Pathway to Japanese Literature

I decided to keep that dog. “God told me to come to you.” Because those eyes seemed to plead: “If you abandon me, I’ll be utterly lost.” Moreover, those eyes appeared to say this as well: “Didn’t you once save me from children throwing stones?” It was something I didn’t remember, yet not entirely impossible.

When I woke from an afternoon nap dream on a park bench, that dog's face was right before my eyes. The book that had been covering my face lay under the bench. Perhaps she had nudged it with her muzzle - sensing that movement might have roused me. When I held out my palm, she placed her front paws upon it. When I turned to leave, she trailed after me. I considered keeping her, yet feared acting impulsively. But reflecting further, my past seemed but a chain of rash choices - I could no longer muster self-reproach for such tendencies. I resolved to proceed as I always did. Gazing at her face, I thought: "So long as I maintain this guardian-like resolve, we'll likely never burden each other." A conviction both certain and uncertain. I had shared quarters with male friends before - each time ending in discomfort.

It had been about three years since I moved to Musashino City. I lived in a detached house I rented from a certain home. The main house’s owner was an elderly widow. She was a resilient person, living alone and cooking for herself. Her only daughter had married into a family where there was already a grown grandchild, and occasionally those grandchildren would come to visit. While out on a walk, I happened to pass by this house and noticed a “Room for Rent” sign hanging from the eaves; something about the appearance of this home surrounded by a hinoki cypress hedge inexplicably drew me in. I was able to rent the place surprisingly easily. One reason might have been that she thought it safer since I wasn’t a salaried worker but had an occupation that kept me home all day. In this detached house, before my time, there had apparently been an art student who had attended a nearby art school.

The detached house I was renting had an earthen floor. When I thought about keeping a dog, that earthen floor came to mind. As she entered the earthen floor—likely thirsty—the dog noisily lapped up water from a bucket there with evident relish. When I sat on the threshold and whistled, she came to my feet and barked twice in deep contentment. Her manner seemed to say, “We’re not strangers anymore.” Only then did I realize keeping a dog couldn’t be decided by me alone. I grew anxious about what the old woman in the main house might think.

I took the dog and went to the edge of the sitting room’s veranda where the old woman was. The old woman was sitting beside the long hibachi, facing a small tray as she arranged hanafuda cards by herself, but when she noticed us,

“Oh, where did this dog come from?” “It seems to be a stray,” I said by way of explanation. “She followed me here from the park.”

The old woman stood up and came to the edge of the veranda. “She’s a stray, isn’t she?” The old woman studied her for a moment. “She’s a female, isn’t she?” Being told that, I realized my own carelessness for the first time. Even though I was the one who intended to keep her, I had even forgotten to first check whether the dog was male or female. True to form in my rashness, I had gotten somewhat carried away. Upon closer inspection, there were traces around the dog’s neck where a collar had recently been fastened. Moreover, the visible breasts on her chest had been in plain sight from the beginning, but I had simply overlooked them. The old woman’s remark made me realize the feminine gentleness perceivable in the dog’s posture.

The dog was crouching beside the shoe-removal stone, half-opening her eyes as if gauging our mood.

“She doesn’t seem to be a stray.”

“Yes.” “She isn’t a dog from around here.” “They must have brought her here by car and abandoned her.” “Her body isn’t dirty, and she doesn’t seem to be starving either.” Since the old woman didn’t show too cold an attitude toward the dog, I felt somewhat relieved. The old woman continued looking at her with an examining gaze but suddenly raised her voice. “Well now, this one’s pregnant.” “This dog is pregnant.”

“Huh?”

“It does seem she’s pregnant.” “From the state of her milk glands and other things.” “Well now, that’s unexpected.”

“Because she had puppies, her owner must have abandoned her.” “She’s not a remarkable dog, so they did just that.” I felt slightly disenchanted. Suddenly, the dog appeared like some wayward woman. I felt as though I’d ended up shouldering some dreadful burden through a fleeting whim.

