K loathed wrinkles except for seeing them where they belonged; on an adored and cherished Shar Pei.

K found his Shar Pei during a trip to Guangzhou, China.

While taking an evening stroll through the streets of the ancient village of Dai Lek, K spotted a gorgeous Chinese courtesan sobbing while attempting to control a terrified, stubborn, and disoriented Shar Pei.

Intrigued, K wondered what was going on.

He just had to know.

As they slipped around a corner, K ran oppositely and met them on the other side.

The courtesan was startled, frightened and immediately covered her beautiful face; however, with K’s confident, calming, and charming demeanor, she soon found herself wrapped up in his arms and sobbing while expounding on the harrowing tale they had just experienced.

And what a tale it was!

K listened intently and heard that this gorgeous, sensitive, and brave courtesan had just helped this beautiful specimen of a Shar Pei escape from the international puppy mill.

Outwardly, the puppy mill appeared to be an international youth hostel, but nothing could be further from the truth!

She went on. . .

Several times, she had inquisitively peeked through the dense privet hedges surrounding the grounds and, occasionally, caught a glimpse of the beautiful pure bread Shar Pei that was now in her tender, loving care.

The more peeking the courtesan had done, the more details she could see. The place, in fact, revealed many dogs confined to filthy cages that were barely bigger than their own bodies, causing them observable suffering and distress. She also noticed that the dogs weren’t given love, attention, or even a chance to play or roll in the grass.

She just couldn’t take it.

So, with intense fear, as she continued cautiously investigating, she observed that some cages were two feet off the ground and directly beside the hedge. With this in mind, one night at home, she pleaded the case and got a pair of cage-clip pliers.

After that, each night the courtesan set out to entertain, she would yield momentarily, reach in through the thick hedge, and begin clipping the bars on the cage. She then would ensure that the hedge completely concealed the in-process clipping.

It seemed to take forever; however, when the hole was big enough, the Shar Pei would have to do her part.

She yanked at her roots, both fists tangled with brownish/blonde hair. She had been doing it for weeks, eyes locked on herself in the bathroom mirror–tugging and pulling with all her might, until her eyes swelled with tears and her face twisted into a grimace.

It’s not going to grow any faster, I said in the most sympathetic way I could. 

You just don’t get it, she spat, glaring at me in the mirror. For guys it’s different. 

Everything changed the evening she came home with her new hair cut, the recommendation of an inept stylist whose theories of hair design have no place in reality. She hated me now, not because I did anything wrong. But rather because I was part of the world in which she, now seven inches shorter, had to live. 

Just go away please. She pulled on her hair again. Her eyes were still hateful and I wondered, jokingly maybe, if she wanted me dead: one less person to scrutinize her exposed neck and comment on her earrings. 

“You were wrong, K.” I woke to find myself floundering in a sea of her hair. She continued to say ominous things, but, because of the mass of hair, I couldn’t locate the source. 

I felt myself being dragged  under. It was either the undertow or something else. 

No matter the mayhem, remaining calm came incredibly easy for K. However, the assessment of current conditions was substantially much more complicated. What to do, and or where to start? “I’ll start at the beginning.” thought K, but the beginning of what? There had been so many!

Remaining on the luxurious massage table (minus the allusive masseuse), Body (a.k.a. “B“) was at peace, remaining utterly undeterred by K’s intense scrutiny of his prized tattoos. Actually, the scrutiny provided by K was more of the lovingly poking and prodding of a newborn baby. B didn’t mind.

B and K loved the process of getting tattoos.

The first challenge was to find the perfect tattoo artist. Of course, he, she, it, or they would have to be famous.

Thanks to K‘s former creative genius, the second challenge of financing the tattoos would be of no consequence. However, the third challenge was to endure the excruciating aftercare.

K may need to become a masochist. Could he?