Pathway to Japanese Literature

I decided to keep the dog. "God told me to come to you." "If you were ever forsake me, I'd be utterly lost." Her eyes seemed so desperately insistent. Moreover those same eyes appeared saying: "Didn't you once save me from children throwing stones?" Though I had no recollection of it，such an event wasn't entirely implausible.

When I woke from an afternoon nap on a park bench, there was the dog’s face right before mine. The book that had been covering my face lay under the bench. Perhaps it had nudged the book with its snout—maybe that faint disturbance was what roused me. When I held out my palm, it rested its front paw there. When I began to leave, it trailed after me.

I thought about keeping the dog, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that I might be acting rashly. But upon reflection, my past had been nothing but a chain of impulsive acts, and I found I could no longer bring myself to deeply reproach such tendencies. In the end, I resolved to follow my usual course. As I gazed at the dog's face, I thought: "So long as I maintain this guardian-like resolve, we likely won't come to feel burdensome toward each other." It was a feeling that hovered between confidence and its absence.

I had lived with male friends several times before, but it had always ended in awkwardness.

It had been about three years since I moved to Musashino City. I was living in a rented detached house. The owner of the main house was an elderly widow. She was a resilient woman who lived independently, cooking her own meals. Her only daughter had married into a household where there were already grown grandchildren, 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 place surrounded by a hinoki cypress hedge somehow caught my fancy. I was able to rent it surprisingly easily. One reason might have been that she thought it safer since I wasn’t a salaried worker but someone whose work kept me home all day. I heard that before my time, an art student attending a nearby art school had lived in this detached house.

The detached house I rented had an earthen floor. When I considered keeping the dog, that earthen floor came to mind. As the dog entered the space—thirsty no doubt—it noisily lapped up water from a bucket there with evident relish. When I sat on the threshold and whistled, the dog came to my feet and barked twice—"Woof woof"—with every appearance of satisfaction. Its manner seemed to say, "We're no longer strangers now, are we?" Only then did I realize keeping a dog couldn't be decided by my will alone. I grew concerned about what the old woman in the main house might think.

I took the dog and went to the edge of the tatami room where the old woman was. The old woman was sitting beside the long hibachi, facing a small dining tray and arranging flower cards by herself, but when she noticed us,

“Oh, where did this dog come from?” “She seems to be a stray.” I said, as if explaining myself. “She followed me from the park.” The old woman stood up and came to the edge of the veranda. “She must be a stray.” The old woman looked her over for a moment and said, “She’s female.”

When she said that, I realized for the first time how careless I’d been. While I had been intent on keeping her myself, I had even forgotten to first confirm whether the dog was male or female. True to form in my rashness, I had gotten a bit carried away. Upon closer inspection, there were marks on the dog’s neck where a collar had recently been fastened. Moreover, the mammary glands visible on her chest area had been noticeable all along, but I had simply overlooked them. The old woman's remark made me aware of the feminine kindness perceptible in the dog's demeanor.

The dog crouched beside the stepping stone, half-opening her eyes now and then as if gauging our mood.

“She doesn’t seem to be a stray.”

“Yes.” “She’s not from around here, is she?” “They probably brought her by car and abandoned her.” “Her coat isn’t dirty, and she doesn’t seem to be starving either.”

Since the old woman didn’t show any particularly cold demeanor toward the dog, I felt somewhat relieved. The old woman was still scrutinizing her with her gaze when she suddenly raised her voice. “Why, she’s pregnant!” “This dog’s pregnant.” “What?” “It seems she’s pregnant.” “From her mammary glands and such.” “Huh, well that’s…” “Since she had puppies, her owner must’ve abandoned her.” “She’s not some prized dog, and that’s why they did it, you know.”

I felt somewhat disheartened. Suddenly the dog appeared like a woman of loose morals. I felt as though I’d taken on an unexpected burden through a momentary whim. The old woman placed her palm on the dog’s forehead and wordlessly stroked it with tenderness. Even while declaring she was “no great dog,” I found myself drawn to how she pitied her. Among human emotions, tolerance ultimately surpasses blame. To condemn others—no matter how justified it may seem—is like loosing futile arrows of vengeance. In the old woman’s manner lay a gentleness reminiscent of a mother tending a wayward daughter. Despite the divide between humans and dogs, there existed something like female camaraderie. The dog narrowed her eyes in response to the caress. Seeing her relaxed state, my own heart too felt stirred.

