I got you back after I saved up enough money to buy you from the farm in Samutprakarn. When I saw you again, you had already lost so much weight, no doubt from the gross mismanagement of your wellbeing. I remember how disappointed I was in myself that I wasn’t able to save you earlier. But that was no way near as disappointed as you would be in me, if you knew what I had to do to get the money.

Your keeper was a large, fat man. He said you had developed gout from a diet consisting solely of chicken wings and offcuts. I liked to think he was stealing your chicken carcasses, deep-frying them, and eating them as a midnight snack. He said that they could have given you to me for free because they couldn’t even afford to repaint the pool. Sick, pale flakes floated on the surface of your pool like everlasting icebergs. Even the sign announcing the feeding show, scarred by the sun, was cracked and white. Butchering you would have been expensive.

Two monsoons ago, you were crowned “The Queen Mother of the Mekong” by a local newspaper, a title as grand and as vast as your love and ambition for me. You were a large female with a medium-sized tail, in fact, one of the largest specimens of Crocodylus siamensis to ever be caught. Your snout was broad and smooth, the same way it was when you were a person. Behind each of your eyes rose bony crests, a false resemblance of human ears. Your skin was pebble-like, dark green, with variations toward olive-green and gray. Your teeth were uneven, so you rarely smiled. I only caught you smiling once, when you were sunbathing on the rock by the side of the pool. Your canines were already dull, chipped by bones. A sparrow landed on your nose, but you didn’t mind. You ate the sparrow and secreted tears. You liked birds.

I knew I would be so much better off without you, but you told me to be sincere. You said that every good child should be an apostle and a saint, but I didn’t understand how I had to love. Still, I was lost without you, so I had to have you back only for you to tell me I needed to lose more weight and that my new haircut looked strange.

I had to hire a truck. The driver was extremely reluctant, but I was prepared. I told him that it would be alright, that all the papers had been signed and filed. I even had enough to pay him extra for his troubles. As I said, the farm was raring to get rid of you, so I got you back for quite cheap. It was strictly business. They had to give me a discount because you went and ate your previous incarnation. It wasn’t their fault, of course. I couldn’t blame them. If anything, it was my fault that you jumped into the pool without the slightest pang of madness in your eyes. You made sure to look into my soul as you took off your lucky flip-flops and stashed them neatly under the fence. You didn’t even scream as you broke your own body, bone, hair, and all, dispersing your liquid life into the muddy waters. Your trainers were powerless. Even the youngest one with a crescent scar on his jawline was reluctant. He just adjusted his red bandana and readied his stick for a blow that would never land.

The manager gave me unnecessary papers to sign. I hesitated for a minute. The dotted line just said “#44.” It didn’t look right. I thought about giving you a new name, a designation, a sign. I had to keep up my appearance for you who could no longer keep up your own. I quite liked your previous name. But it wouldn’t do your current form any justice.

They put a leather muzzle on your snout for transport and you struggled to get it off for a few minutes before throwing up your stubby arms with the same exasperation as when I told you I had failed my exams. The older trainer mounted you from behind and tied your legs while the younger one pinned down your tail with his elbow. You struggled, but they were stronger. They blinded you with strips of torn black cloth and wrapped you up with pink plastic twine as if you were a crab on a bed of ice at the fish market waiting to be dismembered.

After some hesitation, the driver asked me, “What are you going to do with it?”

I told him I didn’t know. I just knew I had to take care of you because that was what a good, proper person was supposed to do.

“Is it old?” he said.

I scoffed at his faux pas. He should have known it was rude to ask a woman her age. I admitted that I didn’t know and guillotined the conversation. You hated talking about time. I prayed that your current incarnation would not be allergic to chlorine.

The pool was full of pigeons by the time I got back. The driver helped me carry you down. He left before I could ask him to help me cut the twine. I mounted your back and cut you loose with my key. I got up and let you explore your new surroundings. You hesitated before finally coming in for a hug. I had to jump up on the marble bench. Still, you were less scary than you were the day I snuck in the back door at 4 AM. You eyed me and wagged your tail.

