Ah, temple dogs—those fine exhibitors of impermanence, decay and death.
It’s an interesting thing spending a lot of time—or any, for that matter—around temples in Thailand. Semi-wild dogs are seemingly everywhere. Exhibiting a curious unpredictability, they tend to be friendly toward humans but with an undeniable scruffiness that keeps folks like me on my toes. Indeed, one of the vaccinations recommended to—uh, perhaps everyone here—is rabies. It’s good practice, I’m told, to always carry an umbrella to ward off a potential bite from one of these weird little canines.
But in practice I see something a little different. Nearly all of the temple dogs we’ve encountered seem kind and gentle toward people: they want to play when the energy around the school grounds is up; they let the novices and others straddle them and play with their legs, scratch and rub them—whatever. The dogs’ sweetest side displays when they gently nibble on each others’ necks to ease the discomfort of fleas and other pests attacking those hard-to-reach areas.
But then that darker side declares itself when in the midst of, say, teaching some novices you hear a horrible dog-scream, look, and realize that one dog has just bitten another dog for no apparent reason. Or you witness near-daily fights over the plentiful uneaten food scraps offered to them by the monastics after lunch—nasty, teeth-bearing episodes broken up by a novice wielding a bamboo pole, nudging them gently but insistently to knock it off.
For the most part, though, there’s merely their quiet, if constant, scrappy presence. Never begging but almost always lingering around the food scrap buckets and young novice monks—the latter so full of energy and youthfulness.
Which is the point at which a teaching really offers itself:
At Doi Saket Phadungsasana School, where we’ve been teaching since mid-September, the contrast between youthful vigor and decrepitude is glaring. Most of the temple dogs would not be allowed in an American home—they’re mangy and gross, with bad skin, open sores, missing eyes, ribs showing, legs that don’t work, unpredictable behavior, and a seemingly endless assortment of other random ailments. They are reflectors of the human condition—fine exhibitors of impermanence, decay and death.
It’s not pretty. But it’s real, and it’s honest.
These temple dogs are great teachers. They remind us of what’s in store for us. And they remind us to be compassionate toward all pathetic and decaying beings who are simply showing us what we are becoming, moment by moment.