The old woman placed her palm on the dog’s forehead and stroked it gently in silence. Even though she had said it wasn’t a remarkable dog, I found myself drawn to how she pitied it. Among human emotions, tolerance indeed surpasses blame. To criticize others is like loosing hollow arrows of spite—no matter how justified it may seem. In her manner was a motherly gentleness as if tending a mischievous daughter. Despite differences between humans and dogs, there was something like a bond between women. The dog narrowed her eyes and leaned into the old woman’s touch. Seeing her look so at ease, I too felt my heart stir.

“Do you like dogs?”

the old woman asked me. I was momentarily at a loss for a reply. Even if asked whether I like women, I would likely have been equally perplexed.

“I don’t dislike them. I’ve never actually kept a dog before.” “They’re such dear creatures. My late Ren’ou was someone who loved dogs and small birds. We kept them on several occasions.” In the old woman’s voice lingered a tone of fond remembrance for the deceased. The old woman’s Ren’ou appeared to have passed away long ago, during his prime years. He had been a decorator, they said.

In the old woman’s room, a framed portrait of him hung on the wall. I liked hearing words that could conjure up a person’s essence and life story in just a phrase or two. For example, in places like trains, I would sometimes overhear passengers having such conversations. “He’s dead too, huh?” “He was a generous man, though.” “He liked fishing, didn’t he.” In such utterly mundane conversations, I could sense what might be called the bittersweet essence of worldly existence. At such times, I would feel as if some obstruction in my chest had cleared, and for no particular reason, this world would seem inexplicably precious. In front of the old woman and the dog at that moment too, I felt something like a sense of purpose toward the world. I felt as though I had found the right moment to speak out,

“How do you think this would work? “I’d like to keep her if possible.” “Let me see...” The old woman mused as if consulting herself. “At least until after she’s had her litter...” “Well, it won’t be too much trouble.”

I felt relieved. I hadn’t imagined the old woman would grant her permission so readily.

“I’d say this dog’s about two years old. “And this must be her first litter.”

the old woman said. The words 'first litter' sank into my heart.

I decided to call the dog Merry; Merry was, as the old woman had said, not a remarkable dog. She was a common mixed-breed. Her coat showed a mottling of white and black—against a white base were markings shaped like clouds or islands. If she were human, you might have called her average-built. If anything, she leaned toward being large-framed. Her fur tended toward length, its color and luster not particularly poor. Her physique wasn’t what you’d call sturdy, yet neither was it awkward. Her looks weren’t half bad either. She wasn’t beautiful, but looking closely revealed a cute face. Best of all was her complete lack of haughtiness. She had good eyes. Merry’s eyes were truly good. They say eyes are windows to the soul—gazing into Merry’s made clear she was a dog possessing the heart of decent common folk. And it became clear that such animals dwell nearer to God than humans do. Had Henri Rousseau still lived, I would have had him paint Merry’s portrait. Rousseau could have captured her very essence on canvas. I also came to love Merry’s voice. Every bark brimmed with genuine emotion—not an ounce of empty courtesy. Since affection and goodwill alone fueled her sounds, nothing about them ever grated. When I called “Merry,” she would come straight before me, look up at my face while wagging her tail, and bark twice—“Woof! Woof!”

Her demeanor appeared to be saying, “I know full well that you’re calling me,” and also seemed to be asking, “What can I do for you?” Whenever I found myself entertaining jealous thoughts—wondering if Merry might be reminiscing about her previous owner—Merry would sense my mood and playfully pounce on me, adopting a manner that said she was wholly absorbed in enjoying the present moment without any ulterior motives, thereby dispelling my unease. I had never before been fawned over like this by anyone. I don’t know what name Merry went by with her previous owner, but now she was entirely nothing but my Merry. Even if her previous owner had abandoned her—and perhaps they did—they couldn’t have been a heartless person. There must have been unavoidable circumstances. In that household, there might have been a little boy who was particularly close to Merry. Looking at Merry, such imaginings would well up within me.

Not long ago, I had just jotted down these very thoughts in the notebook.

……I hardly ever had visitors at my place. Nor did I visit others. By nature, I was of a shy disposition, so being alone suited me better. When I occasionally chatted with people, I felt unwell afterward like after eating poorly digested food. People often say "I'm bored to death," but though my daily life was thoroughly boring, I never found it particularly troubling. For me, boredom wasn't something to be troubled by. For me, 'boredom' was like a kindred friend - I preferred keeping company with 'boredom' over anyone else, entrusting it with my ennui. So to speak, I was enjoying boredom. Upon reflection, idleness too might be a form of happiness.

