Pathway to Japanese Literature

When it came to dogs, I had confidence.
It was the confidence that one day, without fail, I would be bitten.
I would surely be bitten without a doubt.
Such was my confidence.
It was a wonder I’d managed to get through today without being bitten—I couldn’t help but find it strange.
Gentlemen, dogs are beasts.
They slaughter horses and even occasionally battle lions to conquer them—or so they say!
"It stands to reason," I thought with a lonely nod.
Behold those sharp fangs!
They’re no ordinary things.
Now they put on airs of innocence in the streets—debase themselves like worthless creatures rummaging through trash—but they remain beasts capable of slaughtering horses.
No one can tell when they might rage and reveal their true nature.
Dogs must be kept firmly chained at all times.
Not a moment’s carelessness can be permitted.
Most owners in this world—just because they feed scraps daily to these fearsome beasts—let down their guard completely! They call them “Here boy” like family members—even let their darling three-year-olds yank the beasts’ ears and laugh! At such sights you can’t help but shudder and cover your eyes.
What would you do if they suddenly barked and bit?
You must stay vigilant.
Even owners can’t guarantee safety from these beasts—(that notion of immunity through ownership being mere foolish superstition.

As long as they have those terrifying fangs, they will bite without fail.
(There is no scientific way to prove they will never bite.) What could they be thinking, letting those beasts roam freely and wander about the streets?
Last late autumn, my friend finally fell victim to this.
He was a pitiful victim.
According to my friend’s account, as he strolled idly through an alleyway with hands tucked in his sleeves, a dog sat properly on the road.
My friend simply did nothing and passed by the dog.
At that moment, the dog cast an unpleasant sidelong glance, he said.
He passed by without incident, but the moment he did, the dog barked and sank its fangs into his right leg, he said.
It was a disaster.
It happened in an instant.
My friend was stunned and bewildered.
After a short while, tears of frustration welled up in him.
"It stands to reason," I thought to myself with a lonely nod.
If it came to that, there’d be absolutely nothing to be done, wouldn’t there?
My friend dragged his aching leg to the hospital and received treatment.
Then, for twenty-one days, he went to the hospital.
It was three weeks.
Even after the wound on his leg had healed, he had to receive those antidote injections out of fear that the vile poison of rabies might have been introduced into his body.
As for negotiating with the owner, such a thing was utterly beyond the capabilities of this timid friend.
He simply endured in silence, sighing at his own misfortune.

Moreover, the injection fees were by no means cheap, and such extra savings—I must say—were not something my friend could have had; he must have made some painful financial arrangements. In any case, this was a terrible disaster.
It was a tremendous disaster.
Furthermore, if one were to carelessly neglect the injections, they might develop that horrific disease called rabies—suffering from fever and delirium until their face came to resemble a dog’s, crawling on all fours and doing nothing but howling woof woof.
What must my friend’s worries and anxieties have been like while receiving those injections?
My friend was a man of fortitude and upstanding character, so without making an ugly scene, he went to the hospital for three weeks—twenty-one days—received his injections, and was now healthy and working again; but if it had been me, I would not have let that dog live.
I am a man whose vengefulness is three or four times stronger than others, and when provoked, a man who exhibits cruelty five or six times greater than others; therefore, I would have instantly shattered that dog’s skull into pieces, gouged out its eyeballs, chewed them to a pulp and spat them out, and still not been satisfied—I would have gone on to poison every last one of the neighborhood dogs.
When one has done nothing at all, to suddenly bark and bite—what a rude and savage act this is!
However much they may be beasts, it is unforgivable.
It is precisely because people indulge them out of pity for beasts that things go wrong.
They should be mercilessly subjected to severe punishment.
Last autumn, upon hearing of my friend’s misfortune, my usual hatred toward dogs reached its peak.
It was a desperate hatred, burning with a blue flame.

At the start of this year, I rented a cottage on the outskirts of Kōfu in Yamanashi Prefecture—eight tatami mats, three tatami mats, one tatami mat—and settled there in secretive seclusion while toiling away at my clumsy novel; but in this town of Kōfu, wherever I went, there were dogs.
Their numbers were overwhelming.
Some loitered on thoroughfares, others lay sprawled out lazily; some dashed about while others barked fiercely with bared fangs. Any vacant lot inevitably became a den where strays wrestled and tussled in mock combat drills. At night they would swarm through deserted streets like marauding bandits, forming great packs that raced wildly in every direction.
In Kōfu, it seemed every household kept at least two dogs—such was their overwhelming number.

