Pathway to Japanese Literature

*Dog Story*

Me?
I'm Taro-don - the dog who once licked up the oil O-Man spilled.
They want to hear my life story?
What history could a four-legged mutt like me possibly have to tell?
But if even you fancy human novelists come sniffing after my origins, Professor must be truly scraping the barrel, eh?
Fine then - I'll give you a proper fireworks show of rhetoric.

I was born ten blocks from here, in the reeking back alleys of Beggars' Row - right by the trash heap at the dead end of a side street.
My mother got squashed by some half-asleep patrolman's boot on a pitch-black night not long after whelping me. Startled into yelping, they called her rabid and put her down - or so the story goes.
Typical - shoving their mistakes onto others by crying "Mad dog!" What a farce!
And to think they call themselves lords of creation while snuffing out lives so carelessly!
In this human-run world where might makes right, I'll bite my tongue for now - but if I'd been born in heaven, I'd have dragged those bastards straight to divine court!

I was about two months old then.
Some mischievous brats tied a rope around my neck, dragged me to a hospital field, tormented me every which way, and were about to throw me into an old well when my current master rescued me.

I was separated from my mother before I could even properly nurse, left parentless and homeless to endure considerable hardship, but then my current master took such excessive care of me—comparing me to one of Ōkyo’s painted puppies, they doted on me something fierce.
Since both the master and young lady were unparalleled dog enthusiasts, ever since being taken into this mansion I’ve been a downright fortunate soul—eight years now without so much as a hungry day, feasting all the while on demon-fang-grade rice from both households.
Though I say it with all due modesty, this big brother here has yet to put a single grain of Nankin rice in his mouth.

You want to know about my pedigree? I'm just your ordinary local dog. An unmixed, pure Japanese dog. Ever since those floppy-eared, tail-drooping, blue-eyed Western curs came over and started demeaning my kind as mere mutts, let me declare—though I say it with all due modesty—we are purebred noble canines who've preserved the Yamato spirit of our divine land. We're of an entirely different stock from those Westernized-faced hybrids—hmph.

What I fundamentally can't fathom are these fools who mindlessly prize Western dogs. Very well—I'll seize this moment to enlighten you properly. They say dogs descend from wolves, but that's mistaken—our ancestors are the Dhole, a type of mountain dog. They still inhabit the western frontier of British India, between Midnapur and Shimla. Just as all the world's civilizations sprang from India, dogs too spread out in all directions with India as their motherland. In Egypt, they revered dogs like cats, enshrining them as river gods. Since Sirius appears precisely when the Nile floods, they named this the Dog Star and claimed dogs were celestial spirits—or so it's told. In Assyria too, they valued dogs since ancient times—hence those creatures called 'Mastiffs' and 'Greyhounds' you see today—but let's set that aside. Scholars unanimously agree we evolved from India's 'Dholes.' The claim that we developed from wolves or jackals—it's a damned lie! They slander our noble kind.

Now, this “Dhole” creature apparently detested humans so fiercely that it never showed itself, yet remained remarkably agile and an expert hunter.
They caught anything except tree-climbing leopards or exceptionally large-bodied elephants.
Even tigers found themselves overwhelmed when encountering the Dhole.
Of course, one Dhole alone couldn’t match a tiger, but since they always attacked in coordinated battalions, even the mightiest tigers were swiftly slaughtered.
They were truly fierce, death-defying generals.
I may be tooting my own horn here, but when it came to hunting fierce beasts, Professor Dhole took the prize.
Their splendidly brave conduct might indeed be said to bring no shame to us of the canine race, their descendants.

Now then—among our unified canine family—it’s we Japanese dogs who most faithfully preserve Lord Dhole’s noble essence! From ear tips to tail curvature—nay—even facial features bear striking resemblance! Above all—that peerless martial valor! A fearless disposition toward wild beasts laid utterly bare! I daresay we’re undoubtedly Lord Dhole’s legitimate direct descendants! Not just us Japanese dogs alone—all breeds resembling us boast matchless bravery! Tibetan hounds! Eskimo sled-pullers! Siberian guardians! Our brethren—each one strong-limbed—courageous—indomitable heroes! Though raised haphazardly in barbarous lands—leaving mere historical footnotes rather than progress—their superior intellect and valor have earned scholarly recognition! Those Eskimo teams pulling sleds through snowdrifts for days without fatigue! Siberian packs driving wolves from travelers’ paths! Marvelous indeed! In Siberia they call dogs “Ennu”—the term’s phonetics curiously similar! Some scholars posit shared ancestry with us Japanese hounds—plausible theory indeed!

