A Law Worth Loving

"Hahahaha~!"

The three animals' eyes went round as saucers. They had never heard Lee Jun laugh like that — not this loud, not this freely. The surprise lasted only a heartbeat. Then they were laughing with him. Duri, who was right there beside them, joined in too.

All four of them opened their mouths wider than before and laughed with everything they had.

"Hehehe, Hyung-nim is laughing-ong."

"Eheheh, Hyung-nim is laughing. This is great."

"Ehehehe, this is great-yo!"

"Hehehe...."

Watching the four of them beam even brighter in his wake, Lee Jun thought, Those kids will laugh like this too, won't they?

He hoped so. No — he would make sure of it.

Hoesaegi and Gkamnyangi rubbed themselves against his crouched legs, purring and laughing. Sapsaree and Duri nuzzled their big faces against his shoulders, laughing just as hard.

Feeling the warmth of all four of them, Lee Jun found himself remembering a day from long ago.

He had been a complete greenhorn then — second year of the pre-veterinary program.

And what did that mean, exactly?

For those two pre-vet years, as long as you filled your credits and steered clear of academic probation, you passed. Whether you topped the class or scraped by on the skin of your teeth, a pass was a pass, and up you went into the main program.

After that, the slate was wiped clean. Only the four years of the real veterinary curriculum counted. A strange and marvelous arrangement, those two pre-vet years.

While friends in other majors started stacking credentials the moment they enrolled, already worrying about their futures, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this was a time to savor the leisure.

What they didn't know then was that those two years would be the only time they ever got to enjoy it.

It must have been the second semester of that second pre-vet year. A handful of courses were taught by professors from the main program, and Lee Jun's classmates were, if only a little, on edge.

The reason was simple: if one of those professors marked you, the next four years would be hell. And there was another thing.

These days attendance is taken with authentication codes or QR scans, but back then they called roll. Either the professor called names himself, or a teaching assistant checked.

Naturally, that professor called roll. And in his class, being late simply wasn't an option — the moment he walked into the lecture hall, he locked the door.

It was a once-a-week, three-hour block, so there was a break in the middle. Before dismissing them, the professor would announce the time he intended to resume. And when that time came, without fail, he locked the door again.

Then he counted heads and called roll a second time. Even if you had been marked present at the start, if you weren't in your seat for the second call, the entire three hours were recorded as an absence.

Fail to meet the attendance requirement, and it didn't matter how well you did on the exam — you got an F. Meaning you repeated a year of the pre-vet program.

It was a class you couldn't help but be tense for. Because it connected directly to the main curriculum, the terminology was unfamiliar and the content was the real thing. In short, it was a lecture of unrelenting tension.

Then one day, during class, the professor asked for their opinions on boshintang — dog-meat soup. What did the pre-vet students think? Naturally, the vast majority of the class was of one mind.

They hated that restaurants still sold "that." It was shameful. They hoped every last one of those places would vanish as soon as possible.

But not everyone voiced that opinion. A small minority argued, I don't like eating "that." I don't think people should eat it. But it's been eaten since ancient times, so I'm not sure about all this talk of abolition.

The professor asked those students to speak as veterinary students. What was their opinion then?

The students were bewildered. They didn't understand how an opinion "as a veterinary student" was supposed to be any different.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

So the professor assigned a report: Why You Shouldn't Eat Dog Meat.

The first report ever assigned by a professor from the main program.

According to the upperclassmen, this particular professor was not a man to trifle with. Petty as they came, they said — the type who remembered everything, forever. The students were on edge.

The ones who had planned to slap together a patchwork from their more diligent classmates' papers started digging through source material. Lee Jun was no exception.

And in the process, they learned something new. Article 2 of the Livestock Products Sanitary Control Act defined "livestock."

That was it. Dogs were not on the list.

Of course they weren't. Dogs — people's friends, companion animals — couldn't possibly be classified as livestock. To students who had come to veterinary school because they loved animals, it was the most obvious thing in the world. Lee Jun thought so too.

But the law taught them something else. Dogs were not livestock. Therefore, the slaughter and processing of dogs did not fall under the Livestock Products Sanitary Control Act.

In other words, dog meat was being slaughtered and distributed illegally.

So what?

To Lee Jun and his friends, that fact was infuriating beyond words.

If an animal is livestock, it lives in facilities prescribed by law. And as sorry as it is to say, even slaughter is carried out according to the law.

But dogs weren't covered. Which meant they were being kept in conditions worse than livestock, fed things that defied description, and killed in ways too horrific to put into words.

Lee Jun and his classmates, who had started out treating it as just another homework assignment, were furious. Truly furious.

And it wasn't only them. Their seniors had been furious. Their juniors would be furious too. That professor assigned the same report topic every single year.

But now, with the fully revised Animal Protection Act, they could finally dream of a slightly brighter future.

Many provisions had been amended, but the revision that made Lee Jun happiest was this one.

Justifiable grounds.

What this meant, in plain language, was that the arbitrary slaughter of animals was now banned in all but name.

