smiles broadly, pulling some paperwork from a box in a unit of slated pigeonholes.
— No need for that. I know where he is. I have a neighbor, she blurts out. — He’s a chef. And he’s always cooking!
The cop chuckles lightly to himself. — Guess that sounds about right.
— No, Kendra snaps in irritation, — he’s Korean!
The desk officer looks pointedly at her. — And what has this to do with your dog?
— A chef? Korean? Hello! Her eyes go as big as eight balls on a pool table.
The policeman laughs in her face, and she can even feel some of his spittle hitting her. She rubs it with her hand. The officer looks dumbly at her in some vague lame apology, then steels himself, moving into pompous official mode. — We cannot go harassing members of the city’s Korean population every time somebody’s dog goes missing.
— Well, maybe you should, Kendra says, slamming the papers she’d printed from the websites onto the desk, — because it’s well known that people in South Korea eat dogs and cats!
— We ain’t in Korea, miss. They don’t do that sort of thing here.
— How in hell’s name do you know that?
— Well, I guess it’s our different cultures. I see it as kinda about respect. Like, people in India do not believe in eating cows. They get horrified at the way cows are treated here in the USA. But they know we do things differently, so they accept it. Just like Korean folks accept that they can’t eat dog here. But it’s a valid point, in general terms, don’tcha think?
— No it is nat! The relationship between pets or even working animals and their owners is intrinsically different to that between humans and domesticated animals raised for food! Can’t you see that?! Kendra shouts, unable to believe that the police officer is even attempting to justify this.
The officer is not for backing down. — Dunno bout that. I guess the way they see it is that some animals are raised to hunt, others to fight, others to be eaten. Besides, pet breeds ain’t used for food back there in Korea.
— You don’t know! Kendra wails. — I’ve researched this! She points at the papers. — Because dog meat is expensive, the people in rural areas of Korea will raise and kill the dogs themselves; or steal them. That chef’s done something awful to Toto. I just fucking know he has!
— What kind of dog are we talking about?
— He’s a papillon.
— Right. No offence, miss, but a papillon dog don’t exactly constitute a banquet. Why, I doubt you’d get a decent portion of gyro outta one of them little guys, the cop smiles.
— I want him back! Will you fucking well help me find my dog!
The policeman’s voice grows firmer. — Now, miss, I realise that you’re a little upset here. Why don’t you just go home and see if that little fellow shows up and we’ll call you if anything happens this end?
— Thank you, Kendra sneers sarcastically. — Thank you so much for your help.
Outside on the steps of the station, she seethes in impotence. The only thing she can think of doing is to head home. Back at the apartment she stealthily creeps upstairs and listens outside the chef’s door. There is no sound. She goes back downstairs. Her despondency is compounded further by the mess of her apartment. A huge laundry has piled up but she can’t face going down into that basement right now.
Kendra decides to go and visit Stephanie at her workplace. She should be finishing up soon. Steph knows about animals and their behavior. She might be able to piece together Toto’s state of mind and his likely destination, if it wasn’t up the stairs and into the chef’s cooking pot. She heads to the practice on Clark. — Miss Harbison has just finished a consultation, the soccer mom receptionist informs her.
She goes into Stephanie’s office. Her friend is at the window, blowing cigarette smoke out into the street. — God, those people, Stephanie scoffs, looking below onto the Clark traffic, — they cannot seem to accept that they are nat my clients. They are merely the sponsors. Victor is the client.
— Who is… Victor?
— A Netherland dwarf rabbit with an eating disorder. I felt like saying to his stupid bitch of an owner, ‘Have you looked at yourself in a goddamn mirror lately? Ever stopped to consider that poor Victor might just be modeling behavior?’ Stephanie bellows in exasperation. Then she seems to regard Kendra for the first time. — But you look stressed out, honey. What’s up? she asks, then wariness sharpens her features. — Like, why are you here?
— Toto’s gone! The chef… upstairs, the guy from the restaurant; he’s done something terrible to Toto. He’s Korean. They eat dogs!
— You cannat be serious, Stephanie says, then she molds her face in that expression, the one she always thinks of as her ‘clinical, diagnostic’ look. It involves making her eyebrows almost collide. — Look, Kennie, Toto was — she corrects herself, — is… a very sweet dog, but let’s face it, he has several issues.
An arrow of filial failure thuds into Kendra’s chest. — You think I should have taken him to Dr Stark?
Stephanie flicks her cigarette out the window, sits down, crossing her legs. She regards her own fishnets, enjoying what she thinks of as ‘the coiled-springed sexuality’ of them. They were pantyhose but guys never knew for sure. You just reeled in the catch, like she’d most certainly done last night. A fortuitous chance meeting in the street on the way home, then a late drink, after the others had departed. She regards Kendra, who was just a little too quick to wind up the evening, and something approaching shame bubbles up inside her. Then she slips back into her professional mode. — Phil Stark would have identified Toto’s abandonment/rejection complex straight away and drawn an appropriate behavior modification program, she briskly informs her friend. — I also think it was a no-no calling him Toto. By identifying him with the dog in The Wizard of Oz, you subconsciously factor in the state of his being lost and searching for home as an inbuilt element of his psyche.