The Story of a Pet Dog

Osamu Dazai, Shelley Marshall (Translator)

Copyright (c) 2017 Shelley Marshall

First Printing: 2017

Published by Shelley Marshall

For more translations by Shelley Marshall

www.jpopbooks.com
 The Story of a Pet Dog
- As presented to Harube Ima -

I have confidence with dogs. I am confident that someday one

will bite me. I will be bitten. In that, I am confident. Very
well, until today, I have lived unharmed and never been
bitten, but I have a queer inkling.
My friends, dogs are beasts. Don't they bring down horses
and, on occasion, fight and vanquish lions? I may well be
alone in subscribing to this, but look at the sharp fangs of a
dog. They are not insignificant.
When on the streets, a dog plays innocent, humbles itself
like it's unworthy of attention, and snoops around garbage
cans, but is essentially a savage beast capable of bringing
down a horse. You never know when its savage anger will
burst out. A dog must always be chained and tied up. The
slightest carelessness is not allowed.
Many pet owners in this world care for terrifying beasts.
For the sole reason that they give the beast a few leftover
scraps everyday, they have complete trust in the beast.
"Supper, supper," they happily chime and approach the
beast like it is a member of the family. They turn it into our
dear three-year-old baby. They tug on the beast's ears and
have a big laugh. I shudder and must close my eyes to that
sight. I worry about what to do if without warning it barked
and bit me.
I have to be careful. A beast that even the owner would
have difficulty proving would not bite roams free and loiters
on the roads. (As an owner, saying that he absolutely
doesn't bite is nothing more than a stupid, kindhearted
superstition. Given those horrifying fangs, he will bite.
Saying that the beast would never ever bite cannot be
proven scientifically.) What kind of person is that?
In late autumn of last year, at last, a friend of mine
received this injury. He was a tragic victim. According to my
friend's story, he was doing nothing as he strolled down an
alley with his arms folded in his kimono. There was a dog
sitting in the road. My friend was doing nothing as he
passed near the dog. At that moment, the dog cast an evil
sidelong glance at him. He passed without incident, then the
dog barked and bit him on the right leg. This was a calamity.
It happened in a flash.
My friend was stunned. Tears of regret boiled over. I wasn't
surprised, I was convinced of his utter loneliness. If so, was
there something to do? My friend dragged his throbbing leg
to the hospital for treatment. He visited the hospital for the
next twenty-one days. Three weeks. Although the wound on
his leg healed, he had to get shots because of concern
about the possibility of his body being invaded by the
venom of the detestable disease of rabies. Nothing came of
negotiations with the owner due to my friend's timidity.
He unflinchingly endured his misfortune and only sighed.
In addition, the shots were not cheap. Excuse me for saying,
but my friend didn't have those kinds of reserves. I have no
doubt that all of it was painfully managed. This was a
calamity. A catastrophe.
If he carelessly neglected to get those shots, he would
suffer the ghastly disease of rabies. There would be the
fever and the anguish. Eventually, he would come to
resemble a dog, crawling around on all fours and barking
like a dog.
As he received the shots, what kind of anxiety and
uncertainty did my friend feel? Because he is a man with
troubles and an able man of the world, he conscientiously
went to the hospital everyday for three weeks, twenty-one
days to receive his shots. He's healthy and working, but if it
had been me, that dog would not be alive.
Because I'm a man with three or four times the spirit of
revenge of a normal man, and a man who would unleash
five or six times the brutality of the average man, instantly,
that dog's skull would be pulverized, its eyes gouged out,
smashed, and spit out. And that would not be enough. I
would poison each and every dog in the neighborhood.
While I haven't done anything, the rudeness of a sudden
bark and bite would produce violent action. It is difficult to
forgive the beast in any way. People cannot indulge this
behavior because of the inconvenience to the beast. The
punishment should be severe and with no mercy. Last
autumn, when I heard about my friend's misfortune, my
daily hatred toward dogs reached its peak. My brooding
hatred blazed like a blue flame.
For the New Year I rented a thatched hut called an 8-3-1
tatami on the outskirts of the town of Kofu in Yamanashi
Prefecture, to quietly live and busily write a bad novel.