“Do you like dogs?”

The old woman said to me. I was momentarily at a loss for a response. Had someone asked me whether I liked women, I would have been equally perplexed. “I don’t dislike them. I’ve just never kept a dog before.” “They’re dear creatures. My late Ren’go had such fondness for dogs and songbirds. We kept them many times over the years.” Her voice carried notes of nostalgia for the departed. Ren’go—her husband—had apparently died long ago in his vigorous middle years. He’d been what they call a decorative craftsman.

In the old woman’s room, on the ranma—a decorative crossbeam—hung a framed portrait of that person. I liked hearing words that could conjure someone’s likeness and entire life in just a phrase or two. For instance, I would sometimes catch fragments of such conversations between passengers on trains: “That guy died too, huh.” “He was a generous sort.” “Loved his fishing.” In these trivial exchanges, I sensed what you might call the savor of worldly existence.

At such times I felt as though some blockage in my chest had dissolved，and for no reason at all，this world began to seem like a place brimming with things worthy of gratitude. In front of the old woman and the dog，at that moment too，I felt something akin to a renewed sense of purpose toward the world. I felt as though I had found just the right moment to speak，

“How do you think this would work? If possible, I’d like to keep her.” “Let me see.” The old woman murmured as if consulting her own heart, “At least until she’s given birth, maybe. Oh, it won’t be that much trouble.”

I felt relieved. I hadn’t imagined that the old woman’s permission would be granted so easily.

“This dog is about two years old, I’d say. “It must be her first litter.” said the old woman. The words “first litter” sank deep into my heart.

I decided to call the dog Mary; Mary was, as the old woman had said, no great dog. She was a common mixed-breed. Her coat showed a mottling of white and black, with patterns against the white base resembling cloud shapes and island forms. If human, you might call her average-built. If anything, she leaned toward the larger side. Her fur tended toward length, its luster not altogether poor. Her frame wasn't particularly comely, yet neither was it ill-formed. Her features weren't half bad either. No beauty perhaps, but a closer look revealed a winsome face. Best of all was her complete lack of haughtiness. Her eyes were good. Mary's eyes were truly good. They say eyes mirror the soul, and peering into Mary's made clear she possessed the heart of a decent commoner dog. One could plainly see such creatures dwell nearer to God than humans ever do. Were Henri Rousseau still living, I'd have him paint Mary's portrait. Rousseau could have transferred Mary's very life onto canvas. I also came to love Mary's voice. Every bark brimmed with genuine feeling, never empty courtesy. Moreover, since affection and goodwill alone fueled her utterances, nothing about them ever grated. When I called "Mary," she'd come straight before me, gaze up at my face, wag her tail, and bark "Woof! Woof!"

Her demeanor appeared to say, “I know you’re calling me,” while also seeming to ask, “What do you need?” When I would suddenly grow suspicious that Mary might be remembering her previous owner, she would playfully approach me as if sensing my feelings—her manner wholly absorbed in enjoying the present moment without ulterior motives—which rescued me from my discomfort. I had never been courted like this by anyone before. Though I don’t know what name Mary went by with her former keeper, she now belonged completely to me alone. Even if her previous owner had abandoned her, they couldn’t have been heartless people. They must have faced unavoidable circumstances. There might have been a boy in that household who was especially close with Mary. Watching her, such imaginings would rise within me.

Just the other day I had jotted down such thoughts in my notebook, though.

“……I had almost no visitors. I too never visited anyone. Being born with a shy disposition, staying alone suited me better. When I occasionally talked with people, I would feel queasy afterward, as if I’d eaten something indigestible. People often say ‘I’m bored to death,’ and though my daily life was thoroughly boring, I never found that fact troubling. For me, boredom wasn’t something that troubled me. To me, ‘Boredom’ was like a companion who understood me perfectly—I preferred keeping company with ‘Boredom’ over anyone else, whiling away the hours in idleness. You might say I was savoring boredom. Upon reflection, perhaps even idleness constitutes a form of happiness.”

