The Old Man Who Criticized Everyone and the Life of a Dog

The temple courtyard was quiet in the late afternoon, the wind drifting through the leaves carrying the humble scent of agarwood. I sat leaning against the stone steps, looking at an old canvas cot placed in the corner of the veranda — that cot was where an old man, near the end of his life, had lain through his final years. There was not a sound of anyone around, only the patter of a little puppy running past, then leaping suddenly onto the cot and curling up. The stillness felt strange, yet within me a nameless sorrow rose for a life that had just closed without a single kind word.

That old man had no close relatives; no one knew who his family was, for he had kept it hidden all his life. When he fell gravely ill, I was the only one at his side, caring for him, preparing each dose of medicine, waiting for him to breathe his last. In his entire life, he had never once praised anyone — except two: the Buddha and the Venerable Narada of Sri Lanka. From ordinary people to abbots and nuns, he found a way to criticize and scold every single one of them. Living like that, year after year, he accumulated heavy karma of speech. He made no offerings while alive, so when he died, I carried all his belongings up the mountain to keep at the temple, hoping that small blessing from merit might help him.

I still rested on the canvas cot he left behind whenever my back grew weary. The puppies raised at the temple also loved to jump up and lie on it. There was a Buddhist laywoman who, whenever she saw a dog climb onto the cot, would carry it down, afraid it would soil the old man's resting place. One night, she dreamed the old man appeared to her, his wrinkled face angry, his voice low and harsh: "That is my cot, and you keep dragging me off it, you stubborn old fool!" She woke with a shiver and told me about it. I sat in silence, thinking to myself: "Has he finished repaying his karma, or does he still carry the body of an animal?" Not long after, that little puppy lay down and died. I sat looking at the empty cot, my heart tightening — that death as a dog had perhaps settled his debt to the laywoman, but his karma of speech still lingered somewhere.

I brought the matter to a senior monk and asked: "Venerable teacher, he criticized the whole world and praised no one — why did he fall to be reborn as a dog?" The monk shook his head, his eyes growing somber: "A person of low character who cannot see his own faults, cannot see the goodness in others, and only knows how to criticize — such a one has not transcended himself. With karma of speech that heavy, losing the human body comes all too easily." I was bewildered: "But he committed no great sin — he only spoke harshly." The monk replied: "A mouth that criticizes for a lifetime, without a single good thought ever arising — falling into a lower realm is not difficult at all. I have witnessed this myself; it is no fabrication."

The heart of this story lies not in the death of the dog, but in the moment I sat reflecting on the old man's cause and effect (karmic law). I suddenly realized: he had done no great evil, yet all his life he could not see his own shortcomings, could not see anyone's goodness — a person of low character who had not transcended himself. It was precisely that "not seeing" that caused him to fall into an animal birth, and fortunately only for one life as a dog to repay his scolding of the laywoman. Without that small wholesome connection to the temple, he might have fallen far deeper.

Afterward, whenever I saw someone skilled at criticizing others, I would remind myself: we must step outside ourselves to see our own limits. I kept the canvas cot as a witness, no longer letting the puppies jump on it, and I taught the young laypeople: "Praise the goodness in others, see your own shortcomings — only then can one hope to be free of suffering (dukkha)." The laywoman of those days has come to understand now; every evening she still sweeps the courtyard, no longer afraid of soiling the old man's cot, for she has understood karma and its retribution.

Life at my temple goes on, but since the old man passed away, our laughter holds fewer words of disparagement. Those who heard his story soften their voices whenever they are tempted to criticize someone. I know the lesson of transcending oneself has seeped into people's hearts — slowly, and only through the life of a dog and an old canvas cot.

The Meaning of the Story

This story shows that a person of low character who cannot see his own faults, cannot recognize the goodness in others, and only knows how to criticize has not yet transcended himself. Such heavy karma of speech easily causes one to lose the human body and fall into an animal birth. To transcend oneself means to see clearly our own limits and to cherish the good in others.

Compiled from a dharma talk by the Venerable Thích Chân Quang.