Moreover, we were born in a country with two thousand five hundred years of history—unlike those Eskimo and Siberian rabble—so we possess a distinguished pedigree.
To posture as ninth-generation scions of Emperor Kanmu smacks of cheap theater lines and is downright laughable—but you loyal-to-the-core Japanese subjects surely know how we've been granted the fearful privilege of breathing the same air as generations of emperors behind the chrysanthemum curtain.
Of course there were scoundrels like Okina-maru who earned imperial displeasure through mischief, but we've chiefly basked in His Majesty's gracious favor.
History's most celebrated canine enthusiast was Lord Hojo Takatoki.
Lord Takatoki gets painted in histories as some arch-traitor—a crying shame if you ask me.
Since Fujiwara times, the roster of imperial enemies kept swelling, but that's just losers in power struggles getting branded rebels—who born in this sacred land would dare oppose the Son of Heaven?
At root, this Japanese folly of dragging His Majesty into governance began ages past—slapping 'imperial enemy' labels on anyone opposing the regime—and even now some cling to that vile habit of claiming sole rights to loyalty while slandering dissenters as traitors.
To narrowly interpret royal devotion for selfish ends and recklessly cry sacrilege does nothing but diminish the Imperial Household's divine authority—how presumptuous!
The real outrage is how the Hojo clan suffered most pitifully, getting wrongly entered in history's ledger of villains.
Though Lord Takatoki did ruin his house and hardly merits praise, two hundred clansmen laying their heads side by side in final defiance—that'd wring tears from any soul with heart.
The tale about Lord Kusunoki decrying Takatoki's extravagance over nine rounds of sake? With due respect—country samurai's crude tall tale.
I say any man holding the regency's august office wouldn't be called profligate for serving nine courses—that's just putting on proper airs.
When I bark such truths, those loyalist types snap 'Beastly drivel!' But since you humans tailor truths to convenience, us disinterested mutts actually bark straighter.
...Whoops—my tale's gone sniffing down rabbit trails.
Enough digression—through Lord Takatoki's great passion for dogfights and patronage, we made great strides.
Some call cockfights and bullfights barbaric—but while humans practice sumo, they've no right to lecture!
Granted they say beastly brawls draw blood—but that's our business! The thrill of contest stays same whether your sumo or our tussles.
Just as sumo builds muscle indirectly, dogfights made us robust and fierce-hearted.
Then comes Lord Tsunayoshi—Takatoki's match in canine devotion!
Dubbed 'Dog Shogun' by snickering masses, he showered absurd compassion on our kind.

There are those who speak ill of His Lordship’s Edicts on Compassion for Living Things, but ultimately they align with the grand humanitarian principles of animal protection now being loudly championed in Europe. The means might have been somewhat too extreme, but the purpose remained thoroughly commendable. We who received such bountiful favors from all quarters still feel profoundly honored to this day. Lord Tsunayoshi was our very Christ, I tell you. In these times when they beat unfortunate stray dogs to death indiscriminately out of rabies fears—when even respectable masters fulfilling their duties falsely brand barkers as rabid and slaughter them—we crave His Lordship’s benevolence more than ever. My own mother was killed under wrongful accusation, remember. Had this been Lord Tsunayoshi’s reign, they’d have swiftly apprehended the culprit for us.

We Japanese dogs had been frequently encouraged in dog fighting since Lord Takatoki’s era and were utilized early for field hunting, making us differ from the products of barbaric nations—our physiques splendid, our natures clever, particularly courageous and mighty in strength, consummate masters of both combat and hunting.
The disposition of human races seemed to accompany their climate, but we of the canine race likely followed the same pattern—Japanese people and Japanese dogs resembled each other in every conceivable way.
While the physical stature of Japanese people ranks lowest in the world save for certain black slaves, the physique of Japanese dogs places them not merely above average but rather among the superior when compared to canines worldwide.
We dogs possessed far superior physiques compared to you humans.
Let’s not have you take us for utter fools.

Now then, you—ever since those Black Ships arrived and foreign breeds began intermingling with domestic ones, even among you humans, those with altered dispositions have gained sway; but we in canine society were overrun by these foreign mongrels and plunged into a truly wretched state.
To be fair, among Western breeds there are indeed superior, splendid high-class ones.
I am also thoroughly impressed.
"The Mastiff’s impressive physique, the Bulldog’s stubborn brute strength, and the Alpine Spaniel’s abundance of great compassion—even we of Yamato spirit must nearly bend our pride."
However, there is one thing I don’t understand.
In human society, mixed-bloods are looked down upon, while among dogs, even mixed-breeds put on Western airs and swagger about arrogantly.
Among my fellow companions of poultry and livestock, I hear they value purebred Japanese ones as precious while despising mixed-breeds.
That should be the natural order of things—yet only dogs, even mixed-breeds among them, go putting on Westernized airs and acting uppity. It’s an outrageous state of affairs.
What utter nonsense that you humans, who daily posture as patriots, would forget the superiority of us Yamato dogs and instead prize these mixed-breeds inheriting the inferior traits of foreign stock!
This Europhile madness has reached the absolute pinnacle of absurdity, I tell you.
This is beyond all reason!

Even pure foreign breeds aren’t necessarily superior to us.
“As for what’s so great about Terriers, Turnspits, Poodles—can’t fathom it.”
The Maltese dog—also called “lion dog”—sports a grand name but remains a cowardly weakling.
Mexican dogs may perch daintily on your palms—cute enough—but we prefer grandeur; being “world’s finest” among runts strikes us as pitiful.
And then there’s that Sky Terrier skulking around Japan—dwarf-sized with greasy strands matting its eyes—reeking like some destitute scholar! Intolerable.
Among Hounds? England’s Greyhounds cut figures; Russia’s impress too—but Italian Hounds? Toy dogs barely a foot tall weighing three kilos! A “Hound” in name alone—laughingstock!
Dogs mirror their nations—artful Italy breeds dainty playthings.
Impertinent for paws like mine? Maybe—but Italy flaunts meager naval strength like those Hounds: all bluster and fleet feet before collapsing panting!
We? Blind to our own power! Let mixed-breeds mock us—retreated country bumpkins kowtowing even to Chinese curs!
No more losses!
With Kamakura-era defiance—come at us Mastiffs! Bulldogs!
We’ll prove our match.