Now that I had begun living with Mary, my daily life took on a somewhat more orderly shape. I could no longer simply surrender myself to idleness. First of all, I could no longer sleep in as I used to. Because I had to prepare breakfast for Mary. I hadn’t realized my body could detach itself from the futon so readily. Nor had I known the taste of early rising could feel so invigorating. I would light the hibachi stove and cook vegetables for Mary and myself, my heart fluttering about like that of a young bride. The old woman had said “I can’t be bothered with caretaking,” and that was entirely true. Doing things for Mary posed no trouble for me at all. Each time I exerted myself for her sake, I felt my spirit growing more vigorous and generous in measure.

At first I spread straw in a corner of the earthen floor and laid Mary there, but later built a kennel. I had the fruit shop give me several apple crates and used them as materials to construct a kennel. I prefer my jackets and trousers to be slightly loose-fitting, a bit baggier than my frame. For me, there’s nothing more comfortable than a thoroughly unrefined style, no matter the context. For Mary’s sake as well, I built a slightly larger kennel. After all, puppies would be born soon. I spent a full two days constructing the kennel. A rather clumsy kennel took shape. That was, so to speak, a monumentally crude contraption. I had been clumsy with handicrafts since kindergarten. I placed the kennel under the persimmon tree in front of the entrance to the detached house. Yet somehow, Mary—perhaps due to some domestic animal instinct—briskly scurried into the kennel with a look that suggested she had recognized it as her dwelling from the very start. Seeing her look so satisfied, I felt somewhat apologetic toward Mary, but even so, I couldn’t help feeling pleased. While stroking the calluses that had formed on my palms from unfamiliar work, I faintly felt the joy of being able to create something myself. It whispered faintly to me like a suggestion from some distant place. I could create something. Loving wasn’t entirely beyond my capacity.

I took Mary to the veterinarian. On the way from my house to the public bathhouse stood a dog and cat hospital. Though I’d never particularly noticed its sign before, it now began to weigh on my mind until I thought perhaps I should have Mary examined there. After all, Mary wasn’t merely a body. I wanted to do everything possible for her. The old woman tilted her head and said, “Well now. Best have her looked at properly.” The look in her eyes seemed to add, “You’ve got more of a dog lover in you than I’d have guessed.”

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

“What seems to be the matter?” “No. “I’d like to request a health examination.” The veterinarian had Mary sit on the table and, with practiced hands, placed the stethoscope against her body. During that time, Mary remained perfectly obedient.

“She’s pregnant.”

“Yes. How is her condition?” The veterinarian remained silent, this time gripping the inner thigh area of Mary’s hind legs, stared at his pocket watch’s face, and counted her pulse. As I watched the examination unfold—thinking humans and dogs were no different, both following set patterns—the veterinarian picked up a thermometer and applied Vaseline to its mercury tip, whereupon the assistant, who had been silently observing nearby, suddenly restrained Mary’s body. The veterinarian lifted Mary’s tail with one hand and gently inserted the thermometer into her anus. In that instant, Mary attempted slight resistance for the first time but immediately grew docile again. To me, those three or four minutes felt interminably long. While alternating my gaze between Mary’s face and the veterinarian’s, my chest grew warm. I felt that God impartially grants each person a mission suited to their inherent talents. The veterinarian removed the thermometer, examined it, then passed it to his assistant.

“There seems to be no abnormalities. “You’ve got about a month until delivery.” I felt somewhat relieved, yet the span of that month seemed both long and short to me, and given my profession, I also felt as though I’d been handed a deadline. Deadlines were like pitfall traps into which I, a foolish mouse, would inevitably tumble. I would always tell myself there were still twenty days left, then ten days left, but while dawdling like this, I’d inevitably slide inexorably into a last-minute crisis—this was my established pattern. I hoped Mary’s physiology and my preparations would manage to stay in step. “If worst comes to worst,” I told myself with characteristic indecisiveness. I muttered to myself, true to my weak-willed nature.