The pool keeper turned on the lights on weekdays when the neighborhood boys had their swimming lessons. He also turned on water fountains, spouting steady streams from statues of stone children. There were a dozen statues, each sand-colored, caught in the middle of a gesture, an action. A nozzle for the chlorinated water appeared out of their clasped palms. Their braided hairstyles were ripped straight from my primary school textbook. You said the braids looked cute but you wouldn’t have wanted me to have them, because I was a very ugly child.

I didn’t know what you wanted to eat. I could no longer feed you your favorites: green chicken curry and rice. Remember, you had gout, so chicken was a big no-no. I gave you two chunks of beef you forgot in the fridge from when you had opposable thumbs. I remember what you told me, that because beef is expensive, it doesn’t aggravate your gout as much. You munched greedily on the freezer-burnt masses. I told you to chew but you were stubborn and dragged the rest off to finish underwater. When you were done, you flung half your body over a ladder, splashing water. The stone children turned wet and dark. You lay there like a rag. It wasn’t pretty. I touched your skin. It was incredibly cold.

I couldn’t take you to work the next day even though it was a take-your-pet-to-school day. Principal Mike wouldn’t allow it even though I knew my students would be thrilled. They allowed Fat Ryan to bring his pit bull. It bit me and everyone cheered. That day, I lectured my class on the conservation of aquatic species.

On the way home, I stopped by the market and got you a bag of chicken bones. I got to the pool and found the neighborhood boys crying. They couldn’t have their swimming lessons because there was a crocodile in the pool. The nannies were furious. The mothers were furious. The swimming instructor, an ex-nationally ranked swimmer, was absent. They said he had been taken away in an ambulance. They wanted to call the police but I negotiated. “I’ll take her away in the afternoon,” I said. I would take you to swim in the sea if only this city had a sea. I was sorry I could only afford a cage for stray dogs.

That was around the time I met a girl that I liked very much. She was a cousin of one of the boys who took swimming lessons at the pool. The way her hair swayed was like ripples and life. She said she was studying Buddhism in college and that her name was Pim. I asked if she wanted to have dinner beside the pool. “Would steak be alright?” I said. The rest of my fridge was filled with chicken carcasses.

She nodded. “I’m not that devout a Buddhist.”

She said the steak was good. We drank wine and she let it drip from her lips onto the floor. The stain was black like crushed beetles. She told me she lived with her mom.

“What is she doing for dinner?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Not my problem.”

In your past life, you had made sure I knew exactly what you wanted to eat every night, what I had to buy from the supermarket or have delivered. Then Pim asked me what I liked. She had dark, still eyes and just looking at them made the steak juicier.

“Do you like movies?”

“Not anymore,” I told her. I no longer watch movies because you told me you could not tolerate explosions and blood and sex. Then she went and said she liked Hollywood movies especially because of all the things you could not tolerate.

“I thought you were a Buddhist,” I said, “explosions and blood and sex are not Buddhist, a big no-no.”

“Who told you that?” she asked. I told her that it was you who told me that, among many other things. Pim shook her head and said, “Nowhere in the Pali Canon does it mention things that are not Buddhist. Neither does it say that you cannot spit on the Buddha or your parents, and I’ve done both. You should try it sometime.”

I could not even comprehend spitting at you. Just cursing at you made my stomach turn. My eyes burned at the thought of saliva gathering behind my tongue.

Pim said that she didn’t want me to think badly of her. “I just don’t care about them,” she said, meaning her parents. Her father was a sad, sad man, she told me, and she learned very early on never to trust sad men. Her mother was no better. “When you attach your life to a man like that, you are bound to become all kinds of sad and wrong.” That was why, she told me, she had to have her father taken away. “The Buddha,” she said, “was also a sad man.” There was sadness in her voice when she spoke of freedom as the opposite of devotion. “It is not hatred,” she said, “the opposite is indifference.”

“Is that a Buddhist concept? Did you learn that in class?”

“Oh, no,” she said, “I just read it in a gossip magazine.”

“Am I a sad man?”