"What—think I’m boasting too much? …Boast I might, but it’s because we of the Yamato dog clan possess strength and courage that won’t yield to Western mongrels, I tell you. Fundamentally, you people are the ones guilty of gross misconduct. What I mean is—you people, with all due disrespect, ignorantly pound your mosquito-shank-thin arms while pontificating about Japanese nationalism and *kokusui-shugi*, yet scorn us as mere 'local mutts'—we who remain undishonored as pure Japanese breeds, bold and vigorous products of this divine land! What an outrageous contradiction!

"What’s this—some grand display of bravado? That’s right—we’ll put on our own grand display! The treatment you all ordinarily give us Japanese dogs is thoroughly unsatisfactory, you see. However, of late, His Highness the Prince—my master—has summoned our companions and bestowed no small favor upon us; this signifies that the time has ripened for us to emerge into society, you see. 'If you have time to write mediocre novels and engage in trivial debates, then for Japan’s divine fortune, at least go advocate Japanese dog principles in *The Hunter’s Companion* or some such publication.'

"In that regard, my master proves truly admirable. Having spent some time abroad and become well-acquainted with world-renowned dogs, my master kept hunting breeds like Pointers and Setters—of course—as well as lesser-known varieties among Japanese such as Stalkers and Retrievers; yet being thus versed in canine society, he still declared Japanese breeds to be quite excellent indeed, bestowing upon me the honor of leading a trio under his care. You all look down on us as mere local mutts despite knowing nothing proper about dogs, but I’ll have you know—in my master’s household, we are still regarded as Japanese Dog-sama."

My master being this impressive, every member of the household stood equally grand! What particularly commanded respect was the Young Lady herself, mark my words. Nineteen she was—that ill-omened year—and Taeko her name. So striking her visage that I'd parade it before you all if I could! What—you claim prior knowledge? A pack of wolves they were, never to be taken lightly. Small wonder the master and mistress fretted so. But hear this—the Young Lady's wit outshone all! No chance she'd be swallowed by dullards like you lot! First off, whenever she ventured out, yours truly always received the escort duty—so much as twitch a finger near her, and snap! My fangs'd find your flesh, I assure you! Bread scraps tossed my way bought no quarter either! Bribes might sway you humans, but we remain incorruptible! What mongrel cur these days falls for rice ball tricks anyway?

The Young Lady’s beauty was Bancho’s pride and unmatched even at school.
People on the street—the young naturally, even old men and women—would turn their heads to gaze.
Even I, her escort, swelled with pride.
Having spent time in Europe with her father, she spoke Western tongues with ease, her voice nightingale-like as she conversed effortlessly.
Moreover, her musical skill stood peerless—they said her piano playing rivaled professionals’.
Every morning before meals and each afternoon after school, she never missed practicing; though uncomprehending as I was, I found it delightful enough to time my listening—stationed beneath the Western room’s window in rapt absorption.
They say quite a few would linger dazedly by the fence, hearing the sounds filter through the garden trees.

With her graduation approaching next year and twenty years old in full bloom, she would inevitably be wed somewhere—but what truly set her apart was her beauty, reputedly unmatched in Bancho and likely all Tokyo, her mastery of every art, and her unparalleled ingenuity; in ages past, she would have been a lady of the innermost court chambers.
Thus from aristocrats, wealthy merchants, and influential families formally proposing to her parents, to modern young gentlemen finding excuses to frequent the estate, down to you wolves ready to devour her given half a chance—indeed, the ranks of self-proclaimed candidates numbered roughly ten thousand.

Madam, driven by concern, kept herself in such a frenetic whirl that she scrutinized every detail of suitors' statuses, assets, and true natures down to their marrow.
She went so far as to take on three new clerks specifically for this purpose.
But the master—having been raised in the West—maintained an unflappably carefree demeanor.
Since marriage is a lifelong affair, he considered scrutiny of social standing and pedigree secondary.
"If the Young Lady herself consents," he declared, "I'd even wed her to penniless scholars like yourselves without rank or station..."

“Now then—don’t get carried away with this excitement. With your sort, Her Young Ladyship herself would never take a liking—so curb your premature celebrations and abandon all hope at once.”

What they call free marriage in the West. Though the master never voices it explicitly, he does permit this free marriage. The young gentlemen visiting the estate would fabricate reasons to call upon the master, then immediately after concluding their business, set about courting the Young Lady’s favor.

“A novel of this sort has recently been published,” they’d declare while presenting new books.
“A women’s magazine like this has come out,” they’d announce, mailing every issue without fail.
“A new koto has been crafted,” they’d insist, arriving with sheet music in hand.
“Such cosmetics have been newly imported,” they’d proclaim, specially procuring them.
“There’s to be a music concert here,” they’d mention, bearing expensive tickets.
Among them, those with means would splurge on rare luxuries while claiming “these items are all the rage nowadays.” The most idiotic ones even went so far as to reverently dispatch photographs of themselves printed on carbon or platinum plates.

Good heavens—words fail—yet through it all, the master observed this rabble with magnanimity.