I listened to the veterinarian’s instructions for Mary’s pregnancy care. She should be given moderate exercise morning and evening but otherwise kept tied up as much as possible. She mustn’t be allowed to fight with other dogs—there was risk of miscarriage. Since mother dogs grow hungry like humans do, she should receive more nutritious food than usual. I took note of various other points too. When the vet learned Mary was a stray I’d recently taken in, he suggested administering a rabies vaccine as precaution, adding that the certificate would be needed when registering her as my dog.

“Will it be alright to give her vaccinations and such?”

“Will it cause any problems for the puppies in her belly?” I asked. The veterinarian looked puzzled. “Will it affect them?”

The veterinarian looked at me with a kind gaze and broke into a smile. “There’s nothing to worry about.” The veterinarian had his assistant help and gave Mary an injection in the neck. Mary let out a single yelp when the needle pierced her skin, but remained still until the injection was fully administered. The veterinarian lightly rubbed the injection site with alcohol-soaked cotton. Mary seemed to finally sense that she had been released, looking up at my face and wagging her tail vigorously. I felt a surge of tenderness and, embracing Mary’s neck, stroked her forehead. Though we were in public, I couldn’t help myself.

When it came time to write the certificate, the veterinarian turned to me, “What’s the name?” “Mary.” Blood rushed to my cheeks, and through the sound of my own voice, I even felt I was confirming my feelings toward Mary. As we were leaving, I pointed at the dog in “The Happy Quartet” painting on the wall and asked the veterinarian.

“What breed is this dog?” The veterinarian showed a smile that held no particular meaning. “Well… It’s probably a type of terrier.”

I wanted this painting. I thought about hanging it on the wall of the detached house. But I couldn't bring myself to ask for it outright. When I returned home, I tied Mary to the persimmon tree beside her kennel. This seemed to be a banner year for persimmons, with branches sagging under the weight of fruit at the treetop. By the time these fruits ripened, Mary would have given birth to her puppies, I reflected. I went to the city office to file the pet registration and visited the public health center to submit the veterinarian's certificate, receiving one tag from each. As she handed me the tags, the female clerk reminded me to attach them properly to Mary's collar. I realized I still hadn't bought Mary a collar.

I bought a collar and chain for Mary at a hardware store in the bustling shopping district in front of the station. I had the collar engraved with my name and Mary’s. I splurged and bought a high-quality collar and chain. I have had a habit since long ago of cutting yōkan and takuan thinly. I thought that on this occasion I should improve such tendencies in myself. On my way back, I stopped by the dairy store and arranged to have one bottle delivered every day. Returning home, I fastened the collar around Mary’s neck. There—now our relationship had become legitimate before both God and society.

At first I kept Mary meticulously chained, but afterward only put the leash on her neck when taking her for walks. Mary had settled completely into our home and never went out alone. While I sat at my desk reading books or struggling with my novel beside her, Mary would lie sprawled on the earthen floor, climb unceremoniously onto the veranda of the sitting room where the old woman stayed to bask in sunlight, or indulge in naps beneath flowers she tended with care in the garden. Since beginning life with Mary, I too had grown more settled at home. Until then—with my solitary habits—whenever restlessness struck I would inevitably wander out walking. When weary of reading and lifting my eyes from the page to meet Mary's gaze in the earthen-floored entryway, I felt somehow comforted—truly at home. I wondered if Mary felt the same. I sensed it in her eyes.

I half-seriously fantasized about such foolish notions—that Mary was a human girl transformed into a dog by some witch-like old woman, and that someday the spell would break and she would return to her original maiden form. Conversely, I would fantasize that within my chest lay a prince put into a long magical slumber, and that Mary had come to me to awaken this prince from his sleep. When the magical fog lifted and the day arrived when all sorts of unrealized possibilities would bloom—a day I was certain would come—I indulged in such self-serving thoughts.

Since Mary came, the relationship between the old woman in the main house and me grew closer. The old woman was both my closest neighbor and my entire social world, yet until then I hadn't been particularly close with her. I was an unfriendly man who was awkward in conversation, and the old woman had a straightforward personality herself. But since Mary came, my unsociability was greatly mitigated for her sake, as it were. I felt as though Mary interceded on my behalf with society. In other words, through the "common heart" within Mary, I myself was able to connect with society.