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone,” I said. “Help.”

She stared at me hard and long then came over and we kissed. I licked her tongue and I spat in her mouth and she spat in mine. I would have bit her and chewed her whole mouth if my teeth were as sharp and unforgiving as yours. We embraced and it was explosions and blood and sex. “And also Buddhist,” she added. “Kissing, you see, is very Buddhist.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. The Buddha could kiss like no one’s business.”

But that was when your witch doctor called me. I’m sure you remember Dr. Brick. I even saw him last night on a late-night talk show. His skin was still burnt, and he still had on that strange uneven wig that looked like a crow landed on his head and died. He still wore the same crocodile skin loafers and styled his hair with a thick pomade, the kind that smelled of strawberry jam. He called to tell me that you still owed him money for that good luck charm he sold you: the consecrated flip-flops you left by the side of the feeding pool. When I asked him, “What money?” he became rude and told me that I had to give him all I have. I transferred some cash and that got him to shut up. He said he would send people to collect the rest in a week. If I couldn’t repay him, he said he would conjure a buffalo hide into my gut and sell you to Chinese businessmen to cover the rest.

When I got back to dinner, Pim was immersed in her phone. For the rest of that dinner, we could barely talk because you kept blowing those large bubbles that reeked of jealousy. Pim didn’t notice them, of course, but I could, even from far away. It was that distinct and noxious smell of chlorine that blossomed in the air. When she left, I felt like I wanted more from a dinner. I had hoped that, somehow, she would be capable of liking me more than you ever could. But then I went and lost to a phone. Still, I told you that I had fallen for her. Of course, I would always take care of you. After all, you made sure that I completely understood all the things you had sacrificed for me, all the dreams you dismembered, all the happiness you had to abort.

At school, our Buddhist Studies teacher went on maternity leave and I had to cover her class. One of the students, a girl in the 4th grade, asked me what the Buddha would say if she ran away from home. I told her that good children always listen to their parents. She said she no longer wanted to be a good child because it hurts. I asked why it hurts and she said that it just did, even though she couldn’t tell anyone about it. I said that it would be fine if she just listened to her parents. I told her that all parents love their children, and, deep down, they cared so much for her that their love had turned rigid and violent, but she cried and said that she didn’t agree. “Oh, but you should believe me,” I told her. “After all, that was what the Buddha said, and the Buddha, like all parents and gods, cannot possibly be wrong.”

I saw Pim again. She came to get me after school. She asked me about my students and what I taught them, and I asked her about the Buddha. But Pim said she couldn’t stand the Buddha. I asked about what the Buddha said about duty to one’s parents. She said that wasn’t the Buddha. She said it was just something some old men cooked up to codify obeisance to the patriarchy and monarchy. She told me that I would eventually have to choose: her or the patriarchy. She sounded like a soap opera.

“You, of course,” I told her, looking past her shoulders.

“Well?”

“I’m not getting rid of her.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“I don’t think you do.”

“Don’t you like me?”

“Like has nothing to do with it,” I said. “I have a duty that extends even after death.”

“It extends once a year and only to tombstones,” she said and disappeared into the morning. Pim didn’t actually ask me if I liked her. I only dreamt that she did because I fell asleep with the TV on. The lead actress you always said was pretty looked so much like her. I missed her like I had never missed anyone.

A few days later, Dad came to see me. He repeated his speech about how difficult you were. Nothing was ever enough, he said. He wasn’t enough. Neither was I. I told him I was seeing someone and he said he hoped she wouldn’t turn into a black hole like you did. I knew he had been drinking because he smelled like the past. I gave him his share of your money and he left to go to the movies. “What’s the movie about?” I asked. He explained, and sure enough, it contained the usual explosions and blood and sex. He invited me to come along but I said I no longer watched any movies. He said I was turning into a boring person like you, and that the funeral was fine. I asked what funeral he was talking about, but he got in his car and left.