The ones most frequently visiting—swollen with self-delusion about securing the honor of becoming her groom—were Hanio Takanashi, a university graduate and so-called high-ranking official in some ministry; Misono Soshiro, another graduate and alleged study-abroad candidate now lecturing on philosophy and history at a private school; Ohora Fukuya, a self-styled "youth statesman" working as a so-called *Paris-Paris* reporter for some newspaper; Arao Kakuya, a jack-of-all-trades in criticism, novels, and new-style poetry who oversaw a literary column; Kamino Shimohei, that Jesus-religion priest reeking of "Amen"; and Nabekoji Yukihira, scion of a Kyoto noble count—these were the men! Each and every one, puffed with pride, not only curried the Young Lady's favor but also groveled before the master and mistress, fully intent on succeeding—how laughable!
Because the Young Lady was so inventive, I tell you, there was no way these fellows could possibly please her.

The master declared.
“Free marriage is certainly good,” he said, “but in a country like Japan, society’s customs do not permit it—so discreet people refrain from associating with women.
Moreover, due to lingering bushido morality, men of spirit make it their principle to avoid intimacy with women.
In such a national character, those who approach women are either utterly spineless weaklings or else reckless fools who flout societal propriety.
After all,” he often lamented, “even if one wishes to permit free marriage, the problem remains that no truly splendid ideal men enter women’s social circles.”

Exactly right, I tell you. The lot of them—ambition-swollen faces all vying to be chosen by the Young Lady—were nothing but utterly foolish, repugnant wretches, I tell you. Since you’re all just lottery-ticket hopefuls aiming to pass the exam of climbing love’s treacherous cascade—which you’ll never manage—I’ll spell it out to make you give up.

The most insufferably arrogant and repulsive of all was Law Graduate Hanio Takanashi, I tell you. He’d mechanically memorized lecture notes to barely grasp his diploma, rejoiced as if he’d slain a demon king, his swagger dripping from his nostrils. Whenever he opened his mouth, he tried to act high and mighty by leaning on the same old power as the Akamon Gakushikai. It was just like how country bumpkins never failed to go on about their provincial pride, I tell you. In our circles, we called university graduates mixed-breed dogs. They put on airs of Westernized arrogance, but in truth, their nerves were dull, their strength feeble, their constitutions inferior, and their coats unkempt—all they could do was yap incessantly. Lately, your lot had been making quite the racket over this law school dropout problem, I tell you. Under the current system that forced automatons to memorize by rote—it was akin to teaching parrots to recite pebbles, utterly useless, I tell you. The flaws in the examination system were well understood, but the high number of failing students wasn’t because of that. I didn’t quite grasp it myself, but according to the master’s account, the least trustworthy among university graduates were law and literature graduates, it seemed. Though graduates of what was hailed as the nation’s foremost institution of learning, law graduates were the most disloyal to scholarship itself. Take Mr. Hanio Takanashi—he strutted about flaunting his belief in the omnipotence of law, judging people solely by their legal knowledge. But to think someone could be deemed a great man for merely digesting twenty or thirty notebooks of fifty or sixty pages each—how preposterous, I tell you. Since they were this sort of scholar, not only couldn’t they even handle foreign languages properly, but it seemed they’d largely forgotten even their crucial specialized legal studies. Lately, what he did was count the Director’s nose hairs in humble service at the ministry; on his way back, he came to my estate to inquire after the Young Lady’s mood through the mistress. The true cowardice of this scoundrel lay in his ambition: knowing full well my master’s closeness to the Satchō oligarchs, he aimed to deftly ensnare the Young Lady in his grasp and thereby secure my master’s patronage. Once someone had tasted the privileges of pedigree, it seemed they couldn’t navigate society without the telegraph; those who secured undeserved positions through academic patronage now sought to climb higher by clinging to their wives’ coattails. Mr. Takanashi too belonged to this ilk—his life’s grand ambition being to wed a wife from a family of standing and, relying on that connection, achieve endless career advancement.

For such men—who willingly enslave themselves by worshiping wife-deities—it would be a waste to bestow someone as gentle and beautiful as the Young Lady of the estate; they deserve to be punished with a stubborn, selfish, unfaithful, jealous, and somewhat dim-witted hideous face instead.
The Young Lady, being so inventive, saw right through them.
One time when I was listening nearby, that bastard got all smug, bragging nonstop—from his colleagues’ reputations to rumors about the director, even how his campaign to go on an overseas inspection next year seemed likely to succeed.
However, the Young Lady wore an expression that wouldn’t be fooled and said, “Enough of such matters—why don’t you quit your current government post and try writing a doctoral thesis instead?”
The professor was utterly flabbergasted, I tell you.
“What? Becoming a mere doctorate is something I could achieve anytime,” he replied. “I had intended to conduct field surveys abroad and present administrative opinions to those in power, but if it is Your Ladyship’s desire, I shall resign my post tomorrow and compose a doctoral thesis.”
Even when Mr. Takanashi approached with steely resolve hereafter, the moment he was asked, “And how fares your doctoral thesis?” he scurried off muttering, “Ah yes! I am earnestly researching and currently gathering materials!”
Well, well, what an impressive graduate we have here.

The one who leapt for joy upon overhearing this conversation was Misono Soshiro. This man too was a university graduate conducting research in graduate school. By his own account, he claimed to be a candidate for government-funded study abroad. Here was a scholar pledging lifelong devotion to academia, yet he cropped his hair à la française, drenched himself in perfume, stiffened his beard with cosmetics, and strutted about in gold-rimmed spectacles and rings to court the Young Lady’s favor—a spectacle utterly insufferable, I tell you. Given how modern scholars evidently prized wealth and women over truth, their true aim was to seize both the beautiful Young Lady and her dowry in one fell swoop under matrimonial pretense.