Finally — we can prosecute regardless of how cruel the method of slaughter was!

Previously, only the cruel methods had been prohibited — hanging, electrocution, and the like. Now, slaughter itself would be punished. No exceptions.

I hope they all vanish this time. No — they have to.

Just as Lee Jun was celebrating in advance the disappearance of every boshintang restaurant from this land, pulling the four animals into his arms, laughter was ringing through the lobby as well.

"Heh heh, it's finally goin' into effect!"

Go Gi-jin threw his big mouth wide open and laughed, and beside him Yoo Mu-hwan was smiling too.

"I know. This law is finally being enforced."

"I'm so happy," Jang Sora said, clasping her hands together. "The meat-farm dogs will disappear now, right?"

Cha Da-jeong raised a clenched right fist and picked up the thread.

"They'd better. I hope those people get hit with massive fines and go completely bankrupt!"

"That's what I'm sayin'. What's thirty million won in fines? Thirty million. Jack it straight up to three hundred million — how great would that be? Am I right or am I right?"

"That's still a long way off," Yoo Mu-hwan said. "So I'd settle for fines of at least thirty million won, rather than up to thirty million. Even that much would be an improvement."

Everyone nodded.

"Exactly. Not up to three years in prison — at least three years, plus fines of at least thirty million won. That would've been better."

"I'd even be happy with a flat thirty million."

"It'll get better bit by bit. That's what I hope, anyway."

It was well past nine-thirty at night, but the lobby of Mongmong Animal Hospital was lit up as bright as midday. Duri the Golden Retriever's surgery having run late had something to do with it — but more than that, the staff were too wound up over the law taking effect the next day to go home.

Jang Sora read the words off her phone screen.

Then her eyes went a little dreamy, and she went on.

She meant the revised Animal Protection Act — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the one that said you could not kill an animal on a whim, not without justifiable grounds.

"It's so moving," Yoo Mu-hwan said. "I still remember how furious I was writing that report...."

"That's right. We were mighty furious, we were!"

Go Gi-jin caught Yoo Mu-hwan's meaning at once — of course he knew which report — and the corner of his mouth ticked up. Yoo Mu-hwan's mouth ticked up to match.

Jang Sora's eyes went round.

"You said you were furious. So why are you smiling?"

"They're probably remembering how they got those restaurants shut down."

Lee Jun had finished checking on Duri and was walking out into the lobby as he answered.

"Shut down? The restaurants?"

"Ah, Manager, do you know? How dog—"

Cha Da-jeong, who couldn't bear to spit out the words dog meat inside an animal hospital, let a beep take their place.

"—gets distributed."

Not that Jang Sora needed help figuring it out.

"I've never really thought about it? I just figured they were delivered in freezer trucks or refrigerated trucks, righ'—"

The words themselves made the anger surge. Jang Sora clenched both sets of molars until they creaked.

"Wouldn't that give them a stomachache?"

"Pardon?"

"If those people ate food that hygienic, it'd be too much for their stomachs. Dog-beep falls outside the Livestock Products Sanitary Control Act, you see. Because dogs aren't livestock."

"Ah.... So then?"

Jang Sora asked with a dazed look, and Cha Da-jeong answered through gritted teeth.

"Well, there are probably people who distribute it properly. But these are people who violate the law out in the open. All kinds of people. They just ship it. In the sweltering middle of summer, in box trucks with no cooling system at all."

"Oh my god. Doesn't it rot?"

"It does. Wrapped in plastic and hauled like that."

"Ugh!"

Jang Sora's face crumpled, and Lee Jun took over.

"When they investigate the shipments that get caught, more often than not more than half of it is already rotten. And that is what gets distributed."

"Eugh.... Serves them right."

Jang Sora's small, spiteful little revenge of a remark earned Cha Da-jeong's full agreement.

"It really does."

"Anyway," Lee Jun went on, "when Gi-jin was a student, he reported those restaurants — for violating the Food Sanitation Act, I think? Something like that."

"Oh my gosh! Dr. Go, you did that?"

The scowl on Jang Sora's face bloomed into brightness.

"Couldn't just sit on my hands, could I? That's why I did it. Aigoo — and that's why I still can't eat samgyetang to this day."

Restaurants that sold boshintang often sold samgyetang — ginseng chicken soup — as well. Go Gi-jin would go in, order the samgyetang, and document the violations.

"But Gi-jin, how did you report them, exactly?"

"Unsanitary conditions and the like. You open your eyes and there's a thousand things to report, y'know? Illegal structures, all sorts of stuff."

"Anyway, thanks to Gi-jin's efforts, quite a few of those restaurants got hit with business suspensions."

"Oh my gosh, so satisfying!"

"Huh?"

"I mean it's refreshing! Dr. Go, you're so cool."

"He is," Lee Jun said. "And after that, it became something of a department tradition. We couldn't change the law overnight, so we did what we could within the range we had."

"That's really wonderful! You're all so wonderful."

"It's thanks to Gi-jin."

