MW CH4

Chapter 4: Civilized Dog Ownership—You, Me, and Everyone

“Get up, Bai Yin! The sun’s already baking your butt!”

I pried my eyes open from a groggy sleep, greeted by an unfamiliar ceiling. The curtains at the research institute were thin, barely blocking the light. Sunlight streamed in, stabbing my eyes with a dull ache.

“It’s nine already—how long are you planning to sleep? The breakfast I saved for you’s gone cold!” Yan Chuwen’s voice rang out relentlessly from outside, louder and more grating than midsummer cicadas.

I rubbed my face, sat still for a moment, then jolted upright. “Coming, coming—stop yelling!”

After brushing my teeth, washing up, and scarfing down breakfast, Yan Chuwen leashed Erqian and asked if I wanted to stroll through the village with him.

We’d arrived late yesterday, and after returning from the Deer King Temple, we’d just eaten dinner—no time to explore much else. Since I was already here, I couldn’t just hole up in the institute’s little courtyard and go nowhere. Without a second thought, I tagged along.

Pengge in winter felt desolate. A thin layer of snow blanketed everything, and with most buildings painted white, it looked at first glance like the whole village had been swallowed by the drifts. From high above, someone unfamiliar with the place might not even spot it amidst the endless snow-capped mountains.

Yan Chuwen said, “You know my doctoral advisor’s Professor Ge from Shannan University, right?”

Erqian, young and full of energy, practically dragged Yan Chuwen along single-handedly—or single-pawedly—digging little pits in the gravelly snow with each step.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Didn’t he and your dad used to be rivals in love back in the day? When you joined Professor Ge’s program, your dad was so pissed he nearly disowned you. If Aunt Wan hadn’t stepped in, you’d be fatherless by now.”

“Stepped in” might not be the right phrase—more like “shut him down.”

“Get over it, or get out!” I could still hear her voice from that five-second WeChat clip—faint, like Yan Chuwen was hiding in some corner, but it painted a vivid picture of Aunt Wan’s fierce, commanding presence.

“My dad’s pretty petty about that stuff,” Yan Chuwen admitted with a wry chuckle. “It’s been decades—Professor Ge’s long married with kids—but Dad still clings to that old grudge. Even Mom can’t stand it. Professor Ge’s spent half his life studying Cenglu culture, and these past few years, he’s been running around pushing for Cuoyansong’s development. Dad might outpublish him in journals, but when it comes to project impact, he’s not necessarily ahead…”

We reached an open, empty stretch. I fished a cigarette pack from my pocket, pulled one out, and lit it.

“What projects?” I asked casually.

“Some tourism ones,” Yan Chuwen said, pointing off in a direction. “See that way? There’s a hot spring. You could soak there if you’ve got time. The water’s nice and warm—just basic, though. Totally open-air.”

No resources, deep in the mountains, cut off from easy transport—a backwater village like this had to get creative to lift itself up.

Once, Yan Chuwen and his professor dreamed of turning it into a hot spring resort, with the government leading and a big international hotel brand brought in. Once the hotel was built, it’d boost tourism and ripple out across Cuoyansong.

Too bad fierce opposition from some Cenglu folks had stalled the project for ages.

Yan Chuwen sighed. “You don’t get it—they were serious. The hotel folks said the second we gave the green light, they’d fly over with contracts and stamps ready to sign. ‘Land of divine descent, hidden paradise’—what a concept. It’d catch fire for sure.”

In this frigid weather, even the familiar taste of my cigarette seemed tinged with the place’s stark bitterness as I exhaled.

I said, “Just get Mochuan on board. He’s the Yan Guan, God’s mouthpiece. If he says build a hotel, who’d dare say no?”

“You don’t understand,” Yan Chuwen replied. “He’s the Yan Guan, sure, and the Cenglu respect and love him, but it’s not his dictatorship. He’s got to consider the clan’s feelings.”

I smirked, offering a solution. “If he calls it a divine oracle, who’d question it?”

Yan Chuwen flinched, glancing around instinctively. Seeing no one nearby, he relaxed. “This is Cenglu turf—don’t go spouting that to anyone but me.”

Erqian found a prime spot and started squatting to poop.

“Who’d I tell? Mochuan?” I said, cigarette pinched between my fingers. Then I watched Yan Chuwen pull a plastic bag from his pocket and scoop up Erqian’s mess. Stunned for a second, I blurted, “…You’re picking up its poop?”

Walking a dog here was weird enough—now he was cleaning up after it?

Yan Chuwen bagged the poop, tied a knot, and gave me an odd look. “What else would I do?”

I thought for a few seconds, bit down on my cigarette, and—bare hands braving the cold—slowly clapped for him.

“Mind-blowing, Comrade Yan!”

Yan Chuwen, poop bag in pocket, showed me Pengge’s hot spring pool. It was encircled by a low brick wall, no lock—just two weathered planks loosely covering the entrance, swinging open with a light push.