By the way, since I began living with Merry, my daily life took on a somewhat renewed order. I could no longer simply entrust my boredom. First, I could no longer sleep in as I used to. Because I had to prepare breakfast for Merry. I had not thought my body could detach itself from the futon so readily. I had also not known the taste of early rising could be this refreshing. Lighting the stove and cooking vegetables for Merry and myself, my heart bustled about like that of a young wife. “The old woman said, ‘I can’t be bothered with looking after her,’ but that was exactly right.” Because doing things for Merry wasn’t the slightest bit troublesome for me. Each time I moved my hands and feet for Merry’s sake, I felt as though my heart was growing more lively and magnanimous.

At first, I laid straw in a corner of the earthen-floored area and had Merry sleep there, but later I built a kennel. I had a fruit store give me several apple crates and used them as materials to construct a kennel. I prefer my jackets and pants to be slightly loose-fitting, a bit larger than my frame. For me, there’s nothing more comfortable than a style that’s thoroughly unfashionable. For Merry’s sake as well, I built a slightly larger kennel. After all, puppies would be born soon. I spent two full days constructing the kennel. A rather awkward kennel was completed. It was, so to speak, the very embodiment of uncouthness. I had been bad at handicrafts since kindergarten. I placed the kennel under the persimmon tree in front of the detached house’s entrance. Even so, it turned out well—perhaps due to her instincts as a domesticated animal, Merry scurried into the kennel with an expression that suggested she had recognized it as her dwelling from the very start. Seeing her look of satisfaction, I felt apologetic toward Merry, yet couldn’t help feeling pleased. While stroking the blisters that had formed on my palms from unfamiliar work, I felt a faint joy at being able to create something myself. It whispered faintly to me like a suggestion from afar. I can create something. Even loving isn’t entirely beyond my ability.

I took Merry to the veterinarian. On the way from my house to the public bathhouse, there was a dog and cat veterinary hospital. I had never paid particular attention to that sign before, but now it began to occupy my mind, until eventually I thought it might be best to have Merry examined there at least once. Merry wasn’t just a physical body after all. I wanted to do everything possible for Merry. The old woman tilted her head and said, “Hmm. Best to have that looked at by a vet, I suppose.” The expression in her eyes seemed to tell me, “You might have more of a dog lover’s disposition than I’d thought.”

The veterinarian was a gentle-faced young gentleman. On the examination room wall hung a reproduction of Rousseau’s *The Happy Quartet*. I thought, Well well.

“What seems to be the matter?”

“No, I’d like to request a health examination.” The veterinarian had Merry sit on the examination table and, with practiced hands, placed the stethoscope against her torso. Throughout this, Merry remained completely obedient.

“She’s pregnant.” “Yes. How is her condition?” The veterinarian remained silent as he gripped the inner thigh of Merry’s hind leg this time, checked his pocket watch, and counted her pulse. While observing the examination and thinking that humans and dogs were no different—both following set patterns—the moment the veterinarian picked up the thermometer and applied Vaseline to its mercury tip, the assistant who had been silently standing nearby suddenly held Merry down. The veterinarian lifted Merry’s tail with one hand and gently inserted the thermometer into her anus. For an instant, Merry briefly resisted for the first time, but quickly grew docile again. To me, those three or four minutes felt endlessly long. As I alternated my gaze between Merry’s face and the veterinarian’s, my chest grew warm. I felt that God grants every person a mission suited to their innate qualities without favoritism. The veterinarian removed the thermometer, examined it, then passed it to his assistant.

“There appears to be no abnormality. “There’s about a month until the birth.”

I felt relieved yet simultaneously perceived this one-month period as both interminably long and alarmingly brief—given my profession, it almost felt like receiving a manuscript deadline. A deadline was like a trap into which a foolish mouse like me would inevitably fall. It was always my pattern—while dawdling around thinking I still had twenty days left, then ten days left—to end up being dragged right to the brink. I hoped that Merry’s biological rhythms and my preparations would manage to stay in sync. “If the worst happens, God would help us out.” I muttered to myself like the weak-willed person I was.