Yamanashi Prefecture was known as the birthplace of the Kai dog, but the canines one encountered on its streets were by no means such purebred specimens.
Red mongrels were the most numerous.
They were nothing but shallow, worthless mongrels without a single redeeming quality.
I had long harbored resentment toward domestic dogs, and since my friend’s misfortune, my loathing had only grown fiercer—I never let my guard slip. But with dogs swarming everywhere, prowling every alley or lying coiled up in leisurely slumber, it proved impossible to remain fully vigilant.
I truly struggled.
If possible, I thought about walking through town wearing shin guards, arm guards, and a helmet.
However, such an appearance would have been utterly bizarre and absolutely impermissible from the standpoint of public decency, so I had no choice but to adopt another method.
I seriously and earnestly considered countermeasures.
I first studied the psychology of dogs.
When it came to humans, I had some understanding and had even occasionally been able to pinpoint things accurately without error; however, the psychology of dogs was quite difficult.
To what extent human language facilitated emotional exchange between dogs and people—this became the first major conundrum.
If words proved useless, there was no choice but to read each other’s gestures and expressions.
Tail movements, among other things, were crucial.
However, even these tail movements proved quite complex when observed attentively—far from being easily decipherable.
I was nearly driven to despair.
And so, I devised an extremely clumsy, utterly inept method.
It was a pitiful measure born of desperation.
In any case, whenever I encountered dogs, I decided to put on a broad smile to show that I harbored not the slightest ill intent.
At night, since my smile might not be visible in the darkness, I innocently hummed nursery rhymes and endeavored to show that I was a gentle person.
I felt these measures had some degree of effect.

The dogs had yet to pounce on me.
But one must never let down their guard under any circumstances.
When passing by a dog—no matter how terrifying—you absolutely must not run.
Grinning an obsequious smile and shaking my head vacantly, slowly, slowly—while inwardly ravaged by a suffocating chill as though ten caterpillars crawled down my back—I passed through ever so slowly.
I grew thoroughly sick of my own servility.
I was overcome with self-loathing so intense it made me want to cry, but if I didn’t do this, I felt I’d be bitten instantly—so I offered pitiful greetings to every dog I encountered.
If I let my hair grow too long, I might be mistaken for a vagrant and barked at, so I resolved to make a point of frequenting the barber I so detested.
Were I to walk around carrying a stick, the dogs might mistake it for a weapon of intimidation and stir rebellious feelings—such a thing must not be allowed—so I resolved to permanently discard my walking stick.
Unable to grasp canine psychology, I had been thoughtlessly pandering to them at random when an unexpected phenomenon manifested itself here.
I had ended up being liked by the dogs.
Wagging their tails, they trailed along behind me in a pack.
I stamped my feet in frustration.
It was truly ironic.
To be liked by those very dogs toward whom I had long harbored ill will and whose recent actions had driven my hatred to its peak—if it must come to that—I would rather have been admired by camels.
That there should be nothing unpleasant about being liked by any wicked woman—that was a shallow assumption.
There were times when one’s pride—one’s very gut—simply could not abide it.
It was intolerable!
I hated dogs.
Having long since discerned their ferocious beastly nature, I had harbored ill will toward them.
For the mere sake of receiving scraps once or twice a day, they would betray friends, abandon wives, lie alone beneath house eaves putting on shows of loyalty, bark at former companions, utterly forget siblings and parents, do nothing but fawn over their owner’s expressions with shameless flattery, and even when beaten would yelp sweetly, wag their tails, and play dead to amuse the household—truly, how aptly they were called base dogs and beasts.

Though they possessed legs robust enough to effortlessly run ten ri a day and wielded fangs sharp enough to slay even lions—gleaming white blades—they shamelessly exhibited a rotten-to-the-core nature of laziness and depravity, submitting to humanity without a shred of pride or resistance, enslaving themselves while mutually despising their own kind, snarling and biting each other whenever they met face-to-face, all to curry human favor.

Look at sparrows.

Though delicate little birds without a single weapon, did they not secure their freedom, maintain a small society entirely separate from the human world, foster affection among their own kind, and joyfully sing through each day of their meager existence?

The more I thought about it, the filthier dogs seemed.

I hated dogs.

Somehow I even felt there were parts resembling myself, making me detest them all the more.

It became unbearable.