When I took you away in the afternoon and the boys came for their swim, Pim went swimming with them. She played with the boys. She clumsily waded through the water. They played Godzilla and sea monsters. She glomped on one of the boys and made strange growls and pretended like she was going to eat him. I dreamed of swimming with her and the boys, but you know that I have a fear of water. Whenever I went for a swim, I thought about something waiting in the darkness at the bottom. But my imagination didn’t have to work so hard anymore. I knew it was you. You were always there. I knew that you were probably only minding your own business. I gave you your gossip magazines. When they got wet and bled, I tried to play the folk songs you liked on the radio, but music didn’t seem to work underwater. I put the television beside the pool, but you blinked with your nictitating membrane and groaned because it was too bright. If I was afraid of anything in the water now, it was probably your complaints, which, now that you’re incapable of language, I realized, were just insecurities.

Pim hung around even though it was your feeding time. I told her to relax but she was still scared. I told her to bow and be polite and submissive because I knew how much you value tradition and decorum. I had to assure her that you didn’t bite. I told her to go greet you properly but she kept her distance and did none of the things I told her to do. She didn’t mean to be rude, I assure you. She was just raised differently.

After dinner, Pim asked me about school and if she should quit Buddhist Studies and apply to a fashion design program in England. She said it was only because of her father that she chose to study Buddhism. Now that he was dead, she was rich and free. “I don’t owe anything to anybody,” she told me.

“What about your mom?”

“She had a choice,” Pim said, “but she went and wasted it on my dad. So that’s on her.”

I told her that she should think carefully before she made a mistake. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said. “You are too scared, too warm. I don’t understand why you still have that thing. You need to grow up. Don’t be a baby.”

“You’re the one who has to grow up,” I told her. “What you’re saying is childish.”

She looked at me with eyes I hadn’t seen since you went and exchanged yours for a reptile’s.

“I have a responsibility,” I said. “I am being responsible. It is my responsibility. Someone like you would never understand.”

“You need help,” she said.

“No,” I said. “This is normal.”

She was getting annoyed, so I shook my head and told her to do what she wanted, and in turn, I hope she would let me do whatever I wanted. She grumbled, so I ignored her and threw you raw chicken that you snatched mid-air. I could no longer afford steaks. Trust me, I was also disappointed in myself. You would think that I could have done so much better than chickens or Pim. I wonder what you would say if you could still complain. You would probably disapprove of her and the way she lived and what she thought was right.

Sometimes I dreamt of leaving you alone and going far away. I know that you always wanted the best for me and even though I knew that your best didn’t exist, that it was more of an ideology than a fact, I still believed you because you told me to trust you. “Why?” I always asked. “Just believe me,” you would say. “But why,” I said. “Just trust me,” you would say, “you’ll come crying back to me if you don’t.”

“I wonder if crocodiles can achieve enlightenment,” I said to Pim. You were still crunching the bones.

“Do you know what the Buddha would say?”

“Not really.”

“He would say chomp-chomp.”

“Does that mean crocodiles can become Buddhas, too? Like how all parents are Buddhas?”

“Then I should have stabbed my Buddha myself,” she said, “but he just had to go and hang himself and get eaten by rats.” Pim spat in the pool and gave me a sad look and said, “You should know by now that’s not how it works.”

We watched a movie afterward. It was an average revenge story with explosions. All I remember was the kiss after. Pim leaned in and she was wet. We bit each other and tore our skins. She flailed and wagged her legs and I tried to hold her down. “This is how the Buddha likes it,” she said, “more, right there.” But I couldn’t do it, and she slapped me and said I should have listened to her, then I did, but my explosion was all anxious and Pim just laid there all religious and limp. And there was no blood. The rest was small and disappointing.

Later that night, you were trying to say something to me, but I just wanted to sleep, so I contemplated beating you and sending you away. But you cried and cried and I had no choice but to keep on going through the long night.

At the end of the week, after an argument over the phone, Dr. Brick finally sent his goons for me and for you. I didn’t think he was that serious about it, but it turned out that he was. Three tattooed men came to my door and said, “Time to pay up.” I asked them nicely to leave but they hit me with a bat. I cried and ran to your pool, and when they caught up, I jumped in. I swam into the dark searching for your shape. They ran over to the statues of the stone children. They laughed at me and threw sticks and rocks. I called out for you but I couldn’t find you anywhere. Their voices were louder than mine. As usual, you never listened to me. “Swim, Mommy’s boy! Swim!” the men shouted.