On Merry’s behalf, I listened to the veterinarian explain precautions during pregnancy. “Apart from giving her moderate exercise morning and evening, keep her tied up whenever possible.” “Make sure she doesn’t get into fights with other dogs.” “Because there’s a risk of miscarriage.” “Just as with humans, a mother dog will get hungry, so you should give her more nourishing food than usual.” I heard various other things. When the veterinarian heard that Merry was a stray I had recently picked up, he said he would administer a rabies vaccination as a precaution, adding that the certificate would also be necessary when applying for dog registration.

“Is it safe to give her the vaccination and such?”

I asked. The veterinarian made an uncomprehending expression.

“Will it cause any harm to the puppies in her belly?” The veterinarian gazed at me with kind eyes and broke into a smile. “There’s no need to worry.” The veterinarian had his assistant help once more and gave Merry an injection in the neck. Merry let out a single yelp when the needle pierced her but stayed completely still until the injection was finished. The veterinarian lightly rubbed the spot with alcohol-soaked cotton. Merry seemed to finally sense she was free and looked up at my face, wagging her tail hard. I felt such tenderness that I hugged Merry’s neck and stroked her forehead. Even in public, I couldn’t stop myself.

When it came time to write the certificate, the veterinarian glanced back at me,

“The name?”

“Merry.” Blood rushed to my cheeks, and through the tone of my own voice, I even experienced a feeling as if confirming my own feelings toward Merry. As we were leaving, I pointed at the dog in the painting of *The Happy Quartet* on the wall and asked the veterinarian. “What breed is this dog?” The veterinarian showed a guileless smile.

“Well... “Probably a type of terrier.”

I wanted this painting. I thought about hanging it on the wall of the detached house. However, I couldn't bring myself to ask for it outright. After returning home, I tethered Merry to the persimmon tree beside her kennel. This year appeared to be a bumper crop for persimmons, with branches in the treetop sagging under the weight of fruit. When these fruits take color, Merry will give birth to her puppies, I thought. I went to city hall to file the pet registration and to the public health center to submit the veterinarian's certificate, receiving one license tag from each office. When handing over the tags, the clerk reminded me to be sure to attach them to the collar. I had not yet bought Merry a collar.

I bought a collar and chain for Merry at a cutlery store in the bustling shopping district in front of the station. I had my name and Merry’s engraved on the collar. I splurged and bought high-quality items for both the collar and chain. I have had a habit since long ago of slicing yōkan and takuan thinly. At this point, I thought I should improve such a trait of mine. On my way back, I stopped by the milk shop and arranged to have a bottle delivered daily. After returning home, I put the collar around Merry’s neck. Now, our relationship became legitimate before both God and society.

At first I kept Merry chained with fastidious care, but afterward only attached the chain to her neck when taking her for walks. Merry had settled completely into my home and never ventured out alone. While I sat at my desk reading books or wrestling with my novel writing, Merry would sprawl on the earthen floor, clamber unceremoniously onto the veranda edge where the old woman sat to bask in sunlight, or luxuriate in naps beneath the garden plants the old woman nurtured with devotion. Since beginning life with Merry, I too came to settle at home. Until then, as a bachelor seeking distraction, I would invariably wander out for aimless strolls whenever restlessness struck. When weariness from reading made me lift my eyes from the page to meet Merry's gaze on the earthen floor below, I would feel an inexplicable reassurance - what one might truly call an at-home sensation. As for Merry - might she share this same feeling? I sensed it in her eyes.

I half-seriously fantasized about such foolish notions as Merry being a human girl transformed into a dog by an old woman who practiced magic, who might someday break the spell and return to her original maiden form. Conversely, I also fantasized that within my chest lay a prince who had been put into a long slumber by magic, and that Merry had come to me in order to awaken that prince from his sleep. When the magic fog lifted and the day came when all sorts of unrecognized possibilities would bloom, I thought such self-serving thoughts.