However, no matter where you went in this town of Kofu,
there were dogs. Hordes of dogs loitered, or stretched out,
or raced around, or barked baring their fangs on the roads.
Even in the tiniest vacant lot, like a den for stray dogs, they
were preoccupied with play fighting and wild wrestling. On
the deserted streets at night, large packs formed like night
prowlers and raced around every which way.
Their number was so large, you would think that each and
every house in Kofu had at least two dogs. Originally,
Yamanishi Prefecture was known as the home of a valuable
breed of dogs. However, the kinds of dogs seen on the
streets were never those purebreds. Most of them were
shaggy red dogs. They were only unadoptable, silly mutts.
I have always resented dogs, but since my friend's
misfortune, my feelings of hatred heightened, and I was
ever vigilant. But these swarms of dogs without a care ran
rampant in alleys everywhere or were coiled up napping. I
was truly pained. If possible, I had the notion of walking the
streets wearing leggings, arm guards, and a helmet. That
would have been a strange sight, but was not allowed from
the perspective of public morals. So I adopted other means.
I brooded over a plan. First, I researched dog psychology. I
also know a little about people. From time to time, I could
make the correct designation, but dog psychology is
complicated. Human words are useful in the emotional
exchange between dogs and people, but are the source of
the initial uncertainty. If words are not useful, there is
nothing other than mutual play and reading expressions.
The motion of the tail is critical. However, watching this tail
motion is complex and not easily read. I despaired. Then I
devised an inept, clumsy measure. It was a pitiful desperate
measure.
When I crossed paths with a dog, a smile would cover my
face, and I would not display the least bit of hostility.
Because they might not see my smile at night, I made the
effort to innocently hum a nursery rhyme to announce that
I'm a kind man. This had some effect. No dogs have leaped
at me yet. However, letting my guard down was taboo.
When passing a dog, no matter how scared I was, I never
ran. While my broad, humble, toadying smile rose, I
innocently turned my head and very slowly felt a nearly
suffocating chill in my mind, like ten hairy caterpillars were
crawling down my back, and I slowly passed by.
I was revolted by my fawning behavior. I remembered so
much self-loathing I wanted to cry. I felt that if I didn't do
this, I would instantly be bitten. Thus, every dog was met
with an attempt at a pitiful greeting. If my hair grew a little
too long, they may bark at me as some suspicious man.
That would be bad, so I never skipped a trip to the
barbershop. If I walked around with a walking stick, a dog
may mistake it for a threatening weapon, and its rebellious
spirit would be inflamed. Therefore, I threw it away forever.
Evaluating a dog's psychology is hit-and-miss, and as I
humored these dogs, an unforeseen phenomenon was
revealed. Sadly, dogs liked me.
They followed me with tails wagging. I would stamp my
feet in frustration. It was ironic. My unpleasant thoughts of
the past have recently reached the apex of hate. If it's dogs
that like me, I'd rather be adored by camels. A shallow
assumption is that this feeling differs from the horror felt
when liked by an ugly woman. Pride and selfishness do not
allow that. I can't bear it. I hate dogs.
I soon perceive the ferocity of its rage and have
unpleasant thoughts. At most once or twice a day, leftovers
would not be shared. He would sell out his friends, separate
from his wife, and lay down under the eaves of the house.
He would put on a loyal face and bark at former friends,
completely forgetting about his siblings and parents,
fervently gauge his master's mood, and flatter with no
shame. If hit, he put his tail between his legs and look
dumbfounded. The family would laugh and often say, "Damn
dog," with an ugly, mean spirit.
Although the dog has good legs that easily cover twenty
miles in one day and has sharp white fangs that bring down
lions, the dog is not afraid to show its hateful temperament
of rotten villainy, and, without a sliver of pride, readily
submit to and be subordinate to the world of humans. A dog
will view its own kind as the enemy. They bark and bite each
other when they come face to face, and strive to ingratiate
themselves to humans.
For contrast, look at the sparrow. While they are weak
little birds without any weapon, isn't their freedom ensured,
and don't they operate in individual small communities in a
world of humans, like each other, and joyously sing of a
happy life of daily poverty? The more I think about it, dogs
are foul. Dogs are horrible. Even though they resemble us,
in the end, they are horrible. It's unbearable.