When that dog took particular liking to me—wagging its tail to express affection—I found myself utterly at a loss whether to feel flustered, resentful, or something else entirely.

Having revered dogs’ beastly nature too highly and scattered immoderate fawning smiles as I walked about, they must have mistaken this for camaraderie—deeming me an easy mark—thus leading to this pitiful outcome. But in all things moderation proved paramount.

I still lacked any sense of moderation.

It was early spring.

Just before dinner, I went out for a walk to the nearby 49th Regiment’s drill ground. Two or three dogs trailed behind me, and though I felt half-alive with dread that they might snap at my heels any moment, this had become routine. Resigned, I feigned nonchalance, desperately suppressing the urge to bolt away like a startled hare, and strolled leisurely on.
The dogs followed me while beginning to fight among themselves along the way. I deliberately refrained from looking back and feigned ignorance as I walked, though inwardly I was utterly exasperated.
If I had a pistol, I would have shot them dead without hesitation—bang! bang!
The dog, unaware that I harbored such duplicitous malice—outwardly benevolent as a Bodhisattva yet inwardly wrathful as a Yasha—continued to follow me relentlessly.
After circling once around the drill ground, I set off for home, still accompanied by the dog.
By the time I reached home, the dogs behind me would have scattered like clouds and vanished like mist—this had been our customary pattern until then. But on that day alone, there was one that clung to me with persistent familiarity.
A jet-black, wretched-looking little puppy.
It was quite small.
The torso felt about five inches long.
But just because it was small didn’t mean you could let your guard down.
Its teeth must already have been fully grown.
If bitten, you’d have to go to the hospital for three, seven, and twenty-one days.
Moreover, such young creatures lacked common sense and were therefore capricious.
You had to be even more cautious.
The puppy moved back and forth, looking up at my face as it staggered along, until finally it followed me all the way to my house’s entrance.

“Hey.
“A weird creature followed me here.”

“Oh, how cute.”

“Cute my foot!
“You chase it off—if you’re too rough, it’ll bite you. Just give it some sweets or something.”

It was my usual feeble diplomacy.
The puppy instantly discerned my inner terror, exploited it, and with brazen impudence proceeded to insinuate itself into my home.
And so this dog remained in my house from March through April, May, June, July, August—all the way to the present when autumn winds began to blow.
This dog made me cry countless times.
I simply couldn't dispose of him.
I reluctantly took to calling this dog Pochi or such, but even after half a year of cohabitation, I still couldn't consider this Pochi part of the household.
I couldn't help feeling he belonged to someone else.
It didn't sit right.
We were at odds.
We were locked in a battle of psychological one-upmanship, sparks flying between us.
And so we found ourselves utterly unable to exchange a satisfying laugh.

When he first came to this house, he was still a puppy—observing ants on the ground with suspicious intensity, letting out shrieks at the sight of a toad. His antics even made me chuckle despite myself. Detestable creature though he was, I thought perhaps divine providence had guided him to wander into our home. So I made a bed for him under the eaves, boiled his food soft like infant fare, sprinkled flea powder over his body.
But after a month had passed, it became unbearable.
The mutt had begun to show his true nature.
Vile.
Originally, this dog must have been one abandoned in a corner of the drill ground.
On my way back from that walk, he clung to me as he followed along; at that time, he had been emaciated beyond recognition, his fur patchy and his hindquarters almost entirely bald.
It was precisely because it was me that I gave him sweets, made porridge, didn’t utter a single harsh word, and treated him as carefully as if touching a boil.
If it had been anyone else, they would have kicked him away and chased him off without fail.
My such kind hospitality was in truth nothing but a cunning stratagem born of innate hatred and terror toward dogs; yet thanks to me, this Pochi had managed to grow into a proper male dog with his coat smoothed out.
I have no intention of currying favor, but it seems only reasonable that he might provide some small enjoyment for us as well—however, a stray dog is hopeless after all.
After devouring a huge meal—perhaps considering it postprandial exercise—he mercilessly gnawed my wooden clogs to pieces, then meddled with the laundry hung out in the garden, dragging it down and coating everything in mud.

“Please don’t play these kinds of jokes.”
“You’re really causing me trouble.”
“Who asked you to do this for me?”