Now there being only two scholar candidates left—here and there—they looked down on other suitors while secretly vying with Hanio. Having deluded himself that an erudite lady like her could never favor a vulgar bureaucrat like Hanio, Misono became ecstatic upon hearing of Hanio’s thesis troubles, fancying his own ambitions fulfilled. One day he announced to the Young Lady with smug satisfaction: “I too shall submit my doctoral thesis next spring.” To which she sharply retorted: “Oh my—so you’re becoming a government scholar too? A doctorate sounds grand, but there’s a saying—‘Three years pass, three years old it becomes.’ In Germany even dogs bear doctoral titles.”

“Mind you—in Germany dogs do become doctors! Don’t look down on them!”

“If you insist on such drivel, why not write it in a foreign tongue and pick fights with Europe’s scholars? A mere Japanese doctorate hardly justifies all that effort pilfering library books. How absurd! Rather than some thesis, a thousand-tale love letter that could sweet-talk even a stubborn mule like me would serve you better.” With this merciless mockery, even the tethered great philosopher clutched his head in defeat.

Over a month passed with only an impenetrable letter crammed with Latin and Greek arriving—no face showed—letting the Young Lady finally relax, having thus safely weathered her nineteenth-year tribulation with a satisfied nod.

When conceit took hold, it bred the strangest rationalizations—case in point: journalist Mr. Ohora Fukuya, who twitched his nose in smug triumph upon hearing of the two scholars’ rejections, I tell you.
Indeed, Miss Taeko possessed remarkable discernment.
The way she had seen through the empty prestige of university graduates was truly remarkable.
Be that as it may, this age of power shifts would gradually become our dominion.
What was a worthless high-ranking official anyway?
What was a rotten university graduate anyway?
And Mr. Ohora, swelling with pride, immediately began carrying himself like a triumphant general.
In his usual manner, he held forth on the current state of the political world with torrential eloquence, loudly proclaiming that if the cabinet were to change now, they themselves would become ministers.
After all, when it came to Ohora Fukuya’s grandiose proclamations, they were truly notorious, I tell you.
“There’s this sarcastic saying about ‘swallowing the world whole through the Times and Hyōron no Hyōron every week,’ but I must say, those who voraciously devoured foreign magazines left and right were still rather admirable.”
When it came to Ohora, he couldn’t handle foreign languages properly.
That fellow’s strong point lay in his strangely excellent memory; he voraciously read Japanese newspapers and magazines to position himself as a foreign affairs expert.
By nature, Japanese people were clueless about Western matters, I tell you.
They didn’t come anywhere near knowing foreign dogs as well as I did.
So those foreign breeds in newspapers were downright dubious, I tell you.
After all, it was precisely because scholars like Ohora engaged in this mutual devouring of fabrications that they wrote such outright lies—not merely mispronouncing personal and place names but carelessly perpetuating the most outrageous misapprehensions without a second thought.
In the old days, it had been the storytellers who spun such fabrications as if they’d witnessed them firsthand, but now journalists had seized their stock.
It seemed Ohora Fukuya had made his name through personality reviews, but nothing was as thoroughly packed with fabrications as that bastard’s critiques.
First off, he’d invent some nonexistent, unnamed hero, pass off his own writings as that hero’s work, then spin outlandish speculative theories about this phantom—claiming he must be a Satsuma elder, or a Chōshū luminary, or some opposition leader, or even a former shogun! The sheer audacity of writing such drivel himself to hoodwink the public—now that was a tale of remarkable skill, I tell you.
A small amount of debt brought trouble, but when it grew excessively beyond your station, it paradoxically sustained your life through that very indebtedness. Similarly, a little fabrication tripped you up, but once you’d grown this thick a hide, you seemed to manage your way through the world just fine, I tell you.

So then, my master—half in flattery—praised the journalist’s vocation as splendid and, with a teasing air, provoked him by suggesting that his daughter intended to wed a journalist; this made Mr. Ohora grow thoroughly excited, and now he began lingering around daily, acting as though he’d already secured his position as the groom.
Being thick-skinned, he published essays like “The Political Woman” and “The Politician’s Wife” in his own newspaper and sent them to the Young Lady.
Even the Young Lady seemed at a loss over this.
Since this opponent was a man of a thousand layers of thick skin—a veritable institution of persistence—even thirty yen couldn’t make this troublesome creature budge an inch from his poverty-stricken state.
With such fellows, if you made one wrong move you’d have old grudges repaid in unexpected ways—best to keep your distance for safety’s sake. Both the Young Lady and the mistress found him so unsettling that whenever Mr. Ohora launched into his grand proclamations, they always diverted him with talk of music or novels.
Mr. Ohora remained utterly oblivious, so even these recent novels—all monotonously identical and thoroughly unsatisfying—merely deceived with their tales of courtesans and love suicides before beating a retreat.