The old woman also doted on Mary. The old woman was usually seated beside the long charcoal brazier, a small tray set before her, arranging her flower-patterned playing cards atop it. There are elderly people who seem to radiate a halo-like aura, and this old woman was one of them. Each playing card the old woman turned seemed imbued with vital energy. It was as though the dignified austerity of old age had been rendered into a single painting. The old woman was someone who, unusually for her age, never complained.

The old woman would say things like this:

“Keeping Mary company suits me best. When it’s with other guests, I end up gossiping about people behind their backs.” I learned how to groom her coat from the old woman. She first meticulously massaged Mary with a brush, starting from her head and moving down her neck, shoulders, back, hips, and limbs in that order, then carefully combed her with a metal comb. “When you do this, the coat’s luster improves, and fleas and lice won’t gather anymore.”

“When you do this, the coat’s luster improves, and fleas and lice won’t gather anymore,” said the old woman. Even after that, she continued to occasionally groom Mary in my stead. As I watched Mary being cared for by her—setting Mary herself aside—I felt undeservedly fortunate yet uneasy with guilt, wondering if this was truly acceptable.

As I walked down the street, whenever I encountered a dog, I found myself being more cautious than ever before, while also becoming less afraid of dogs than I had been in the past. No matter how splendid or elegant a dog I encountered, to me, my Mary was better.

Mary's face and form had become indelibly etched into my heart. Through Mary, I came to understand how for parents of human children, their child's face becomes an absolute truth.

When I told the old woman about this, she said: "That's your feelings transferring over to her, you know."

When I went out at night, I would replace the light in the detached house with a small bulb and deliberately leave it on. Mary was already in her own sleeping place, but I felt that being able to see the light from the detached house there was better for both Mary and me. For me as well, rather than leaving it completely dark while I was out, that way felt somehow more reassuring.

My outings consisted of either watching movies with discounted tickets or stopping by a bar. The darkness of movie theaters was one of the most comfortable places for me. Blending into crowds and spending a fixed period of time together—neither disturbing nor being disturbed—must have been one form of consideration for humans as communal creatures. The reason I entered movie theaters was to watch films, but if I had been watching them all alone there, it wouldn’t have been enjoyable in the slightest. As I watched the screen, drifting into a dreamlike state or shedding tears, what was good was that there was no worry of others seeing my tear-streaked face. For me, the most unpleasant thing was being seen by others. The moment I felt others watching me, I became stiff and awkward, unable to do anything at all.

Occasionally going to the bar was, for me, an indispensable—so to speak—element of my life. The bar too was not such an uncomfortable place for me. I am not one adept at conversing with people, but when alcohol enters the picture, it becomes a different matter altogether.

I passed through the bar’s curtain and sipped slowly in a corner.

“Oh, welcome.” “Long time no see.” “I thought maybe you’d found yourself a nice girl and was worried about you!”

“Actually, I did.” “Oh?” “Don’t startle me like that!” “I got a dog. Her name’s Mary.” “She’s a female, then.” “So you’ve been keeping company with this dog lately?” “Don’t go saying something like we’re cohabiting just because I’m with a dog.” “Admittedly, it’s cohabitation—no doubt about that.” “Before long, puppies will be born, I tell you.” “What are you saying? “You’ve gotta pull yourself together.” “Hurry up and get yourself a wife already.”

“I’m perfectly sane.” “I’m leaving now.”

“Got homesick, have you? Well, do come again. Give my regards to Miss Mary.”

When I staggered home, I could see the light on in the window of the detached house. As I stared at that light, I began to feel as though Mary was within it—and that I was too.

Near my house was Inokashira Park. In the mornings and evenings, I would take Mary there for exercise during our walks. The place where Mary and I had first encountered each other was also this park.

From my house I could see the cluster of trees in Inokashira Park, and when I passed through the narrow path before my home, there I already stood within its grounds. This place had been renowned since antiquity as a pleasure ground for city dwellers. Though neglected from the war's final years through the postwar period, its landscaping had now been restored to orderly tidiness. On Sundays and holidays it bustled with family outings, yet remained quiet and deserted on ordinary days. Wandering along the lakeshore after rainfall held its own particular charm. Each season brought distinct atmospheric beauty, but I especially favored winter's barrenness and the season of fresh green leaves. Autumn's colors too held their appeal. To maintain this park's scenic character, Musashino City employed permanent groundskeepers.