Since Merry came, the relationship between the old woman in the main house and me had grown closer. The old woman was both my closest neighbor and my window to society, though until then we hadn’t been particularly close. I was an unfriendly man awkward with words, and the old woman had a reserved nature. Yet after Merry’s arrival, my social awkwardness seemed to have softened considerably for her sake. I felt Merry was mediating between me and the world at large. Put another way, through what I perceived as a “common folk’s heart” within her, I found myself able to connect with society.

The old woman too cared for Merry. The old woman usually sat beside the long charcoal brazier, with a small tray placed before her, arranging hanafuda cards on it. There are people who in old age seem to radiate a halo; this old woman was one of them. Each hanafuda card the old woman turned seemed imbued with spirit. It was as if the mellow dignity of old age had been rendered into a single painting. The old woman was someone who, unusually for an elderly person, did not complain.

The old woman said: “Looking after Merry is what’s best.” “When I’m with other guests, I end up speaking ill of people behind their backs, you see.” I learned from the old woman how to groom a coat. The old woman first meticulously massaged Merry from head to neck, shoulders, back, waist, and limbs with a brush, then carefully combed her with a metal comb.

“If you do it this way, the coat’s sheen will improve, and fleas and lice won’t gather either,” the old woman said. After that as well, she continued grooming Merry on my behalf from time to time. As I watched Merry being tended by her—Merry aside—I felt myself unjustly fortunate, and a guilty unease came over me, wondering if this was truly alright.

As I walked along the road, whenever I encountered dogs, I became more cautious than ever before, yet dogs no longer seemed as frightening as they once had. No matter how splendid or elegant a dog I saw, to me my Merry was better. Merry’s face and form had already seeped into my heart. Through Merry, I came to understand that for parents of human children, their child’s face holds absolute significance.

When I told the old woman about this, she said:

“That’s what they call affection rubbing off,” she said. When going out at night, I would switch the light in the detached house to a small bulb and deliberately leave it on. Though Merry now stayed in her own bed, I felt that being able to see the light from the detached house there was better for both her and me. For me too, somehow keeping that light on felt more reassuring than leaving the house plunged in total darkness.

My outings consisted of either watching movies at discount theaters or stopping by bars. The darkness of movie theaters remained one of my most comfortable spaces. To lose oneself in a crowd and share time without mutual interference – this must be one of humanity’s fundamental courtesies as social creatures. Though my stated purpose was film-watching, viewing them truly alone would have held no pleasure. There at the screen I’d slip into reveries or weep silent tears, comforted by knowing no one saw my trembling face. Being observed by others became my deepest dread. The mere sense of others’ eyes upon me turned my limbs wooden and thoughts to ash.

Occasionally going to bars was also, for me, an indispensable element of life—so to speak. A bar too, for me, was not such an uncomfortable place. I was not good at keeping up conversation with people, but when alcohol entered the equation, it became a different matter.

I pass through the curtained entrance of the bar, settle into a corner, and nurse my drink in small sips.

“Oh, welcome.” “It’s been a while.” “I thought maybe you’d found someone nice and was worried.”

“Actually, I have.” “Oh? Don’t go startling me like that.” “I’ve taken in a dog.” “Her name’s Merry.” “So she’s female.” “So you’ve been with a dog lately?”

“Don’t make it sound like I’m cohabiting with a dog.” “Though I suppose it is cohabitation, really.” “She’ll have puppies soon.”

“What are you talking about?” “You need to get yourself together.” “Hurry up and find yourself a wife.”

“I’m perfectly sane.” “I’m leaving now.” “She’s grown attached to home now.” “Well, do come again.” “Give my best to Miss Merry.”

When I returned home with staggering steps, I could see the light on in the window of the detached house. As I gazed at that light, I began to feel as though Merry was within it—and that I was there too.

Near my house was Inokashira Park. In the morning and evening, while taking walks, I would bring Merry there for exercise. The place where Merry and I first encountered each other was also this park.

From my house I could see the grove of trees in the park, and passing through the narrow path before my dwelling would bring me directly into its grounds. This place had long been famous as a recreational spot for capital residents. From the final years of the war through the postwar period, it had become rundown, but now the landscaping had been restored, making it quite tidy. On Sundays and holidays, it bustled with family groups, but on ordinary days, it wasn’t particularly crowded and remained quiet. Strolling along the pondside after a rainfall wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. Each season had its own charm, but I was particularly fond of winter's withered season and the period of fresh greenery. The autumn foliage season had its charm as well. In Musashino City, permanent groundskeepers were employed to preserve this park's scenic beauty.

