The Secret Lake

CW: Mentions animal abuse.

My first family consisted of two older adults and, I believe, three children. I loved the youngest one dearly — she was adorable. But the others? They weren’t kind, and I didn’t like them very much.

I was born on the streets to a lovely mother. I had three siblings, and I never imagined we’d be separated. But I was wrong. One day, a tall man shoved his coarse hands into our warm den and ripped us all away from Mum. They crammed us into a cardboard box, then into cages at a noisy market — no food, no water, nowhere to hide. People poked and pinched us, laughing. Then one man — the scariest of them all — chose me. At his shabby house, I met his horrible wife, their equally horrible children… and, at last, the youngest girl.

She was so lovely. I’d snuggle up to her warm little body, and she’d squeal with joy, digging her podgy fingers into my fur and pulling me close. What joy! But just as I was drifting off into a puppy snooze, rough hands would yank me away and throw me outside. I was meant to do my business — whatever that meant. I’d come back in, rushing to my girl, only to realise too late I suddenly, urgently needed to pee. I’d squat quickly and let it out — just wanting to reach her arms. But one of the older humans would grab my tail — the pain was unbearable — and swing me through the air, shouting, “I’m going to kill you, you filthy beast!” When they finally let go, I crashed to the floor, dizzy, sick, and terrified. Things were not going well.

As time went on, nothing got better. The man kept throwing me outside, and I, confused, hungry, cold, and longing for love, kept trying to get back in. Each time they opened the door, I was hit, kicked, or screamed at. The food and water stopped. I remember cowering in a corner, whimpering, as the man took off his shoe. Then came the pain. I was thrown out into the street, my legs too shaky to stand.

I sat outside other people’s houses, howling and wailing. I didn’t know what else to do. Sometimes, a door would open, and another big, angry human would appear, shouting at me. I’d bolt in panic, slipping on the ground, running in circles, until my little puppy legs gave out beneath me.

I had no one. No food, no water. I was thin, trembling, and terrified of everything and everyone.

As I crept along the road, I noticed a chubby, bald man wrapped in bright orange cloth, barefoot, carrying a bowl that smelt of food. A group of older dogs trailed behind him. When they saw me, some bared their teeth and growled. I didn’t realise at the time, but one day, they’d all be fighting over who could be my mate.

The monk bent down and gazed at me softly.

“Don’t cry, little one. We all live in the Temple. You’re welcome to join us.”

He scooped me up and held me close, moving his bowl of food out of reach. Then we set off — the monk, with me in his arms, followed by at least ten scruffy dogs padding behind.

I stayed with the Temple Dogs for at least a year. I’d recently had a litter of six pups. The other dogs were kind to me and helped me care for them. The monks were gentle with all of us and shared their meagre food.

Most humans kept their distance. People believed Temple Dogs were fierce. I disliked that. I wasn’t fierce — I just wanted someone to love me. Sometimes, one of the monks would give me a stroke or a gentle squeeze, and I’d close my eyes and lean in as long as they’d allow.

Just when I believed I could trust humans again, they broke my heart.

I was nearly finished weaning my pups when two strangers entered the Temple. I didn’t even look up. It was the quietest part of the day — tourists were still asleep, and the Brothers were deep in meditation.

I was dozing in my corner, my six little ones curled up close, when suddenly large, cruel hands tore them away. They squealed. I watched in horror as one of the men hit my loudest pup — and then, just like that, they were gone.

I chased the van, barking, snarling, panicking, but it sped away. Painted on the side were the words: “Watt’s Market Pet Stall”. I ran until I could run no more.

I stood weeping in the street, too exhausted to hide it. The big husky — the handsome one who had always kept himself to himself — padded over. He startled me by licking my head, gently, almost formally, as if I mattered. He tried to nudge me back towards the Temple. But I told him I couldn’t go. Not even there felt safe anymore.

I left the Temple and became a full-time street dog, growing thin and filthy over time. I kept my distance from humans — which wasn’t difficult, since most had no desire to come anywhere near me. I was always on the move, driven by an urgent need for food.

Months later, I was amazed to see the large white husky wandering through my part of town.

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you for weeks. Everything OK?” he asked.

I glanced down at my filthy paws and torn claws and tried to imagine what my face must look like. Still, I chirped, “Yeah, pretty good.”

He laughed. “Really? Pretty good?”

His large, slightly off-white body stepped in close, and he furiously started washing my face with a tongue the colour of faded watermelon flesh.

“My name’s Kodak, by the way,” he said. “Do you have a name?”

“Not really — but I’ve always fancied Moo Yang. I think it’s quite pretty.”

We stood side by side in a dusty backstreet of this hot Thai town. Standing beside Kodak, I felt a warmth I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

“Don’t you want to know why I’ve been looking for you?” he asked.

“Why?”

“There’s a place nearby that leaves out bowls of water. Let’s head that way—I’ll tell you everything”.

He told me the monks had spoken to him about a special place. A place where dogs could be free but still protected. A place by a lake.

"It’s considered the perfect place for a sweet, non-violent dog to live out her days”, he said.

"I’ve never heard of it."