I splashed and waited in the cold, dodging their barrage. One of them took a quick phone call. He came back and they talked about how to finish this. They took off their shirts but left their jeans and belts on. Their backs and shoulders were cluttered with symbols: incantations meant to ward off blades and arrows and bullets. They jumped in together and waded toward me. I called and called for you. I cried, but you weren’t there. All I could do was blow bubbles and wait for the inevitable. See, you said from the depth of darkness, bad things happen when you don’t listen to me. The men came closer. They reached out to me.

“Fine!” I said, “fine, fine, fine!”

And?

“I’m sorry! I give up. I’ll listen from now on.”

Good, you said, gurgling chlorinated water, you’ve learned your lesson. And the girl?

“Fine! I’ll call her tonight!”

Though the pool lights were on, they couldn’t see you. I swam to the edge and got out. When one of them saw your shadow, he quickly swam back to the edge of the pool, shouting obscenities. The other two followed, kicking up water like the neighborhood boys. But you were faster. With one little tug on the wet jeans, one of them fell screaming. You dragged him under and took your time turning his foot into a wet dinner. The other two grabbed onto his arms and tugged. When they understood that they could not win, one of them drew out a machete and another a gun. They slashed and shot at you but you held on. You crushed a femur and secreted tears. Your blood was black and dense. You wrestled a torso from a man. You thrashed your tail and they fell into the pool. Their tattoos said nothing of fangs and blunt force. Blades and bullets did not have the ferocity of love. So you gobbled them up, chomp-chomp, and said to me, See how far I would go for you? There were bubbles.

The next morning, I found myself again beside the pool in the morning when it was raining. My eyes were sore and I could only see the color orange. Someone in a neon orange shirt was dragging me away. The neighbors were talking. Pim was there, too. I called out to her but she was too far away and she couldn’t hear me. They told me she was the one who had called the authorities, but I told them that she would never have done that, because it is not Buddhist to take it out on your mother’s ex.

They made a spectacle out of you. A bearded man with a long stick lured you out and lashed you with relish. He brought the stick down repeatedly like plonk, plonk, plonk! You opened your mouth to cry but he leaped over you. He tried to bind your lips with a rope so you could no longer scream. But with your last bit of passion, you tried to make your way to me. You shook the man off and took his left leg, pants and all, and he screamed a scream so rich and so red before another man helped him up and gagged you with a dirty cord.

They put you on a truck and drove off. That was the second and last time I lost you. I could say that this time it was not my fault, but you would probably disagree. It always had to be my fault.

A policeman came over to me and guided my head tenderly into the car. It all felt too real and too much, and I thought this might be a good chance to try. So I bit his hand with all the love I could muster, but he was much stronger and he held me down and forced my neck to bend.

“Ow! What the fuck, man?” the policeman said, shaking his hand as if to wring out all of my love.

I felt so much sadness then, because I could see how much he was bleeding from his hands. I realized too how much my teeth could hurt when I bit down so hard on something. So I tried again. I bit my lips and bit myself even though it was difficult because of the handcuffs. I didn’t like how I tasted, so I bit harder. I bit until I drew more flesh and when they saw me, they came in to stop me, to try to stop me from loving myself. But I was stronger and I kicked them off and locked the door and continued tearing into my fingers and arms until I could feel the hardness of fresh, warm bone.

Outside they were screaming, begging me to stop loving myself. But I kept on chomping, chomp after chomp, into my arms and fingers then my hands. I chomped and kept on chomping, chewing the parts that were not too rough, and licking up the taste of liquid and metal. They broke the window and came in and held me back. No matter how much my wounds were throbbing, no matter how flayed and burning red my arm was, it hurt so much less, so much less than the rag they stuffed in my mouth to gag me, because then I was no longer allowed to love anything.