I attached a chain to Merry’s collar, gripped it, and circled around the pond—sometimes pulling her along, sometimes being pulled by her. Noguchi Ujō also once lived in Musashino City, and it seems this Inokashira was where he would take his morning and evening walks. Was it the autumn of the year before last when a monument commemorating Ujō was erected at the pondside? Engraved on the monument’s surface was a passage from Ujō’s Inokashira Ondo. Chirping noisily,

At dusk, In the reeds, bush warblers their song never ceases It was Ujō’s own handwriting, though somewhat difficult to decipher. Later, a sign clearly displaying the text was erected beside the monument. Ujō must have composed this song long ago. Nowadays, even the bush warbler’s song went unheard. The reeds too now grew sparsely only near where the pond’s contours had narrowed, its waters reduced to a slender stream beneath the Inokashira Line’s iron bridge. One spring in his later years, the bridge at the pond’s center was rebuilt and renamed Shichii Bridge. At its base, a plaque like this was installed.

“The water of this pond had been used since ancient times as drinking water and irrigation water.” “When the Kanda Aqueduct began supplying Edo’s townspeople during the early Tokugawa period, it became renowned as their water source.” “After the Tamagawa Josui Aqueduct was opened, the pond also served as its reservoir, though now it occasionally functions as auxiliary water for Tokyo’s metropolitan system.” “Following Shogun Iemitsu’s rest at Gotenyama during a hunt at Mure Noda—where he drank from the pond’s spring—Benzaiten’s shrine was magnificently rebuilt.” “Clear water springs from seven sources within the pond that never dry, even in drought—hence its name ‘Shichii Pond’ (Edo Meisho Zue).” “It is also called ‘Divine Arrow Water’ (Shinpen Musashi Fudoki), likely due to the numerous stone arrowheads discovered along its banks.” “Local residents refer to it as ‘Inokashira Pond’ (folk records).” “This bridge takes its name from one such designation—Shichii Bridge.”

This area appeared to have been a falconry ground for the shogun family in former times. It was said that spring water had welled up from seven places within the pond, though it must have decreased considerably by now. Even so, the water remained plentiful, its color still clear. Floating algae grew in dense clusters throughout this pond. Their reproductive capacity seemed formidable indeed, for I often saw workers floating boats to remove the algae. Near the shore where Ujō’s monument stood, pulled-up algae lay piled, and passing by it, the smell assailed my nose. That year I saw floating algae flowers for the first time. At first I mistook them for cherry blossom petals scattered out of season across the water’s surface.

In the pond there were also grebes. They were adorable birds. Small and timid, they would dive underwater immediately whenever sensing human presence. Emitting shrill krrrrr cries, they glided across the water’s surface. They were almost never alone. Always in pairs. Though indistinguishable from each other, they might have been male and female. I wanted to see grebes’ floating nests but had yet to encounter any.

Merry seemed to enjoy going on walks with me. With her snout sniffing the ground, she trotted along joyfully. As she made her way around the pondside, Merry sniffed at the algae's scent and adopted a startled expression at the grebes' cries. After making one full circuit around the pond, I went to the hill with dogwood groves at the park’s western edge, sat on the bench there to rest, and removed the chain from Merry’s collar. And within my line of sight, I allowed Merry to roam freely on her own.

I had always liked this place. Though raised in the city and rather detached from trees and plants, I had somehow come to feel an affinity for dogwood trees. When I looked at their dark gray bark and the tall, slender way their trunks stretched upward, I felt a sense of familiarity as if encountering some living creature. The winter stand of dogwoods had been splendid. The vitality displayed by the bare treetops had been something I couldn’t put into words. And when new buds sprouted on those treetops, their freshness had been beyond compare. In the season of fresh green leaves, sitting on the bench and looking up, a green canopy would spread high above me, and I would become entranced, feeling wonderfully at ease. When I first saw Merry, I had been lying on my back on the bench gazing up at the treetops, had drifted into a dream, woke to find Merry’s face before me, and at first thought this too must be a continuation of that dream.