I attached a chain to Mary’s collar, gripped it tightly, and while alternately pulling her along and being pulled by her, made a full circuit around the pond.

Noguchi Ujō had once lived in Musashino City, and it seemed this Inokashira Park was where he would take his morning and evening walks. Had it been the autumn two years prior when they erected a monument by the pond in his memory? On its face was carved a verse from Ujō’s Inokashira Ondo: Singing and clamoring

At dusk, In the reeds, bush warblers Their song never ceases.

It was Ujō’s own handwriting, but somewhat difficult to decipher. Afterward, a signboard with clearly inscribed text was erected beside the monument. It was probably quite some time ago that Ujō composed this poem. Now, even the bush warblers’ songs were no longer heard. The reeds too could now barely be seen only in areas where the pond’s outline had narrowed into a small stream, beneath the iron bridge of the Inokashira Line.

Was it in the spring of its later years that the bridge at the pond’s center had been renovated and came to be called Seven Wells Bridge? At its base, a plaque like this had been erected.

"The water of this pond had been used since time immemorial as drinking water and irrigation water. Particularly in the early Tokugawa period, when the Kanda Aqueduct began supplying Edo's townspeople, it became renowned as a water source. After the Later Tamagawa Aqueduct was constructed, it also served as a reservoir, though now it occasionally functions as auxiliary water for the Tokyo Metropolitan Waterworks. During the third Tokugawa shogun Iemitsu's hunting expedition at Mureno Field, after he rested at Gotenyama and slaked his thirst at the pond's spring, the hall of Benzaiten was splendidly rebuilt. Because spring water gushed from seven places within the pond and never dried up even during droughts, it came to be called 'Seven Wells Pond' (*Edo Meisho Zue*). It is also known as 'Divine Arrow Water' (*Shinpen Musashi Fudoki Kō*), likely due to the numerous stone arrowheads discovered along its shores. Local residents call it 'Inokashira Pond' (Commoners' Historical Materials). This bridge takes its name from one of these appellations and is called Seven Wells Bridge."

This area appears to have been a falconry ground for the shogun family in times past. It is said that spring water once gushed from seven places within the pond, but it must have diminished significantly by now. Nevertheless, the water volume remained abundant, and its color stayed clear.

This pond had floating algae growing in dense clusters. Their reproductive capacity appeared quite formidable, and one often saw laborers floating boats on the pond to remove the algae. Near where Ujō’s monument stood on the shore, pulled-up algae were piled up, and passing by it, the algae’s smell assaulted the nostrils. I saw the flowers of the floating algae for the first time that year. At first, I mistook them for cherry blossom petals scattered on the water’s surface out of season.

There were also little grebes in the pond. They were adorable birds. Small and skittish, they would dive underwater at the slightest hint of human presence. Letting out shrill trilling cries, they skimmed across the water's surface. They were rarely alone. They always moved in pairs. I couldn’t distinguish which was which, but they might have been a male and female pair. I had always wanted to see the floating nests of little grebes but had yet to encounter them. Mary seemed to enjoy taking walks with me. Sniffing the ground with her nose, she trotted along joyfully. As we circled the pond’s edge, Mary kept wrinkling her nose at the algae’s scent and wore a terrified expression at the little grebes’ cries. After completing a full circuit around the pond, I would go to the wooded hill with dogwood trees at the park’s western edge, sit down on the bench there to rest, and remove the chain from Mary’s collar. Then within eyeshot, I would let Mary roam freely on her own.

I had always liked this place. Raised in the city with scant familiarity for trees and plants—being quite unversed in such things—I nevertheless came to feel an affinity for the dogwoods. When I looked at their dark gray bark and the tall, slender forms of their trunks stretching upward, I felt a kinship as though encountering some creature. The winter dogwood grove was exquisite. The vitality radiating from bare treetops defied description. And when new buds sprouted on those branches, their freshness surpassed all comparison. Come springtime leaves, sitting on the bench and looking up, I would find a green canopy spread high above me until I grew entranced in bliss. When I first saw Mary too—lying on my back gazing at those boughs until drifting into sleep—I awoke to her face thinking it still part of my dreamscape, yet—

That evening, as usual, I took Mary around the pond, came to the hill with the dogwood grove, released her, sat down on the bench, and drifted into a daze. The sleeping prince locked away in my chest—might the time for his awakening never come? I found myself vaguely wondering such things.