Those dogs liked me so much they wagged their tails to
show affection. I could only describe it with dismay and
exasperation. I hold too much respect for the ferocity of
dogs. This is why I scattered smiles all around with abandon
as I walked. The dogs misinterpreted this as friendship and
tried to win me over. A miserable result came to pass.
Moderation is important in all matters. I still don't
understand moderation.
 It happened in early spring. Just before dinner, I went out
for a walk to the nearby parade ground of the 49th
Regiment. Two or three dogs trailed me. I didn't worry about
my heels being attacked from behind. However, I always
had to feign nonchalance and struggle to suppress my
impulse to flee like a rabbit. I squashed that impulse and
casually walked on.
As the dogs followed, they would start to fight each other
along the way. I deliberately did not look back and walked
on acting like I didn't know. In my mind, I was at my wit's
end. I felt that if I had a pistol, I would want to shoot them to
death without hesitation. The dogs knew nothing about this
aspect of me of an angel on the outside and a devil on the
inside, nor the wicked hostility of my fair face and foul
heart, and followed me everywhere.
I walked once around the parade ground and went home
wrapped in the adoration of the dogs. By the time I got
home, the dogs behind me had vanished into thin air. That
was the custom until one day. On only that day, there was
one persistent, overly friendly dog. He was a wretched little
black dog. A tiny dog.
His torso looked to be six inches long. But I let down my
guard because he was so small. His teeth should have
already grown in. If bitten, everyday for three weeks or
twenty-one days of trips to the hospital would be necessary.
This sort of childishness was devoid of common sense, it
was whimsy. More caution was required. The little dog was
sometimes in front of me and sometimes behind me, and
looking up at my face. At last, he waddled up to the
entrance of my home.
 "Hey. This queer thing came back with me."
"Aw, he's cute."
"This is cute? Please chase him away. If you're too rough,
he'll bite you. Use a snack."
This was my customary spineless diplomacy. The little dog
immediately saw the fear in my mind and took advantage of
it to slip into living in my house. March passed, then April,
May, June, July, and August, until now when the autumn
winds have begun, and that dog was in my house. I don't
know how often that dog made me cry. There was no way I
could handle him. I had no choice and named him Pochi. We
lived together for a half a year and I still couldn't think of
Pochi as one of the family. We were like strangers. We didn't
get along. There was trouble. Sparks flew and battles
ensued as we read each other's minds. In no way, could we
share a laugh.
When he first came to my home, still a puppy, he would
watch ants on the ground with suspicion, scare toads, and
yelp. I burst out laughing without thinking. He may be a
hateful fellow, but his wandering into my house may be
from God's mind. I made a bed in the space under the floor,
boiled and softened his food like baby food, and sprinkled
flea powder on him. However, after a month passed, I
couldn't do it any longer. Little by little, the real ability of
this mutt was exposed. He was mean.
Originally, this dog was surely dumped at the corner of the
parade ground. On my way home from that walk, he clung
to me. At that time, he was gaunt, patches of fur were
missing, and a part of his tail was mostly bald. I gave him
snacks and made rice porridge, never spoke a harsh word,
and provided a most hospitable welcome to soothe him.
Surely, another person would have kicked him to drive him
away. Despite my kind treatment, which in fact was only a
shrewd bargain coming from my absence of love for dogs
and my innate animosity and fear of them. But thanks to
me, didn't this Pochi have a nice coat, and managed to grow
into the dog of a man?
I had no intention of buying his gratitude. I thought that
we would have a little more fun, but, in the end, a stray dog
was bad. After eating a big meal and wanting to go out for
some exercise, my clogs had been turned into toys and
cruelly chewed up. The dog provided the unneeded service
of dragging down the laundry hanging in the garden to dry
and caking it with mud.
"Stop playing like this. The truth is, this is a problem. Who
asked you to do something like this?"
I spoke scathing words filled with disgust to scold him as
fondly as possible. The dog's eyes widened, and he started
to play with me as I conveyed my disgust. My spirit probably
was too much pampering. I was quietly appalled by the
brazenness of this dog and felt contempt for him. Finally,
the inadequacy of this dog was revealed when he was fully
grown. First, his figure was unsightly.