Inside, funnel-shaped steps spiraled downward to a steaming pool. It wasn’t big—maybe three meters across—but the water was crystal clear, with a faint blue tint.

“It gets fuller in the rainy season,” Yan Chuwen said, asking if I wanted to dip my feet to test the temp.

I glanced at my short boots and jeans, then at the snow-covered steps, and declined—valuing my life too much.

That afternoon, Yan Chuwen worked on papers indoors while I dragged a chair to the balcony, tablet in hand, and sketched the scenery.

Work had gotten busier each year lately—I rarely had time for something this laid-back. It was either rushing client orders or hopping between exhibitions.

Stroke by stroke, I outlined Pengge’s distinctive white buildings against the distant, snow-laden peaks. Modern tech’s got its perks—one tablet, one stylus, and you can mimic any brushstroke imaginable.

Halfway through, I took a break and checked my phone. Missed calls and unread messages flooded the screen, mostly from studio colleagues. I figured Huangfu Rou had sent them after me—I’d vanished without a word, and she was probably fuming.

I stood to go brew some tea and warm up when a voice called from below.

Peering over, I saw Yan Chuwen, all bundled up.

“Bai Yin, I’m heading to the next village to pick up Guo Shu. Can you walk the dog for me later?” he shouted up.

My timing sucked—Guo Shu had gone to the neighboring village for fieldwork a couple days ago, and we’d missed each other.

Glancing at the little mutt gnawing a bone on the floor, I agreed readily. “Sure, but heads-up—I’m not picking up its poop.”

Yan Chuwen just stared at me, silent, with that calm, patient, motherly look of his—like Aunt Wan’s.

“…”

“Look,” I said, “these hands usually handle the world’s priciest, prettiest gems. You want me to pick up dog crap?”

He kept up that gentle, encouraging gaze, as if silently saying, “You can do it.”

After a long standoff, I caved.

“Fine, I’ll pick it up! Civilized dog ownership—you, me, everyone! Protecting the environment’s a group effort!”

Satisfied, Yan Chuwen flashed a grin, jingled his car keys, waved, and left.

Plop—a steaming pile hit the ground. The mutt finished, spun half a circle in glee, and looked up at me with innocent, clueless eyes—an unspoken nudge.

I braced myself, double-bagged my hand, turned my face away, and reached for the turd.

It was soft, warm even—I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the nausea surging up.

Why’d I ditch my cushy jewelry designer gig to come to the mountains and scoop poop? What was wrong with me?

Standing, I tied the bag tight and started back—then realized something was off.

Clenching my empty fingers, I whipped my head up. Under the dim yellow sunset, Erqian—leash dragging—chased a multicolored rooster down the path, already dozens of meters ahead.

“Damn it, stop!” I bolted after it, clutching the poop bag tight.

“Cluck cluck cluck!!”

“Woof woof woof!”

“Erqian!”

One chicken, one dog, one guy—racing up the endless steps toward the sunset. The little yellow mutt pulled further away. Gritting my teeth, I sped up, chest burning, throat tasting of rust.

The steps led straight to the Deer King Temple I’d visited yesterday. I silently prayed Erqian wouldn’t go in—then watched the chicken and dog dart inside. Seconds later, a loud crash echoed out.

Good job!

I sucked in a breath, charged into the temple, and—before I could catch my wind—saw a scene that made my vision blur.

The rooster was gone, probably flown over the wall. Erqian paced anxiously beneath it, whining.

The dozen or so flowerpots once neatly lining the courtyard wall bore the scars of “chicken chaos, dog disaster.” Orchid leaves were speckled with suspect feathers or chomped by dog teeth, mangled beyond repair. Worst of all, a green-glazed square pot lay shattered in eight pieces, a pitiful wreck—though, thankfully, it’d been empty.

Erqian, oblivious to the havoc, trotted a few steps toward me.

I tamped down my rage, trying not to look too feral, and edged closer.

“Don’t move, Erqian. Let me catch you, give you a good whack, and we’ll call it even—pay for the pot, then go home happy, okay?” Staring into its guileless eyes, I declared the deal done. “Great.”

I lunged. Erqian, as if reading my mind, dodged nimbly. I lost balance, crashed to my knees, and slammed my hands onto the rough gravel, igniting a stinging pain.

And with the pain came a stench—I’d burst the bag in the fall.

I froze, mentally unleashing every filthy curse I knew.

“Bai Yin?”

A faint chime of beads clinked nearby. Like a rusty clock, I creaked my head up and locked eyes with Mochuan, who’d come at the sound.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, lashes low, stopping about two meters away.

Erqian wagged its tail like mad, panting and circling him.

Bootlicker!

I cursed under my breath, hauling myself up, forcing a neutral face like nothing happened.

“Tripped. Can I use your bathroom?”

His gaze dropped to my half-raised hand, brows knitting slowly. Then… he silently stepped aside, turning his face away.

He was clearly fighting not to look disgusted.

Humiliation burned in my chest. I pivoted and marched to the bathroom, head unbowed.