"No, because many street dogs are quite aggressive due to the sad lives they’ve experienced. The monks asked me to keep it secret. They only want kind, affectionate dogs to know about it."

"Oh, it sounds lovely. What about food and shelter?"

"They say food is willingly shared by the humans who visit the Lake."

"Oh, so humans visit?"

"Yes, but they say the humans are the best of the humans. We can meet them, but they don’t try to take you home. I’m a street dog and I don’t want to live in a house."

"Oh, nor me. I lived in a house when I was very young and was regularly hit and screamed at. I had no idea how to live with humans. I’m happy to live outside—but I'd love to say hello to a friendly human."

"So, will you come on this adventure with me and try to find the Lake?"

After days of wandering, Kodak and I shared our stories, and he told me of life before coming to the Temple.

“I lived in a big house. My humans had air conditioning and ice cream. I always had clean fur. But I wasn’t allowed out much. I had to wear a vest and have photos taken for their social media accounts. When they were tired of me, they drove me into the countryside and opened the car door. I wandered around until I found a Monk who took pity on me and brought me to the Temple”.

“Did you know that the monks adored you? One of them even whispered that you might be a reincarnated monk yourself”, I said.

Kodak looked at me when he heard that and rolled his eyes.

“I wonder if this is why the Monks only told you about the Lake but didn’t tell the other dogs?”

Kodak, suddenly with tail curled high, and black nose sniffing the crisp, clean air announced triumphantly:

“We’ve arrived”.

We trotted along together, and somehow during our journey, we had clearly become a couple. At first, we kept our distance from the humans at the Lake. Kodak, with his thick white coat, attracted many attempts at petting, but he just trotted on.

On our walk around the Lake, we saw at least three cafes. As our stomachs began to rumble, Kodak said:

"Come on, let’s try our luck."

We entered one of the gardens. Almost immediately, hands reached out to stroke us. People left their tables, bought snacks, and gladly fed us. We stayed there most of the afternoon, fussed over, petted, and fed scraps from shared plates.

As the sun dipped, our new human friends gave us one last stroke, one last piece of chicken, and then got on their bikes or into their cars and disappeared.

The next day, as the sun rose, early morning runners appeared—most of them with pockets full of dog treats.

I looked at Kodak. "Why didn’t we hear of this place before?"

"One of the monks told me the Higher Being wanted to see how we fared after suffering. If we remained nice, pleasant, lovable dogs, we would be offered the knowledge of the Lake."

The Lakeside was a delight. Small peninsulas jutted into the water, offering shade, cool breezes, and thick grass perfect for stretching out. These quiet spots were favoured by the artists, who set up easels beneath the magnolia trees and perched on canvas stools to paint the scene. Apart from the occasional cry of a heron or the soft quacking of ducks, the hot afternoons passed in tranquil silence — broken only by Kodak’s resounding, contented snores.

We spent weeks wandering around, popping into cafes or sitting quietly by the water, accepting whatever affection was offered. I watched him trot confidently among the humans, tail high, tongue lolling. I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel that open again — but I wanted to try.

One day, while we were resting in a café garden, a van pulled up. Two men and a woman in white coats got out.

"These are the dogs you want us to look at?" one of the men asked the owner.

"Yep, please. They’ve been around for a couple of weeks. Think they need checking over—and frankly, a bath wouldn’t go amiss."

A kind woman from the café came over and knelt beside us.

"You’ve got nothing to fear. These are doctors. They work for the University’s Veterinary School. They’ll check you for illness, fleas, and ticks. You’ll get a bath, a haircut, and a collar with your name on it."

I felt uneasy. I’d been reliant on humans before, and it hadn’t gone well.

"You’ll become University Dogs. You’ll have shelter. Tourists always bring food and love. Every six months, the doctors will check that you’re healthy."

I looked at Kodak. “Honestly, I think I’m going to cry with joy.”

He smiled. "You are a beauty, Moo Yang, and you deserve this. I’m only glad I’m here to enjoy it with you."

Two beautiful dogs, one a large white husky and the other a grey terrier, trotted happily around the lake, enjoying the sunshine. Their coats were clean, with amusing haircuts and shining green collars, on which were written: "These dogs are friendly. Treat them well. They are the property of the University Veterinary School." The collar was snug but soft. For a moment, it reminded me of being tied up, leashed, and shouted at. But then I looked at the words. Friendly. Treated well. Cared for. I lifted my head a little higher.

That night, with my clean fur and my somewhat unflattering haircut, I lay in the shelter and stared at the sky. I saw Sirius, the Dog Star, the brightest in the night sky, knowing it marked the start of the hottest days of the year. I couldn’t sleep. I lay staring, thinking: Too many stars. Too many memories. Too much peace to believe it was real.

I lay thinking about him telling me of his earlier life, so different from my own.

“Some dogs are born wild. Some of us grow into it. Thank goodness I made this choice, or I might never have met you. Moo Yang, we’re finally home. Let’s cuddle up and go to sleep.” And, as I listened to my handsome Kodak’s rhythmic breathing, I gradually drifted into a deep, worry-free sleep.