Lee Jun praised him openly. Every gaze in the lobby swung toward Go Gi-jin, who quietly dropped his eyes to the floor.

"Aw, I didn't do nothin' special. Those kids were just too pitiful, that's all. Anyway — now we can report 'em proper, with our heads held high."

His eyes flashed, and he grinned as he added,

"Just you wait, you lot. I'll see you in the summer."

"I don't know if they'll even last until next summer," Lee Jun said. "I hope they're all gone before then."

"That's right, that's exactly right. Every last one of 'em oughta disappear. This is a world with more than enough to eat!"

"I agree. I cannot understand why anyone would have to commit a crime just to eat."

Everyone nodded — at Go Gi-jin's words, and at Yoo Mu-hwan's after them. They had all been thinking the same thing.

"Our Uriteul director's about to get real busy, I tell you. He'll be out rescuing those kids, won't he?"

"He will. Though I don't know how many more Uriteul Shelter can actually take in. Even if they push it, thirty or forty dogs is probably the maximum."

"Everywhere else will be in the same boat. It's worrying."

"It will be. If they were the kind of dogs that got adopted easily, it would be a little better, but unless they get sent abroad.... Hoo."

Lee Jun started to answer Yoo Mu-hwan and then let the rest out as a sigh. He could already see the near future.

The dogs raised for meat were, for the most part, large. And they were raised in floating cages — wire mesh crates suspended off the ground, with grid floors so the waste would fall through. The ones who could even stand up in those cages were the lucky ones. It was an environment where dogs died crushed, stacked on top of one another like so many folded blankets in a space too small to turn around.

Those were the dogs who had lived in places like that. Big-bodied, and the only human hands they had ever known were the hands that killed their companions. Could dogs like that really go up for adoption?

Of course some of them could. The ones who had, quite literally, won the lottery.

But how many would that be?

Lee Jun's sigh was joined by sighs from all around the lobby. They came from the same mouths that had been smiling with joy only moments before, and they carried the same meaning as his.

Lee Jun and Go Gi-jin came home to Golmokjib, and the moment they were through the door they dropped onto the sofa and sighed, and sighed, and sighed. They didn't even notice the three animals watching them with puzzled eyes.

After a long stretch of that, Go Gi-jin opened his mouth.

"Hoo.... Hyung-nim. What if I talked to my dad about it?"

"Director Go?"

"Yes. If he's got land to spare, we could at least put those kids in a pen over there, couldn't we? Throw up a fence, build a kennel — wouldn't cost all that much...."

"Don't. We're already imposing on him with the animals we've left there. Adding those dogs on top of that would be too much."

The animals still being treated from the forest fire — and even the ones who had already recovered — were spending the winter at veterinarian Go Panseok's hillside ranch, known as Go Pan-seok's Sanctuary. Yom-yom-i and Yom-yom-i's squirrel friends were wintering there too.

"It's not just the space. Someone would have to look after them. And they're not wild animals."

At Lee Jun's words, Go Gi-jin nodded slowly.

"....You're right, Hyung-nim. I didn't think of that. Come to think of it, even Uriteul Shelter has so many volunteers, doesn't it?"

"It does."

The two of them sighed wordlessly a few more times. Then Go Gi-jin spoke again.

"There'll be a lot of people thinkin' the same as us. Right?"

"Yeah."

Lee Jun had met enough good people by now to be sure of it. There would be many who were just as worried about the situation as they were — and who were already fighting with everything they had for those dogs.

He wanted to help too.

"If I had land of my own it would be a different story, but for now I should at least donate. Rescuing them doesn't cost one or two coins, after all."

"That's what we oughta do."

"Should we donate in Mongmong Animal Hospital's name?"

"Oh, that's a good one."

That was when it happened. Hoesaegi, who had been sitting beside Lee Jun and nodding off, had his head drop and startled himself awake, blinking.

"If you're sleepy, go to bed."

"It's not that-ong. Hyung-nim and Strong Hyung-nim were like this-ong. Hoo...."

Hoesaegi pursed his small mouth and let out a sigh of his own.

"That's right. The hyung-nims are like this."

Gkamnyangi was getting sleepy too. He blinked and stuck his mouth out in a little pout.

"That's right-yo! We're gonna sleep together too-yo!"

Sapsaree, who was declaring that they would all sleep together, already had his eyes half shut.

Lee Jun smiled, touched by the three of them and their stubborn little kindness — and then a thought struck him.

Ah. Suho's been sharing the revenue from their videos, hasn't he?

He had been so busy he'd forgotten. He didn't know how much it was, but adding that to the donation wouldn't hurt. He would have to ask the three of them for their opinion, of course.

I'll talk to them when morning comes.

They would say yes. He was sure of it. Holding that thought, Lee Jun stood up.

"Let's go to bed."

"Yeah. Let's. You kids get some sleep now."

Go Gi-jin headed upstairs. Lee Jun walked toward his room on the first floor. The three of them trotted after him, pitter-patter, all the way in.