There were times when I’d lace my words with hidden barbs—uttering them as gently as possible yet laced with bitterness—but the dog would merely shift his gaze and fawn upon me, the very one delivering this acrid lecture.
What a spoiled mentality!
I secretly recoiled at this dog’s shamelessness and came to despise him.
As time passed, his incompetence became glaringly apparent.
First off, his physique was wretched.
In his youth, his proportions had seemed more balanced—even hinting at noble lineage—but that proved utterly false.
His torso grew spindly while his limbs remained stubby.
He resembled a turtle.
It pained me to look.
With that grotesque form shadowing my every outing, children would point and jeer, “Look at that freakish dog!” My vanity rendered all attempts at dignified walking futile.
Even when I quickened my pace to feign unfamiliarity, Pochi clung close—gazing up repeatedly, weaving before and behind—making our bond unmistakable.
We could only appear as devoted master and servant.
Each excursion plunged me into gloom.
Good training indeed.
Yet those days of mere following were still bearable.
Soon he began revealing his latent beastly nature.
He developed a taste for combat.

Accompanying me on walks through town, he exchanged greetings with every dog we encountered—every single one. In other words, he fought every single one as he passed through. Pochi’s legs were short and he was still young, yet proved surprisingly strong in fights. When he ventured into a vacant lot’s dog den and took on five dogs at once, it looked perilous indeed, but he deftly dodged and evaded disaster. With tremendous confidence, he leapt at any dog. There were times when he’d be overwhelmed by the opponent’s momentum, barking as he retreated inch by inch. His voice edged toward a scream, his jet-black face turning ashen. Once he leapt at a calf-sized shepherd dog—that time, I turned pale. Indeed, he was no match at all. The shepherd dog toyed with Pochi using its front paws and didn’t take the fight seriously, so Pochi’s life was spared. Once a dog goes through such a terrible experience, it seems to lose all its spirit. Pochi visibly began avoiding fights from then on. Moreover, I do not enjoy fights—no, it’s not that I don’t enjoy them; I believe allowing such beastly brawls to go unchecked on public streets is a disgrace to any civilized nation. Thus, when faced with those deafening canine clamors—the yelping, screeching barbaric howls—I feel a rage and hatred so profound that even killing them would not suffice. I do not love Pochi. Fear him? Yes. Loathe him? Absolutely. But love? Not an ounce. I wish he would die. Trailing along after me—did he think it some obligation of a kept animal?—every dog we encountered on the street, every single one, he engaged in these ghastly barking battles with them, and I, as his master, trembled convulsively with terror each time. I wanted to hail a car, get in, slam the door shut, and flee headlong. If it were meant to end in a dogfight between them, that would be one thing—but what if the enemy dog went mad and leapt at me, Pochi’s owner? I wouldn’t let anyone say it couldn’t happen. They are bloodthirsty beasts.

There was no telling what they might do.
I would be mercilessly bitten and torn apart, forced to attend the hospital for three days, seven days, twenty-one days.
Dog fights were hell.
At every opportunity, I lectured Pochi.

“You mustn’t get into fights.”
“If you must fight, I want you to do it somewhere far away from me.”
“I don’t like you at all.”

It seemed Pochi understood a little too. When told such things, he would grow somewhat dejected. I finally came to regard the dog as uncanny. Whether my repeated admonitions had taken effect at last, or whether it stemmed from his humiliating defeat in that battle with the shepherd dog, Pochi began adopting an attitude of abject timidity. When walking down streets with me, if other dogs barked at him, Pochi would—

“Ugh, this is awful, awful.”
“How barbaric.”

As if declaring, “How uncouth,” he put on airs to curry my favor—shuddering his torso theatrically, casting sidelong glances at the other dog as if pitying some hopeless fool, all while gauging my expression and letting out a servile, ingratiating laugh: “Heh heh heh.” The sheer loathsomeness of his demeanor was beyond description.

“There’s not a single good thing about this mutt, is there? He’s always sucking up to people, reading their damn faces.”

“It’s because you fuss over him so strangely.”

My wife had been indifferent to Pochi from the start.
When the laundry was soiled, she would grumble, but otherwise acted nonchalantly, calling him "Pochi-Pochi" and feeding him meals and such.
“Maybe his personality’s gone bankrupt,” she laughed.

“So he’s come to resemble his owner, you mean?”
I grew increasingly bitter.

July came, and an unusual event occurred.
We finally managed to find a small house under construction in Mitaka Village, Tokyo, and after exchanging a contractual deed with the landlord to rent it for twenty-four yen per month upon completion, we gradually began preparing for relocation.
When the house was completed, it had been arranged that a special delivery notice would come from the landlord.
Pochi was, of course, going to be left behind.