That evening, as usual, I took Merry around the pond once, came to the hill with the dogwood grove, released her, and sat down on the bench, zoning out. The sleeping prince imprisoned within my chest might never awaken—such were the vague thoughts drifting through my mind.

Then suddenly came Merry’s alarming cry—"Yelp! Yelp!" Startled, I looked and saw a large red-haired dog chasing after her as she fled. My heart leaped into my throat as I rushed over, shielding Merry behind me while glaring fiercely at the dog. For an instant, my eyes locked with the beast’s—and in that moment, I felt something chilling. The red-haired dog suddenly lunged at me. I felt its body collide with mine and, trying to dodge, fell backward onto the ground. Thinking "Damn it," I grabbed the clog that had slipped off and swung it sideways in blind desperation. The impact resonated through my arm. I must have struck the dog’s flank with enough force to leave it reeling. There turned out to be no real cause for concern. The red dog let out a sharp yelp—"Yow!"—and fled without looking back. I felt relieved. What a relief.

When I looked, Merry was watching me with a concerned expression. Fortunately, Merry remained unharmed. When I came to my senses, I found myself injured. A faint set of tooth marks had turned purple on my right palm below the little finger. Could that red dog be rabid? If so, this was serious business. At the same time, I grew worried about Merry's condition. Would this shock adversely affect the puppies in her womb? Might she miscarry? Black clouds billowed ominously overhead, making my future seem pitch-dark. I went straight to the veterinarian.

The veterinarian listened to my account, gave Merry’s body a preliminary examination, and declared there was nothing unusual. He didn’t consider my injury worth addressing at all. It was undoubtedly a scratch. Even so, to put my mind at ease, the veterinarian applied medicine to the scratch and wrapped it in a bandage. “The red dog was probably not rabid,” said the veterinarian. “Even if it’s not rabid, would such a dog bite someone?”

“Certainly they do.” “From fear.” “From hatred.” “From jealousy and love.”

I thought he was giving such annoyingly human-like reasons. While looking sidelong at that *The Happy Quartet* painting.

That night, I had a dream.

……When I returned from going out, there stood the red dog blocking Merry’s hut. The red dog was voraciously devouring the meat-and-vegetable mixed rice I had prepared for Merry. Merry was huddled small in the hut’s depths. I stomped over to the red dog with heavy footsteps and barked, “Hey!” Strangely, a “Woof” escaped my mouth. I realized I had somehow become a white dog. The red dog turned toward me, and we glared at each other. As I stared into its eyes, they struck me as oddly familiar. At that moment, within the red dog’s face emerged the superimposed image of a classmate from my elementary school days. “That’s him,” I growled. (Him. This was during fifth grade with that classmate. One day when I eagerly opened my new notebook—fresh from the stationery shop—at my classroom desk, someone had scribbled pencil marks like spiderwebs across its pristine first page. Another day, I returned home to find gum stuck to the back of my mother’s hand-sewn kimono I’d worn to school. Yet another day at lunchtime, my lunchbox revealed bite marks in the rolled omelet. I’d already begun suspecting who was behind this. The student sitting directly behind me in class. He was a wealthy man’s son. He’d look at me sideways while taunting, “Egg roll, egg roll.” But lacking concrete proof, I’d held back from confronting him.)

One day during recess, when I returned to the classroom to retrieve a ball I had forgotten, he was hunched over my desk in the deserted classroom. When I approached, he had spread my textbook across the desk and was haphazardly coloring the illustrations with crayons. I had finally caught him in the act. But to my astonishment, when I caught him, he showed not the slightest sign of flinching. Instead, he looked at me with scorn vividly spread across his entire face. At that moment, even as a child, I shuddered. For his eyes were burning with malice toward me. However, after that, he also stopped causing trouble toward me. To this day, I still have no idea why he did those things to me—or rather, why he harbored such hostility. Much later, when I read a newspaper article that said, “XX Prime Minister dined on maguro sashimi with Nada no Nama-Ippon tonight,” I found myself inexplicably remembering him. Of course, I hadn’t imagined that he had grown up to become a journalist and written that article, but… (Perhaps the tuna sashimi had reminded me of my rolled omelet.) The red dog—no, that guy—stared at me with a look I recognized. I felt the emotion I had felt as a child when I saw these eyes in the classroom surge back within me. Just as that guy had once defaced my new notebook, had he now come to pick holes in Merry’s and my life? That guy filled his entire face with hostility just like he had back then and let out a growl. “It’s because of bastards like you that the world becomes such a wretched place to live.” I was nearly crushed by that growl. At the same time, a fierce anger welled up in my heart for the first time. Doesn’t some proverb say… “Never lend your wife, your castle, or your dog to others.”

