Chow, the Restaurant Dog

by Gary Engkent

He was a mongrel. With rough, coarse coat of straggly hair not a thoroughbred. Everybody at the Panama Café called this Chow-chow dog, “Chow.” Seemed simple to give him that moniker as it identified the animal by breed but much later, I learned that there were both English slang and Chinese meaning in this play-on-words. In colloquial English, “chow” means “food” or meal. In Chinese, “tchau” (sounding like “chow”) means “smelly.” And yes, this Chow dog was both. Ate the leftovers brought back from the dining room. Stunk from only being caught in a sudden thunder shower, most of the time, he made the basement his home.

The cooks, waitresses and other workers in the restaurant were kind—well, usually kind—to Chow. They fed him scraps; they played with him, tossing a rubber ball that had been in the lost and found cabinet. Well, most of the time. When they were not busy preparing dishes, when the waitresses were not carrying plates of orders from kitchen to dining room, when they were taking their cigarette breaks. Chow would come by expecting some sort of treat; his mouth open, tongue wagging and eyes begging. When a spring or summer or autumn breeze swept by, his benefactors would smell his unwashed, uncleaned body odors. They would make faces at him, shoo him away, and suggest that somebody should give Chow a really long hosing down.

Everyone who befriended the dog would mention that Chow needed greater care in canine hygiene; however, no one would volunteer to do it. The closest act was to let Chow out in the pouring rain, drenching him totally wet. That got some of the stench out of his straggly hair, but the smell returned soon enough. He made the basement coal area his preserve.

Especially in winter, Chow would do his doggy business, both the wet and turdy kind, near the black bitumen lumps. Occasionally, when shoveling buckets of coal for the multiple stoves in the kitchen, a cook might have thrown in a piece into the fire along with the chunks of charr. Then the heated turd would crackle and release its pungent odor that quickly engulfs the kitchen and threatens to seep into the dining room.

The new cooks wondered what that stink, so pungent and powerful, was and where did it come from. The seasoned cooks swore, sighed and snapped on the powerful kitchen fans above the stoves on high.

“Tchau!” the head chef growled. “Extra flavor on these meals!” He laughed but it wasn’t a cheerful sound. The chef then scolded the apprentice cook for not looking carefully at the black bitumen and distinguishing brownish black dog shit.

Needless to say, the apprentice cook, T’ing, took it out on Chow. When Chow went out for his nightly prowl, T’ing locked the doggy door. Chow whined, growled and barked loud enough to disturb the late-night drunkards, pimples and prostitutes, and tenants living nearby. A bunch of neighbors living in apartments above the commercial buildings called the police, and the constables scooped up Chow and placed him in the dog pound.

The next day, a municipal official came by and informed us that they had Chow in the domesticated animal pound, and it would cost twenty dollars to have him released. That piece of news dominated the morning and afternoon conversation. Twenty bucks was a lot of cash, when the going rate of being a cook was fifty cents an hour. Almost a six-day week’s pay. Was Chow the café pet worth it?

“Let the mangy dog rot in the pound,” T’ing said offhandedly. “He’s useless as a guard dog, even as a pet. He just gets in the way, eats and shits.”

“If you don’t pay, your dog will be euthanized,” the municipal official said. “That would be a shame.” And before he left, he added: “Officially, you have three days; okay, I’ll give you five days to come and get him. That’s only because I like you guys.”

“What is euthanized?” I asked.

“Big word for killing the dog,” Lau Baak, Uncle Lau, the pastry chef, answered. “Mercy killing.”

“Why would they kill Chow?” I asked.

“Keeping and feeding a lot of pets takes up money,” Lau Baak lectured. “Workers gotta be paid. Chow’s lucky here. We have scraps to feed him. Good food. Has basement coal bin to sleep. Good watchdog. His barking keeps thieves away during the night.”

And there I thought Chow was just a freeloader. I looked at the dog differently.

Then Lau Baak told me a story about Chow, the mangy, long-haired Tibetan Terrier. Ten years ago, this Tibetan Terrier (unnamed then) was one of a litter of five. Its mother, homeless and masterless, did what she could but four died at birth or soon thereafter. Lau Baak found him in one of the back alleys on the same, rear street with the row of second-hand stores. The pup had cried out weakly in the midst of dumped garbage and other smelly waste. Luckily, Lau Baak heard, investigated and rescued the pup. At first, he thought of giving it up to a regular customer or the Thibeault Falls’ pound for waylaid, abandoned animals. But by then it was too late: the puppy latched onto him, and he to it.

Lau Baak took care of Chow his way: he regularly and daily fed the dog, permitted it to roam about in the basement, especially in the coal bin area, and outside. Chow was not welcomed in the food preparation area, kitchen and the dining room. Lau Baak made sure the dog understood with reward and punishment.

“What did you do to make him obey?” I asked curiously.

“You talk to him sternly. You look at him straight in the eye. Then you give him a hard slap or kick.”

“To a dog?”

“That’s how we used to train dogs in Joon Kwok, China. Sometimes you have to repeat the punishment a few times before the animal understands.”