“You could just take him along, you know.”
My wife still didn’t consider Pochi much of a problem.
It didn’t matter either way.

“No.”
“It’s not because he’s cute that I’m keeping him.”
“It’s because I’m terrified the dog will take revenge on me that I have no choice but to keep him.”
“Don’t you get it?”

“But whenever Pochi disappears even briefly, don’t you make a huge fuss—‘Where could he be? Where could he be?’”

“When he disappears, it’s even creepier—he might be hiding from me and secretly gathering allies.”
“He knows I despise him.”
“Dogs are known for their strong vengefulness, you know.”

I had been thinking this was the perfect opportunity.
If I were to pretend to forget about this dog, leave him here, and quickly board a train to Tokyo, surely even a dog wouldn't chase us all the way over Sasago Pass to Mitaka Village.
We weren't abandoning Pochi.
We had simply forgotten to take him along through sheer carelessness.
It's not a crime.
There's no reason for Pochi to resent me.
There's no reason I'd face revenge.

“It’ll be okay, right? Even if we leave him behind, he probably won’t starve to death, right? There’s also the matter of vengeful spirits’ curses.”

“He was a stray to begin with, you know.” My wife also seemed slightly uneasy.

“That’s right. He won’t starve to death. He’ll manage somehow. If I took such a dog to Tokyo, I’d be ashamed before my friends. His torso is too long. How unsightly.”

Pochi was definitively going to be left behind after all.
Then something strange happened here.
Pochi came down with a skin disease.
And it was dreadful.
Even I hesitated to describe it—the sight made you want to look away.
With the sweltering heat came an extraordinary stench.
This time my wife broke down.

“It’s bad for the neighbors. Please kill him.” Women are more ruthless and bold than men when it comes to this.

“Are you going to kill him?”
I was startled.
“Can’t we endure just a little longer?”

We were eagerly awaiting the special delivery from our Mitaka landlord.
The landlord had said it would be ready by late July, but as July was nearing its end—with today or tomorrow being the expected days—we had packed our belongings and were on standby; yet the notification simply wouldn’t arrive.
While we were sending inquiry letters and such, Pochi’s skin disease began.
The more I looked, the more gruesome it became—utterly appalling.
Pochi too, by now seemed ashamed of his own hideous form and had taken to preferring dark places; even on the rare occasions when he would lie limply sprawled on the sunlit paving stones at the entrance, if I happened to spot him,

When I would jeer, “Ugh, what a mess!” he’d hurriedly rise, hang his head, and slink under the veranda as if utterly defeated.

Even so, whenever I went out, he would emerge from nowhere, muffling his footsteps, and try to follow me. Each time that monster-like creature tried to follow me—how could I stand it?—I would silently fix my gaze on Pochi. I would curl a vivid mocking smile at the corners of my mouth and stare at Pochi as long as I pleased. This proved remarkably effective. Pochi, seeming to suddenly realize his own hideous appearance, would hang his head and dejectedly hide himself away somewhere.

“I can’t take it anymore,” she said. “Even I’m getting all itchy.” My wife would sometimes consult me. “I try not to look, but once I see him, it’s hopeless. He even invades my dreams.”

“Well, just a little more patience,” I replied. I thought there was nothing to do but endure. Even sickly, he remained a kind of beast. Touch him carelessly and he’d bite. “The reply from Mitaka should come tomorrow or the day after. Once we move, that’ll be the end of it.”

A reply came from the Mitaka landlord.
I read it and was disappointed.
The rain kept falling, preventing the walls from drying, and with labor also being insufficient, it was said that completion would likely take another ten days or so.
I was fed up.
If only to escape Pochi, I wanted to move as soon as possible.
Gripped by an odd sense of impatience, I couldn’t focus on my work and ended up reading magazines and drinking sake.
Pochi’s skin disease grew worse day by day, and my own skin had also become strangely itchy.
Late at night, I don’t know how many times I was startled by the sounds of Pochi thrashing about outdoors in agony from his itching.
I found it unbearable.
There were frequent times when violent fits drove me to think it would be better to just end it all in one go.
A letter came from the landlord ordering us to wait another twenty days. My tangled frustrations instantly latched onto Pochi—because of this creature’s existence, everything was going awry—until I began blaming every misfortune on him. I cursed Pochi with strange intensity until one night, discovering dog fleas had infested my nightclothes. The anger I had suppressed until then finally exploded, and I secretly made a grave resolution.