When young, he was a little symmetric, and I thought he
may be a mixture of superior bloodlines, but that was a
blatant lie. Only his torso grew long; his limbs were
remarkably short, like a turtle. He was a monstrosity.
That hideous shape always trailed me like a shadow
whenever I went out. Boys and girls would squeal and
remark on the freakish dog, point at him, and laugh. Being
slightly vain, I smugly walked on and did nothing. Even
when I pretended to be a stranger and quickened my pace,
Pochi never left my side, repeatedly looked up at my face,
and walked in front and behind while always staying close to
me. We never appeared to be strangers, only a master and
servant with matched dispositions. As a consequence,
whenever I went out, a dark gloom oppressed me. It
became excellent training. When he followed close behind,
it was good.
Finally, the true nature of the fierce beast hiding inside
was exposed. He came to love fighting. With him as my
companion, he greeted every dog we met while walking
around town. That is, he would fight one after another. Pochi
had short legs and was young; he seemed to be a
reasonably strong fighter. He walked into a nest of dogs in
an empty lot. For a short time, when he fought five dogs, he
seemed to be in danger, but deftly dodged and sought
shelter. He had extraordinary confidence and would spring
at any dog. Sometimes, his power was defeated, and he
inched away while barking. His bark came close to a shriek,
and his black face became a bluish black.
He once leaped at a shepherd the size of a small cow. That
time I went pale. As expected, he was helpless. With his
front legs, the shepherd rolled Pochi like a toy and had no
interest in socializing, but Pochi lived. When a dog has this
bitter experience once, he becomes timid. Since then, Pochi
looked in their eyes and began to avoid fights. And I dislike
fights, no, far from dislike, I believe that allowing wild
animals to fight in the streets is the shame of a civilized
nation. The racket is deafening, and dissatisfied rage and
hatred, even when there is a kill, are felt in the savage
baying of the yelping dog.
I do not love Pochi. There is fear and hatred, but not a
speck of love. It would be nice if he would die. He attached
himself to me. Does he think it's my duty to care for him?
The dogs we meet along the way always greet us with
terrifying barks. As the owner, how much do I tremble at
those times? I feel the need to call and stop a car, jump in,
slam the door, and try to escape at full speed.
If the dogfight should end, rather, if the enemy dog
becomes frantic and looks like he's about to leap at me,
Pochi's owner, what should I do? You can't say nothing. A
savage animal hungers for blood. I don't know what to do. I
may be savagely bitten and have to go to the hospital
everyday for three weeks, or twenty-one days. A dogfight is
hell. I took every opportunity to tell Pochi this.
"Look, you should never fight. If you fight, I want you to do
it far away from me. I don't like you."
Pochi seemed to understand just a little. Saying that is a
little disheartening. More and more, I believed that dogs
were unearthly beings. Have my repeated warnings
prevailed, or did this ugly crushing defeat in one battle with
that shepherd begin that helpless almost servile behavior in
Pochi? When a strange dog started to bark at Pochi as we
walked down the street, Pochi only said, "Aah, horrible. How
awful. What a savage he is."
He put on airs to earnestly please me, trembled, cast a
sidelong glance at the other dog, who could do nothing, to
evoke pity. Then Pochi would size me up and give a fawning
smile. That display wasn't too unpleasant.
 "Does this creature have one good quality? All he does is
look at people's faces."
"You care too much about the strangest things," said my
wife who was indifferent toward Pochi from the start.
She grumbled when the laundry was dirtied, but later
acted as if nothing had happened. She called, "Pochi, Pochi,
your supper's ready," and laughed as she said, "You may
have a personality disorder."
A disgusting thought came to mind, "They say that the
dog comes to resemble its owner."
July came, and an unusual event arose. We discovered a
small house in the middle of a building in Mitakamura in
Tokyo that will soon be completed. With a monthly rent of
twenty-four yen, I exchanged contract deeds with the
landlord and began to make arrangements to move. When
the house is finished, I would be promptly notified by the
landlord. Naturally, we would dump Pochi and go.
"It would be all right to bring him with us," said my wife.
Pochi isn't too much trouble. Either way is fine.