“Like school and the strap,” I connected. He gave me a strange look.

“He likes you. See how he has his tongue out instead of baring his fangs? Look after him. Maybe give him a real bath, instead of Nature’s rain.”

So I did.

Chow, I believe as I began the task, never ever had someone given him a bath. I took him to the rear of the restaurant where the bins of waste were left for pickup. I had already placed a big, big bucket of warm, soapy water and a stiff bristle, wooden-handled brush. Before the first small pail landed on Chow’s head, he was docile and willing; however, immediately upon the soapy, warm water splashing on his elongated hair, he barked loudly and tried to run away. Luckily for me, the main door was closed so he could not go out onto the sidewalk and streets. It took a while to bring him back. Lau Baak and I had to bribe him with treats. We collared him, and this time with a leash, tied him to the handle of a loaded garbage can.

Chow resisted. He shook his torso, head and tail: warm water with whitish-brown suds arced outward from the long, matted, stinky hair. Big splashes in the beginning; smaller sprays later. He had unhappy eyes, and a dogged expression on his face. He barked but didn’t bite. I sighed. I had to rinse him from the soap. I was getting as wet or more wet as Chow.

Finally, I finished.

Two hours later.

Chow chose me, and I took to this previously mangy dog. Before school in the mornings and after school in the afternoon, I would talk to Chow and, as advised by Lum Baak, dole out treats intermittently. He anticipates these meetings, and of course the food. Moreover, when I wash him now, without a fuss he lets me. But he still shakes himself to be rid of water.

These times I enjoyed.

We became inseparable, well as close as young lad and animal can be, as much as parents and elders in the restaurant permit. (But not as much as a dog and a boy in many matinee movies.) Everybody in the kitchen and my father constantly made the point when Chow and I were together. Still, whenever I got the chance, usually on Saturdays and Sundays, we would go to the wharf, the beaches of Thibeault Falls, not far away from the Panama Café.

“Don’t get too attached to the dog,” my father advised. “He’s been around quite a while.”

Later, Lau Baak said almost the same thing: “Chow was already a grown pup when we took him in. Eight, nine years ago. Why, he’s older than you are, Hardy.” With that, the old man laughed and went back to cutting pork chops for next day’s all-day special.

I took Chow for a run in the Canadian Pacific Railway Park. The grass was lush green, so were the leaves of oaks, maples and elms. Roses, tulips and daffodils, planted in varying designs in sizable plots, sent forth their scent when a breeze flows by. I let the dog dash about the greens, and, as taught by his young master, Chow did not run through the flowers. The dog did relieve itself and helped fertilize a tree trunk or two as it could not read the sign that said: DO NOT LEAVE YOUR DOG LEASH FREE.

I didn’t see the harm in letting Chow exercise its old leg muscles, lungs and heart. Freedom in Nature from the confines of the restaurant coal cellar. Then one afternoon, a Saturday to be exact, something horrible happened. Chow met another dog, also having free reign in the CPR Park. They fought. For territory. Chow got the worst of it. He was bitten horribly in several areas: paws, hind leg, neck. Blood spilt onto his hairy frame.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

I tried to grab him, hold onto him as Chow whined from his wounds. More blood covered his body hairs. But Chow fought to be released. And succeeded. He ran for home, the backdoor of the Panama Café. He had to run across Oak Street. He didn’t care about the afternoon traffic of cars and delivery vans.

Chow got hit by the front bumper of a van. His body bounced like an inflated beach ball, up in the air and down on the street pavement. He rolled twice before inertia stopped him.

I shrieked. In my mind, the warning of Lau Baak, schoolteachers and parents suddenly came to him: Don’t cross the street without looking both ways. Make sure there’s no cars! But Chow was a dog, not a young boy of eleven.

“Chow! Chow!”

The driver stopped the car, saw the dog writhing in the middle of the street, blood spots, got back in his car and took off. It was not his fault that the animal ran out so unexpectedly. It was only a dog.

On both sides of the street, other cars stopped. Without noticing the traffic, I rushed to Chow. The dog yelped; blood came out of his mouth and nose. He was lying on his side. His paws moved erratically, agonizingly. Expressing pain. Holding onto life.

I did not know what to do. Dog and lad eyes met what seemed a long, long time but in truth only a moment. What was I supposed to do? What could I do? Several onlookers began to gather about the scene of the accident.

Then someone picked Chow up and carried him into the backdoor of the restaurant. It was Lau Baak. My father took hold of me and guided me inside. I cried and cried.

“Chow is in a bad way,” Lau Baak said. “He’s dying. What do you want to do?” He was asking both me and my father.

“Can’t you fix him?”

“It will cost a lot of money.” My father said. “Cash we cannot afford to put in a twelve-year-old dog.”

“I’ll pay, I’ll pay. I have my allowance money.”

“Your pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters aren’t nearly enough, Hardy.” Lau Baak put in.

“Please, please, do something! Make Chow whole again!” I pleaded.

Next day, the problem was how to dispose of Chow.