Then suddenly I heard Mary let out an unusual scream—a sharp yelp followed by another. When I looked up in alarm, a large red-furred dog was chasing Mary as she fled. My heart leapt into my throat as I rushed over, shielding Mary behind me while glaring fiercely at the red-furred beast. For an instant our eyes locked, and I felt an icy shiver run down my spine. The dog lunged at me without warning. I felt its body collide with mine and instinctively tried to shake it off, only to land hard on my backside. Damn! I grabbed one of my fallen geta and swung it wildly sideways with both hands. The wooden sandal connected solidly—I must have struck its flank with considerable force. To my relief, nothing worse came of it. With a pained yelp, the red dog fled without looking back. I exhaled heavily, wiping cold sweat from my brow. Mary watched me anxiously nearby but appeared unharmed—the perfect balance of concern and good fortune. Only then did I notice my injury: faint tooth marks below my right pinky had already turned purple-black. Could that beast have been rabid? The thought chilled me more than the wound itself. Worse yet—what if this shock had harmed Mary’s unborn puppies? My mind filled with visions of miscarriage and disaster.

Would this recent shock have any adverse effects on the puppies inside Mary's belly? Could she possibly miscarry? Black clouds billowed up ominously, and it felt as though my future had turned utterly dark. I went straight to the veterinarian.

The veterinarian listened to my account, examined Mary’s body, and said there were no abnormalities. My injury wasn’t considered an issue at all. It was undoubtedly a scratch. Even so, to put my mind at ease, the veterinarian applied medicine to my wound and wrapped it in a bandage. The veterinarian said the red dog probably wasn’t rabid.

“Even if it’s not rabid, do dogs bite people?”

“They certainly do bite. “Out of fear. “Out of hatred. “Out of jealousy. Out of love.” I thought he was spouting such annoyingly human-like notions. While looking sidelong at the reproduction of “The Happy Quartet” painting.

That night I had a dream. …When I returned from going out, there stood the Red Dog blocking Mary’s kennel. Looking closer, I saw Red Dog voraciously devouring the meat-and-vegetable mixed rice I had prepared for Mary. When I checked on Mary, she appeared to be cowering in the back of the kennel. I stomped toward Red Dog and barked, “Hey!” Strangely, what emerged from my mouth was a “Woof!” I realized I had somehow transformed into a white dog. Red Dog turned to face me, and we locked eyes in a mutual glare. As I stared into Red Dog’s eyes, they began to seem oddly familiar. At that moment, the face of a certain elementary school classmate superimposed itself over Red Dog’s features like a double exposure. “That’s him,” I growled. (Him— This concerned a classmate from my fifth-grade days. One day, when I eagerly opened the new notebook I’d bought at the stationery store that very morning, I found pencil scribbles resembling spiderwebs defacing its pristine first pages—pages I knew I hadn’t touched. Another day, I returned home to discover gum stuck to the back of the brand-new kimono my mother had sewn for me to wear to school. Yet another time during lunch break, I opened my lunchbox to find clear bite marks missing from my tamagoyaki. I’d always had suspicions about who was behind these acts. It was the student seated directly behind me in class. The son of some wealthy family. He’d look at me sideways while murmuring “Tamagoyaki, tamagoyaki” in suggestive tones.)