"No. I didn't take care of him because he's cute. It was
because retaliation by a dog is frightening, I have no choice
but to act in secret. Do you understand?"
"Well, if Pochi disappears, where will he go? Where will he
go? Won't it cause chaos?"
"When he goes, my apprehension will worsen and hide in
me. He may secretly rally his comrades. He knows I hold
him with contempt. Dogs, you know, have a strong spirit of
vengeance."
I thought that now would be the perfect opportunity. If I
act like I forgot this dog and left him, promptly take a train
to Tokyo, this dog could never chase after us over the cliffs
of Sasago-toge all the way to Mitakamura. We didn't
abandon Pochi. We completely forgot about forgetting to
bring him with us. There was no crime. There is no reason to
feel sorry for Pochi. There is no reason for vengeance.
"It'll be all right. Even if left, he probably wouldn't starve
to death. You know, dead souls put on curses."
"By nature, he's a stray dog," said my wife. She was a bit
anxious.
"True. He probably won't die of starvation. He'll probably
be fine. Well, if that dog comes with us to Tokyo, I'll be
ashamed in front of my friends. His torso is too long. He's
grotesque."
The decision was to leave Pochi behind. Then an
unexpected event occurred. Pochi contracted a skin disease.
It was awful. I hesitate to describe it, but it was so wretched
you had to look away. Along with the intense heat, an
appalling stench was released. That defeated my wife.
"This is bad for the neighborhood. Please kill him."
Women are far more ruthless than men and courageous.
"Kill him?"
I was surprised.
"Can't we put up with it a little longer?"
We eagerly waited for the express letter from the landlord.
Word should have come from the landlord by the end of July,
but July would soon be over. Today? Tomorrow? Our bags
were packed. We waited, but no message arrived.
Pochi's skin disease began when I sent out a letter of
inquiry. It was a hideous sight. Pochi was also ashamed of
his own horrible form and came to prefer dark places.
Sometimes he slumped down and stretched out on the
paving stones hit by the sun in the entryway. I discovered
him and said, "Blech, what a sight." He quickly stood,
embarrassed, and crept with head hanging into the space
under the floor.
When I went out, stealthy footsteps came from
somewhere to go with me. Was it unbearable to have this
ghoulish thing coming with me? Every time, I said nothing, I
just stared at Pochi. A mocking sneer clearly raised the
corners of my mouth, and I stared at him. This was quite
effective. Pochi remembered his sorry state. His head
dropped, and downcast he went somewhere to hide.
"I can't stand it, even I get terribly itchy," my wife said
from time to time, "I try my best not to look, but one glance
and it's over. I even dream about it."
"Well, put up with it just a little longer," I said. There was
nothing to do but put up with it. Although ill, my companion
is a type of savage beast. If clumsily touched, I'd be bitten.
"Maybe the reply will come from Mitaka by tomorrow. If we
move, then that will be that."
The response from the Mitaka landlord arrived. I read it
and was disappointed. Rain was falling and the walls had
not dried. He also said there weren't enough workers to
finish the work and expected it to take ten more days. I was
fed up. If only to escape Pochi, I wanted to move soon. In
my frustration, I couldn't work. I only read magazines and
drank sake.
Pochi's skin disease worsened day by day. For some
reason, my skin was often itchy, too. Late at night, outside
were the sounds of Pochi squirming and struggling against
the itch. I don't know how many times I shuddered. I
couldn't stand it. Often I was seized by a fit of rage.
We waited another twenty days for a letter to come from
the landlord. In an instant, my confused resentment
connected to Pochi who was nearby. He was the reason
nothing went smoothly. I believed that every bad thing
seemed to be Pochi's fault and bizarrely cursed him. One
night, I discovered that the dog's fleas had spread to my
nightclothes. Finally, the anger I endured to that point
exploded. Secretly, I made an important decision.
I would kill him. My rival was a savage beast that should
be afraid. The normal me would be able to overcome this
kind of violent decision. However, in the intense heat
characteristic of a basin, at the time I was a little peculiar.
Everyday, I did nothing, only waited absent-mindedly for the
letter from the landlord. Each day passed as dull as death. It
couldn't be helped because my irritation and lack of sleep
also helped me lose my mind.