I had resolved to kill him.
The opponent was a fearsome beast.
Under normal circumstances I could never have made such a violent resolution even standing on my head—but caught in the basin’s unique sweltering heat that had already driven me halfway to madness, spending days blankly awaiting special delivery from our landlord in deathly boredom, stewing in irritable agitation with insomnia pushing me to frenzy’s edge—it became unbearable.
That night when I discovered the dog’s fleas, I immediately sent my wife running to buy a large slab of beef while I went to the drugstore and procured a small quantity of a certain chemical.
With this, preparations were complete.
My wife grew rather excited.
We demon spouses huddled together that night and conferred in whispers.

The next morning, I woke at four o'clock.
I had set the alarm clock but awoke before it could ring.
The pale light of dawn had broken.
It was chilly.
I took the bamboo-wrapped package and went outside.

“It would be best if you left immediately without watching until the end.”

My wife stood on the entrance platform seeing me off and remained composed.

“I know.”
“Pochi, come!”

Pochi wagged his tail and emerged from under the veranda.

“Come on, come on!”
I started walking briskly.
Today I didn’t glare at Pochi spitefully like usual, so he too seemed to forget his own ugliness and trotted briskly after me.
The fog lay thick.
The town slept quietly.
I hurried toward the drill ground.
Along the way, an alarmingly large red-furred dog barked ferociously at Pochi.
With practiced affectation of dignity, Pochi merely cast a contemptuous glance at the red-furred dog—as if asking what all the fuss was about—and briskly passed before its face.
The red-furred one was despicable.
It lawlessly attacked from behind like a gust of wind, aiming for Pochi’s shriveled-looking testicles.
Pochi instantly spun around but hesitated briefly, stealing a furtive glance at my expression.

“Go on!”
I commanded loudly.
“The red-furred one’s a coward! Go all out!”

With permission granted, Pochi gave a single great shudder and leapt into the red dog’s chest like a bullet.
In an instant, snarling and howling, the two became like a single tangled ball and fought.
The red-furred dog had a frame nearly twice Pochi’s size, but it was no match.
Before long, it let out a yelping scream and retreated.
On top of that, it might even have transmitted Pochi’s skin disease.
Stupid fool.

When the fight ended, I breathed a sigh of relief.
I had literally been watching with sweaty palms.
At one point I even felt I might get dragged into their brawl and die alongside them.
"I don't care if I get bitten to death,"
"Pochi! Fight all you want!"
I'd been bellowing with grotesque fervor.
Pochi gave halfhearted chase to the retreating red mutt before stopping short, stealing a furtive glance at my face only to wilt completely - head drooping low as he slunk back toward me.

“Good! You’re strong,” I praised him, then started walking and clattered across the bridge until we reached the drill ground.

Long ago, Pochi had been abandoned at this drill ground.
That’s why we’d now returned once more to this place.
May you die in your birthplace.

I stopped and dropped the large piece of beef at my feet with a plop.

“Pochi, eat.”
I didn’t want to look at him.
I stood there vacantly and repeated, “Pochi, eat.”
The wet smacking sounds of eating came from below.
He should be dead within a minute.

I hunched my back and trudged along.
The fog was thick.
Only the nearby mountain was dimly visible as a black shape.
The Southern Alps range, Mount Fuji—nothing could be seen.
From the morning dew, the geta were soaked through.
I hunched my back even more and trudged homeward.
I crossed the bridge and came to the front of the middle school. When I turned around, Pochi was right there.
Shamefacedly, he hung his head and quietly averted my gaze.

I am also an adult now.
There was no frivolous sentimentality.
I immediately perceived the situation.
The poison hadn’t worked.
Nodding, I was already a blank slate.

I returned home,

“No good. The poison didn’t work. Let’s forgive him. He wasn’t guilty of anything, I tell you. Artists are originally supposed to be allies of the weak.” I tried voicing the thoughts I’d been forming on the way. “We’re friends of the weak. For artists, this is both the starting point and the ultimate goal.” I had forgotten such a simple thing. It wasn’t just me. Everyone had forgotten. I thought I’d take Pochi to Tokyo. If my friend laughed at Pochi’s appearance, I’d punch him. “Got any eggs?”

“Yes.”
My wife had a gloomy expression.

“Give them to Pochi. If there are two, give him both.
You endure it too.
A skin disease will heal in no time.”

“Yes.”
My wife still wore a gloomy expression.