I thought about taking the words that guy had thrown at me and returning them with a ceremonial flourish. But I couldn't do it. If you're going to say such things to people, you might as well tuck your tail and retreat. I stood before him, unable to advance or retreat. I felt my entire body was riddled with vulnerabilities. If that guy were to leap at me now, my throat would be torn out.

I opened my eyes. I was drenched in sweat from head to toe. "That was close," I muttered inwardly. The figure of myself that had become a white dog in the dream remained vividly in my eyes even after waking. I thought this might be what it meant to see myself objectively. The objectively seen "I" was somehow quite an endearing creature. In subjective reflection, I would always taste a self-loathing like slurping ink. The evening's events had seemed like a dream too, but proof they weren't lay in the bandage wrapped around my palm. When I opened the storm shutters, outside was already bright. Stepping into the garden and approaching Merry's kennel, she emerged upon hearing my footsteps and rubbed her body against my legs. I squatted there, drew Merry's neck close, and gazing into her eyes, felt my head being cleansed of delusions.

Merry’s belly was growing larger by the day. At the same time，the breasts had swollen，and proper nipples had formed by now. When I tentatively squeezed a nipple，white milk slowly oozed out，welling up as it came. When I lightly placed my palm on the belly，the movement of the puppies inside came through to my palm. Merry’s eyes had completely become those of a mother. Her eyes seemed to be asking me，“See? Do you understand?”

I stopped taking Merry out for exercise. Merry's movements became noticeably slower. In a manner suggesting everything was too much effort, she began lying limp in the sunny spot by the garden, doing nothing but sprawl out. The old woman, feeling sorry for her, would gently stroke Merry’s belly in that state. When she did this, it seemed to ease some of Merry's melancholy, and Merry narrowed her eyes in pleasure.

“Somehow, it feels like I’m about to have a grandchild.”

said the old woman.

I decided to use the earthen floor of the detached house as Merry’s delivery room. Once again, I obtained an apple crate from the fruit store and fashioned it into a birthing bed.

When the persimmons in front of the detached house had mostly ripened, Merry safely gave birth to her puppies. There were five puppies—two males and three females. The coats all resembled Merry’s.

Merry's expression shone with the joy of first-time motherhood. The old woman was relieved, and I was relieved too.

After that, all the puppies were developing smoothly. The sight of all the puppies nuzzling against each other while clinging to Merry’s breasts was indescribably adorable. When I placed them on my palm, they fussed and sniffled noisily. The sight looked exactly as if a human child were saying 'Enough already.' They looked as if they were saying, “Enough already.”

While nursing her puppies, Merry looked up at my face proudly. Her eyes were directed at me, seeming to boast, See, they're all good puppies, aren't they? The other day, the old woman’s grandchildren came to visit, and with the camera they brought with them, they took a photo of me together with Merry and the others. When I looked at the photo they sent, there was a human making a foolish face next to Merry and the others, and that person seemed to be me. That very thing might have been a model of objective judgment. But looking at that photograph, I was reminded of Charlie Chaplin’s old film called *A Dog’s Life*. The movie had been released when I was very young, and though I think I might have seen it, perhaps I never did. I don’t remember what the plot of that movie was about, nor do I recall any of its scenes. But I had seen a single still from that film and remembered it. It was a photograph of Chaplin in his usual tramp costume sitting alongside a stray dog. After that, I kept that photograph in my memory all this time. A single still from a movie whose plot I can’t remember—or perhaps never even saw. Along with its title, *A Dog’s Life*.