On the night I discovered the fleas, I immediately had my
wife run to buy chunks of beef. I bought a small quantity of
some chemical at the apothecary. I was ready. My wife was
not a little excited. That night, we, the demon couple,
huddled together to quietly confer.
The next day, I woke at four in the morning. I had set the
alarm clock, but was awake before it rang. I was so tense
my skin was cold. I took the bamboo food wrap and went
out.
"Don't look until the end and come home right away," my
wife calmly stood on the steps of the entryway to see me
off.
"I understand. Pochi, come!"
Wagging his tail, Pochi came out from under the floor.
"Come, come on!" I said as I quickly walked out. That day,
I did not see the miserable form of Pochi. Pochi also forgot
his ugliness and cheerfully came to me. The fog was thick.
The town was sound asleep. I hurried to the parade ground.
Along the way, a terrifying, big, red dog barked ferociously
at Pochi. Pochi displayed his usual air of gentility and
glanced with contempt that said, "What is all this fuss?"
and, with the red dog's permission, swiftly passed in front of
him.
The dog's red fur was shabby. Unjustly, he attacked Pochi
from behind like the wind and aimed for Pochi's chilled balls.
Pochi instantly turned, but hesitated a little to kindly look at
my face.
"Do it!" I shouted, "That dog's a coward! Don't hold back,
do it!"
With permission, Pochi quivered and quaked, then flew like
a bullet at the red dog's bosom. Chaos reigned. The two
fighting dogs looked like a temari handball. Although the red
dog was bigger, that didn't matter. In a short time, he was
yelping, shrieking, and in retreat. And he may have been
infected with Pochi's skin disease. A stupid dog.
The fight was over, and I was relieved. I looked at the
sweat on my hands. For a short time, I was embroiled in the
dogfight and worried that I would die, too. I would have
been okay with being bitten to death. Pochi fought to his
heart's content with fantastic swagger. Pochi chased after
the fleeing red dog for a short time then stopped and looked
up at my face. The gloom reappeared, and with head down,
he came back to me.
"Great! You're a strong one," I praised him and continued
our walk. We crossed a creaky bridge and reached the
parade ground.
Long ago, Pochi had been thrown away at this parade
ground. And he has returned again to this parade ground.
It's good to die in your old stomping ground.
I stopped and dropped the chunks of beef at my feet.
"Pochi, come eat."
I didn't want to look at him. He stared blankly at me where
he stood.
"Pochi, come eat."
From my feet rose the sounds of food being gobbled up.
He should be dead in less than a minute.
My shoulders were slumped as I plodded away. The fog
was thick. The nearby mountains appeared to be a hazy
black mass. The Southern Alps mountain range and Mount
Fuji were invisible. In the morning fog, my clogs were damp.
I stooped over more and dragged myself home. I crossed
the bridge and came to the front of the middle school. There
I looked back and saw Pochi. Ashamed, head down, he
avoided my gaze.
Now, I'm an adult and not given to mischievous thoughts. I
knew what happened. The chemical had not worked. I
nodded. I had been given a clean slate. We returned home.
"It was no good. The chemical didn't work. Let's forgive
him. That fellow didn't commit any crime. Originally, the
artist was an ally of the weak," I said to my wife. I thought of
that on my way back.
"I'm a friend to the weak. The artist began there, and
that's still his greatest aim. I had forgotten this simple idea.
Not only me. Everyone has forgotten. I think we'll take Pochi
with us to Tokyo. If my friends laugh at Pochi's figure, I'll slug
'em. Got any eggs?"
"Yes," said my wife with a long face.
"Pochi beat him. If there were two, he would have beaten
both of them. You'll have to bear with it, too. That skin
disease, it'll go away soon."
"Yes," said my wife still with a long face.
 Credits
Japanese Source Text:
Digital Copy of 畜犬談 from Aozora Bunko
Dazai, Osamu. Chikukendan. Bungakusha, August 1939.
Input by: Amizako. Revised by: Tajiri Kanji. Published April
12, 1999. Revised March 6, 2009.
Dog on Cover Image:
George Arents Collection, The New York Public Library. "Ch.
Fernwood Radio." New York Public Library Digital Collections.
Accessed January 27, 2017. Dog
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