When Mr. Arao Kakuya, the novelist-scholar, heard this story, he leapt for joy and made the hasty assumption that since there existed a literature-loving Young Lady, his own involvement in literary circles would surely earn him her favorable recognition.
Mr. Arao specially bound his self-authored novel in a custom binding and set out obsequiously to seek the Young Lady’s esteemed critique.
Then—as if a scathing review of this novel had been published in some magazine—the Young Lady, out of sheer mischief, pretended not to know a thing.
“Critics are such foul-mouthed creatures! How rude of them to dismiss your work as shallow and frivolous!”
“I do like your novels best—they’re so effortless to read without any stiffness.”
The Young Lady appeared to have mistaken Mr. Arao’s great masterpiece for a padded winter robe.
Even so, Mr. Arao—believing he had been graced with her favor—choked back tears of emotion and proceeded to create something truly insufferable this time.
Apparently, it was some sort of love story that implicitly analogized his relationship with the Young Lady.
Moreover, since he had brought it while hinting at the circumstances behind its creation, even the Young Lady was left utterly dumbfounded.
The mistress, utterly exasperated by his absurdity, was said to have remarked in private, “There’s no medicine for a fool,” yet the man himself remained oblivious and subsequently sent a letter pressing for a favorable critique.
“Hey now—do you lot have such an imbecile among your ranks?”
“This fellow—even as a novelist—is bottom-tier trash, I tell you.”
The Young Lady, resolving that such men would go mad if not decisively rejected, firmly declared when he next came: “As society finds this troublesome, we must decline any visits for now. Once our situations stabilize, we shall request interaction anew.”
Mr. Arao slumped away like wilted spinach, though I too pitied him when I saw his retreating figure.
The “Song of Lost Love” that appeared in some magazine called *Sora-something*—apparently he composed that new-style poem around this time.
Even so—whether from endless optimism or cluelessness—he still sent that new-style poem.
It must have been his bid to beg for some shred of mercy.
“Are novelists really this pathetically clingy?”
“In my case, prey once missed is something I’ll never glance back at.”
“Truly, they’re not even fit to lick a dog’s paws.”

The most pitiful and miserable one was Mr. Kamino Shimohei, the Christian pastor. This man neither adorned his attire nor embellished his appearance, being utterly honest and dutiful; though wholeheartedly devoted to the Young Lady, he never once displayed any fawning behavior. Therefore, even the Young Lady interacted with this man alone in earnest without any teasing, but the trouble was that while he was a good person, both his learning and talents were outdated. Had he lived in the fifteenth or sixteenth century, he might have been a man of some standing, but in the twentieth century of X-rays and wireless telegraphy, he was utterly ill-suited. However, he was a truly devout pastor, I tell you. Even knowing his own love would remain unfulfilled, he bore no resentment toward others, praying single-mindedly for the Young Lady’s happiness. Both the mistress and the Young Lady felt secure enough to interact solely with this man, yet discerning the sentiments he never once betrayed in his demeanor made one’s heart ache. An essay tinged with personal reminiscences occasionally appeared in a certain magazine, and once when the Young Lady read it, she was seen covering her tears. It seemed to lament the pitifulness of a man—devoid of talent, shallow in learning, and even ugly of face—being driven to a love path where he burned for a maiden surpassing all in wisdom and beauty yet remained unable to attain her. Whenever he visited the Young Lady, his face would shine with joy and cheerfulness, but when one considered the pain concealed beneath that thin layer of skin, it truly invited sympathy, I tell you. The Young Lady too seemed greatly moved by this man’s earnest and guileless sincerity, shedding tears of sympathy—but it was indeed only natural. I too would put on a fearsome face and act as though about to snap at those other fellows to intimidate them, but with this honest Mr. Kamino Shimohei, I always wagged my tail and made friendly gestures, which once earned me a gift of bread. Mr. Shimohei alone was a truly admirable and remarkable man. Having already dedicated his true feelings to the Young Lady, he declared he would remain unmarried his entire life, living chastely in perpetual solitude while praying to God for her peace and happiness.

People with such earnest intentions are rare indeed, I tell you. I don’t know a thing about this “love” business, but when I observe human men and women’s relationships, they’re no different from us dogs—save for that rigid ruler called law forcing them to avoid parent-child or sibling incest. But really, they’re no better than dogs and cats! There’s apparently some haiku that goes: “When envy turns decisive—a cat’s love.” See? Even beasts retain more nobility where it counts! This pastor’s true motives might be suspect, but his outward show’s impeccable at least. These gentlemen strut about scorning women like reckless heroes, yet drool over some courtesan’s every smirk—ending up as their playthings all the same! Being women’s toys while fancying themselves the players? Utterly contemptible! How’s that, General—your lady-killer professor’s taken quite the blow, eh?

Count Nabekoji Yukihira was precisely one of these contemptible fellows, I tell you. From Midō Kampaku’s grandson Major Counselor Kintoki down through twenty-one generations, the son of former Provisional Middle Counselor Tokikane was none other than the present Count Nabekoji Kurosumi. Yukihira-kun was apparently his legitimate son, his childhood name reportedly being Akoyamaru. This I overheard when Yukihira-kun had proudly recounted his lineage to the Young Lady some time prior. Yukihira-kun was twenty-two or twenty-three, I suppose. Having abandoned his studies midway through his prime academic years—or rather, having reportedly failed—he now pompously declared himself a patron of literature, swept up by some mediocre writer’s instigations. After all, having cast aside scholarship, he was being vigorously championed by those who trumpeted Saikaku’s genius, Sono Hiroshi’s brilliance, Kōyō’s grandeur, and Ren’s admirable qualities—or so I heard. Now, had he been earnest about it, this might have been preferable to a nobleman’s geisha-buying diversions—but no—his flighty desire to pen some delusional romance novel took precedence, making it truly exasperating.