However, since nothing was conclusive, I had refrained from confronting him with a formal protest. One day during recess when I returned to the classroom to fetch a forgotten ball, there he was in the deserted room, hunched over my desk. Approaching closer, I found him spreading open my textbook and haphazardly coloring its illustrations with crayons. I had finally caught him red-handed. Yet to my astonishment, he showed no trace of alarm at being discovered—instead fixing me with a look of undisguised scorn plastered across his face. Even as a child, I shuddered then, for his eyes blazed with malice directed squarely at me. After that incident though, he ceased his mischief toward me altogether. To this day I remain unable to fathom why he behaved so—or rather, why he harbored such hostility. (Much later, reading a newspaper article that stated “Prime Minister X dined tonight on tuna sashimi accompanied by Nada no nama ippon,” I found myself inexplicably reminded of him—not that I imagined he’d become a journalist penning such pieces. Perhaps the tuna sashimi had conjured associations with my tamagoyaki.) The Red Dog—no, he—stared at me with those same recognizable eyes. I felt resurrected within me the very emotions I’d experienced seeing those eyes in our childhood classroom. Had he come now to tarnish Mary’s and my life together, just as he’d once defaced my new notebook? He growled with hostility mirroring that long-ago moment: “It’s because of people like you that the world becomes harder to live in.” That growl nearly crushed me—yet simultaneously stirred within my heart a fierce indignation for the first time. Doesn’t the proverb say—

“Never lend your wife, your castle, or your dog to others.” I thought about taking the words he had thrown at me and returning them with ceremonial paper attached. But I couldn’t do that. If someone would go so far as to say such things to another person, it would be better to tuck their tail between their legs and retreat. I stood before him, unable to advance or retreat. I felt my entire body was riddled with vulnerabilities. If he were to leap at me now, my throat would surely be torn out.

I opened my eyes. I was drenched in night sweat. "That was close," I muttered to myself. The image of myself as a white dog from the dream remained vividly before my eyes even after waking. I wondered if this was what it meant to see oneself objectively. The objectively viewed "me" turned out to be quite an endearing creature. In subjective reflection, I would always taste self-loathing as bitter as swallowing ink— The evening's events had felt dreamlike, but proof they weren't lay in the bandage wrapped around my palm. When I opened the storm shutters, daylight already filled the outside. Going out to Mary's kennel in the garden, she emerged at the sound of my footsteps and rubbed her body against my leg. Squatting down, I drew Mary's neck close and gazed into her eyes, feeling delusions wash from my mind.

Mary’s belly grew larger day by day. At the same time, her breasts swelled and her nipples had properly formed. When I experimentally squeezed her nipples, white milk began oozing out slowly, as if welling up. When I lightly placed my palm on her belly, the movement of the puppies inside came through to my palm. Mary’s eyes had completely taken on those of a mother. Her eyes seemed to be asking me, "See? Do you understand?"

I stopped taking Mary out for exercise. Mary’s movements became noticeably sluggish. She appeared listless in everything she did and began to sprawl limply in sunny spots of the garden. The old woman, pitying her, would gently stroke Mary’s belly in such states. When she did this, Mary seemed to find some relief from her discomfort, narrowing her eyes in delight.

“Somehow, it feels like I’m welcoming a grandchild,” said the old landlady.

I decided to use the earthen floor of the detached house as Mary’s delivery room. I again obtained apple crates from the fruit shop and fashioned them into a birthing bed.

When the persimmons in front of the detached house had mostly turned color, Mary safely gave birth to her puppies.

There were five puppies—two males and three females. Their coats all resembled Mary’s. Mary’s expression shone with the joy of becoming a mother for the first time. The old woman felt relieved, and I felt relieved too. After that, all the puppies developed smoothly. The sight of them squirming against each other as they latched onto Mary’s teats was utterly adorable. When placed on my palm, they fussed and sniffed repeatedly. It looked exactly like a human child saying, “Enough already—enough already.”

Mary looked up at my face proudly while giving milk to her puppies. Her eyes met mine, seeming to boast, "See? They're all good pups, aren't they?"

The other day, when the old landlady’s grandchildren came to visit, they took a photo of me with Mary and her puppies using their own camera. Looking at the print they later sent me, there beside Mary and her brood was someone with an utterly foolish expression—apparently me. This might have been objectivity incarnate. Yet gazing at that image made me recall Chaplin’s old film *A Dog’s Life*. The movie had come out when I was very young; though I feel certain I saw it once long ago, perhaps I never did at all. I can’t remember its story or any particular scenes. What stayed with me was one publicity still— Chaplin in his trademark tramp costume standing beside some stray mutt. That single frame lingered stubbornly in my memory. A frozen moment from some half-forgotten film, paired forever with those three words: *A Dog’s Life*.