When he visited the Young Lady two or three times together with Arao Kakuya—the aforementioned novelist—the winds of love seeped into his very being at first glance, as if tailor-made. Arao had originally brought Count Nabekoji along to flaunt his ideal goddess, yet the Count himself became so entranced that he nearly burst into song about being wing-to-wing birds in heaven and branch-entwined trees on earth. Thus driven by love that would not be denied, he humbled himself and commanded Mr. Arao: “Mediate that most beauteous princess for me,” recalling past favors. Mr. Arao was utterly flummoxed. She had half-heartedly agreed to be his promised wife as a temporary evasion, but no sooner had the principal party begun composing odes to his first heartbreak than he vanished without a trace.

Being a simpleton reared among court nobles who wouldn’t know a boiled potato if he saw one, His Lordship Yukihira now threw himself into courtship with such fervor that even the hundred-night pilgrimage to Fukakusa would pale in comparison—personally summoning his carriage daily for these ardent visits. After all, his status was that of a count’s scion. To his fair-skinned, delicate features he added every conceivable enhancement—perfumes, cosmetics, white powder—while adorning himself in habutae silk, gold watches, chains, rings, palanquins, bicycles, horses, carriages, and at times even a dashing Western suit for ostentatious strolls; in short, he painstakingly bedecked himself head to toe. It was through Count Nabekoji that I first grasped how laughable human love paths truly were—every glimpse of his face left my stomach muscles aching from suppressed laughter. To be sure, given his exalted status, one might expect crude comparisons to Heiraku’s yam-like visage, but he remained a beautiful young lord through and through. Though scholarship eluded him, he devoured all manner of novels. Considerable discourse on fiction seemed within his purview as well.

Arao’s works would be despised even by bones and ashes, while his mansion’s study was apparently adorned with complete collections of Shakespeare, Dickens, Thackeray, and others. He surely could not read German texts, yet apparently possessed complete collections of Goethe and Schiller. Ibsen, Hauptmann, and even the trendy Nietzsche—he apparently had them all. Though I knew not why, there were shelves upon shelves of gilt-edged books in grand Western bookcases, and most people seemed utterly overwhelmed merely by the sight of them. Moreover, his bicycles and photographs were a great source of pride, and he became a supporting member of bicycle races and photo exhibitions. Truly a gentleman of civilization through and through, beyond reproach. However, his complexion was sickly pale, his eyebrows sparse, and the corners of his eyes drooped—though it was somewhat rude to say—he bore an uncanny resemblance to Hantoku from the Yamato Bunko illustrations. First, with that repulsive gaze and slack mouth of his being displayed, a shudder ran through one’s body. Since he was someone who flaunted his influence through Sado’s love potion, to think he could win over the Young Lady of the mansion with this was an utterly preposterous delusion. However, unlike townspeople, being of daimyo upbringing meant he did not harbor such vulgar notions as trying to win her over with gold—or so it seemed—but indeed, he diligently brought lavish gifts with all his might. From what I recalled alone, there was a hairpin with seven pearls set into it, a wireless cloisonné jewel box, a French-made ivory-boned fan, and an album titled something like *Twelve Months of Beauties* painted by a renowned artist—each month’s installment being a lavish gift he unfailingly brought once a month or so, none of which could be bought at any local bazaar. In between these offerings, he frequently brought imported luxuries like perfumes, soaps, and face powders. The mistress and Young Lady grew concerned at receiving so much, but they could neither refuse what he offered nor thoughtlessly return anything he brought despite their refusals; left with no choice, they purchased a silver cigarette case carved by a renowned artist from an art exhibition to present as a reciprocal gift. Thereupon, Count Nabekoji became ecstatic as if he had received some betrothal gift, never parting with that cigarette case for an instant while proclaiming everywhere he went that it had been given by the foremost beauty of Bancho. By chance, this tale reached the Young Lady’s ears, and she—utterly astonished—regretted having done something utterly outrageous. Determining that the best course was to make an impossible request to detain him—since this young lord who indiscriminately bestowed gifts was merely indulging in a hobby—she resolved to make a bold appeal, declaring that wood shavings from Nagara Bridge or dried frogs from Ide were hardly rare novelties anymore. When Lord Yukihira came visiting, “Now then, Young Lord,” the Young Lady coaxed sweetly, “what I’ve never seen before are Lord Narihira’s poetic pillows, Matsukaze and Murasame’s tide-drawing buckets, Hemamushi Nyudo’s priestly robes, Azuki Dainagon’s Ogura poetry cards, a kappa’s plucked anal bead, or a tanuki’s treasured belly drum—won’t you show me just one?” Lord Yukihira stroked his head and replied, “In my house we have nothing but poetry anthologies from Ministers of the Right and Left… though perhaps we might consult our clan relatives,” but realizing this collaboration was impossible—worried that failure in this matter would sever the cord of his love path—he departed in distress. After that, he stopped coming altogether, but apparently sent some sort of apology letter.

There was something endearingly aloof about him—just what you’d expect from a Young Lord.

The ones who came swaggering to the Young Lady’s residence, their conceited noses quivering with self-importance—they were precisely this ilk, I tell you.
Every last one of these young lords wouldn’t pass muster.
As the master says—in a Japan where feudal morals still decree boys and girls past seven shouldn’t share seats—those brazen enough to parade into a maiden’s chambers are either frivolous dandies or spineless weaklings who preen at being women’s errand-boys.
If you want earnestness, you’d get someone like Mr. Kamino Shimohei—a decent sort utterly lacking in worldly guile.
What sincere man of substance would ever come sniffing round a lady’s quarters?
The mansion’s Young Lady’s too shrewd by half to be bested by men.
Letting these lordlings make fools of us? Not while I draw breath.
First off—I’m here.
And I’ll be damned if I’ll tolerate it.

The Young Lady strokes my head daily and declares, “Taro, I shall never part from you my whole life long. When I wed, I’ll take you wherever pleases you—mark my words. Should one you favor come calling, I’ll clasp my sleeve between my teeth and lead you straight to their side.”
With all due respect, the right to choose the Young Lady’s husband lies with me.

“Huh? What’s that—am I supposed to entertain some paltry suitor?”
“……Heh heh heh, I’ve grown rather concerned here.”
“Rest assured—I’ve no intention of bothering myself with layabouts like you lot here.”
“Ultimately, you lot have no right to be spouses to a splendid, flawless lady like the Young Lady, I tell you.”
“Why don’t you just give up and kindly search for women at boarding houses or beef shops—ones suited to your station.”
“How utterly rude!”
“She addresses you sweetly—playing dumb despite your secret designs—I tell you.”
“Heh heh, they’re getting quite indignant and turning red in the face now.”
“In that case, shall I explain my qualifications for recommending the Young Lady to those I approve of?”

“Nothing at all, I tell you. First, value Japanese dogs. First and foremost, take good care of me. From now on, bring me a piece of roast meat every now and then. There’s a saying: ‘He who wishes to shoot a man should first shoot his horse.’ For creatures who call themselves humans, you all are remarkably lacking in wisdom.”

And then I can’t stand novelists.
Novelists are wretches who peer at the world through their beady little eyes and posture as enlightened sages.
They say fortune-tellers can’t read their own fates, but those who meddle with others’ destinies while remaining blind to what’s beneath their own noses must be none other than fortune-tellers and novelists in this world.
Fortune-tellers these days hang curtains over street stalls while moonlighting as document scribes—novelists will likely follow suit before long.
There was talk of some acclaimed literary giant who ended up advertising ghostwriting services after his own works ran dry—clear signs this rot is spreading through their ranks.

And then I can't stand scholars.
The unlearned seem innocent and less guilty of sin since they declare from the outset that they know nothing.
Scholars act like they've swallowed up everything between heaven and earth—I tell you.
If academic progress had reached its peak, that'd be one thing—but today when most everything remains questionable and scholarship just means slightly twisting how you phrase your logic, there's hardly any difference between scholars and the unlearned.
Yet these scholars strut about like they're carrying all the world's knowledge on their backs, lecturing the unlearned in the same tone policemen use to admonish citizens.
Nothing's more insolently rude than this.
Scientists aside for now—philosophers are mostly just phonographs regurgitating past sages.
You think they're some different breed at first glance? Listen close—they're basically confessing to growing delusional tumors in their brains.
Today's scholars are auctioneers—mark my words.
You all know those street auctioneers working night markets lately? That's them.
Using smooth talk to acquire cheap knockoffs then dumping them in bulk.
The way they forcibly peddle half-baked theories to society—now that's one hell of a racket.
Maybe that's what makes a scholar these days—but damn if it doesn't turn my stomach.

Politicians, huh?
This is my greatest taboo.
Every corner of today’s society rots through and through—but if you ask what’s most corrupt of all, I tell you, it’s politicians and religious figures.
These two are hardly worth discussing, I tell you.
Good grief—utterly beyond words! They rank two or three tiers beneath us four-legged folk, I tell you.
Far from being worthy candidates for the Young Lady’s husband, they’ve already failed in society—yet what terrifies is how they remain utterly unbothered, growing thicker hides whether detested or discarded.
The reputations of politicians and religious figures only wear our tongues raw with their asinine persistence.

Educators, huh?
Now this is downright astonishing!
Petty? What of the Yotsumeya incident?

Given these are all education scholars of renown, you can well imagine the rest.
Blah blah...

Businessmen, officials, soldiers, journalists—every last one of them is a failure, I tell you.
Actors, entertainers, artists—I can’t stomach any of them.
The one I secretly hope for and await is a hunter.
I want someone to find an excellent hunter to serve the Young Lady, accompany them on their honeymoon, and go big-game hunting from Central Asia to Africa or thereabouts.
I want to take on lions, tigers, elephants, rhinos, eagles, and snakes—all those beasts preening as kings of the animal kingdom—and show off the honed skills of us Japanese dogs.
What power do lions and eagles—swaggering about without knowing our Japanese dogs' prowess—even possess?
What a shame—Uncle Kruger on the opposite bank—I really wish you’d shown a bit more spine.
But hey, our backers Cecil and Rhodes had grit too.
I’d like to pick a little scrap with this tough-muscled bastard…

Huh? What’s this?
Are we failures even in pettiness?
Enough already—no need to fret, I tell you.
You spindly-legged, gutless Edo weaklings who idealize such mustard-seed resolve and listless dispositions—to pair you with my beautiful, inventive, man-surpassing Young Lady would be like matching a lantern to a temple bell.
Rather than waste your efforts on unrequited love’s futile labors, you might as well whip up some delusional romance novel from your fantasies and go peep at a boarding house cook—a broken pot paired with its ill-fitting lid. Hah! Hah! Getting red-faced now, I tell you.
Don’t get angry.
Don’t get angry.
With such a petty spirit, your love could never possibly succeed.
From now on, maybe I’ll bark occasionally as training to temper my mettle.
What’s this? 'Jie’s dog barks at Yao'—This bastard’s got some nerve—how dare he call me Jie’s dog! You wretch! Woof! Woof! Woof!