Chuck's (mis)Guide to the Universe: April 2005

Dog Story II: Chuck, Dogs, and 3rd Parties Just Don't Mix

Apologies in advance. The pictures in this story do not match the story itself. I just don't take that many pictures of psychotic dogs.

Pets are extraordinarily expensive in Japan. Cats will set you back $1,000 bucks, and dogs start at about $1,500. Yellow labs I'd seen in pet stores generally went for about $2,000. I give you the price list because I've always respected the amount of appreciation the Japanese must have in household pets (hamsters: $75), for them to make the investment. My neighbors had a yellow lab named Jacku (for a long time I thought they were calling him Chacku- which is what they called me). Jacku was a cool dog; In spite of his one bad habit.

Jack sometimes liked to bark. He was known to sometimes let loose in the middle of the night with a quick barrage at an imaginary intruder, and sometimes in the early evenings just to chat with the dogs down the street. Not a problem, I'm sure I was just as noisy from time to time. Worse, however, was that sometimes he would get on a barking jag that could last for hours. It was seldom, maybe twice a month, and it usually happened during the day (thank God), but it was intense. The dog could bark non-stop for so long you'd think he had a coke habit.

In America, this would have been pretty easy to fix. Some people (I'd like to think myself among them) would wait until the middle of such an episode, knock on their neighbor's door and have a gentle conversation asking if something could be done. Others would pound on their neighbor's door and tell them to shut the dog up. Either way, the problem would be resolved, and chances are any hard feelings would be forgotten in due time and with the presentation of a bundt cake. Well, this isn't America. One time Jacku was mid-jag when I asked a Japanese friend to walk over to my neighbor's house with me to discuss the problem. My friend got a funny look on his face and said, "I can't do that. You shouldn't go there." I was a little surprised, but he went on to explain that the proper way to handle such things in modern Japan was to go to the neighborhood association, and they would write an anonymous letter explaining that "some people" had voiced concerns about "a barking dog" and then ask the neighbor to do something about the problem. If there is no established neighborhood association, then I should go to a nearby elder and ask them to do my bidding. I'm sure when he was telling me this, the rolling of my eyes was nearly audible. In my most condescending tone -and I'm pretty good at it- I said, "it's a barking dog. Surely they're not going to get upset if I just ask them to bring him inside when he's going off like this." He shook his head and with a face of grave concern said "Chacku, don't do it." As hard as it was, I suppressed my desire to shut the dog up, ignored the challenge he'd set before me, and did nothing about the problem.

Sometime after that conversation, Jacku was at his finest. He started barking at about 10:00 AM, and was still full stride at 1:05 in the afternoon. That's when I had my meltdown. By way of explanation of how loud this was, I should remind you that Japanese houses have no insulation, and they're maybe two feet apart at some points. Even with my windows and doors closed, I could hear my neighbors washing dishes. When they would climb their stairs, it would sound like they were in my house. Jacku's doghouse was maybe 15 steps from my front door. If he got a drink of water out of his bowl in the middle of the night, I could hear it. Anyway, the barking went on and on. I sincerely wanted to walk over and talk to my neighbors, but to be honest I think I was past the point of civil conversation. Finally, at 1:05, I'd had enough. I opened a small window that looks out towards Jacku and said in a firm (but to my credit not mean) voice, "Jacku! Knock it off!" The dog came unglued. His volume went from rock concert to jet engine. He was pulling at the end of his chain so hard that his eyes were bulging. Because I was sure that my neighbors had heard me yell at him, I was a little panicked that they were going to associate me with the dog's psychotic break and eventual suicide. I had images in my head of the quiet conversations that would go on for the next 700 years about the American who taunted the dog to the point that it killed itself. Hoping to make things better (for myself and the dog), I ran downstairs and out the front door to face the dog. He was standing on his hind legs with his chain pulled tight, head thrashing with a barrage of what I'm sure was foul language (I assume in Japanese) directed towards me. In a loud but gentle voice I said, "Jack... Buddy... Get a grip." The dog immediately dropped to all four feet and started barking a little more quietly. I continued talking, and in just a few seconds he was standing silently paying attention to me. I'm guessing the medication must have regained control. As I was talking to him, my neighbor came out of her house with her head dropped, walked silently across the yard, unleashed the dog and lead him into the house. I tried to smile and wave as if to say "No hard feelings... no apologies necessary," but she never looked at me.

Jack didn't come back outside on Saturday night. I noticed this at about 7:00 when I ran out to pick up some dinner. I noticed as well that my neighbor's house was dark, so I figured they must have taken the dog with them wherever they were. This was uncommon, the dog always stays home when they're gone, but I figured they might have been a little embarrassed (or angry) and decided to take him along wherever they were.

At first this troubled me, because I didn't get the chance to smooth things over. But the more I thought about it, I remembered that for the most part my neighbors don't acknowledge me (or each other) when they're in their yards. Driveways are fine. If I'm in my driveway I got lots of waves and decent attempts at conversation, but yards are apparently personal spaces where we would pretend other people don't exist. Owing it up to this, I didn't give the matter much more thought.

Jack, nor my neighbors, appeared to be home on Sunday, either. By the afternoon I had decided that my ugly incident coincided with some pre-planned trip and that they were off at the beach laughing and forgetting the whole thing. On Sunday night, however, I noticed that the curtains had been pulled closed and the TV was on. Now I felt bad. My neighbors were home but were avoiding me. They weren't coming to their yard and they were keeping that big dog in their house. I didnt know if this was because they were embarrassed or, more likely, because I had gravely offended them.

By Thursday I had yet to see my neighbors or any signal that Jack was still a member of the family or even alive. I had these horrible scenes running through my head of what might have happened after the incident:

- That night, the family (Mom, Dad, and 2 elementary age kids) sat around and tearfully decided that Jack had shamed the family and must go "be with grandma and the elders;"

- Jack, recognizing the shame he'd brought down on the family, committed Seppuku with one of those big samurai swords (actually, he strikes me more the type that would emotionally overdose or shoot himself); or,

- Jack was sold into a Korean prostitution ring in Tokyo, and never understood why his family abandoned him.

I'm sure I was over-reacting. I'm sure Jack was fine and was happily receiving treatment in a psychiatric hospital for dogs run by the state, and I'm sure my neighbors had gone no further than to approach my "elders" (AKA the US State Department) to start deportation proceedings. What is the lesson here, you ask? When your Japanese friend says "Chacku, don't do it," listen.

At any rate, things were looking bad on the community front. The dog was gone. My neighbors had quit turning on lights in their house as if to make me think they were not home. Nobody was speaking to me. You would think that because this is a reasonable and structured society, in time all would blow over and this would be forgotten. Maybe a cake given to the right people would soothe hurt feelings. Unfortunately, this is Japan and... well... I don't think so. I remembered after the fact (day late, dollar short) being told when I moved here not to offend my neighbors. I heard how communities "ignored" problem people to the point that they had to move. They called it "being shunned." The person who told me about this said in small towns the store clerks wouldn't even talk to someone who has been shunned. I'm not saying this happened to me (all of my evidence was self-observed and circumstantial) but it was six days... Fortunately, I had already planned to move, and was leaving about 10 days after this happened. The effect would be great! It would appear that I was so ashamed of my bad behavior that I moved away. The neighborhood would speak of the "honorable American" for decades to come.

A little lantern outside my house

Cherry Blossoms. Worth a story themselves. Maybe I'll write one.

Easter in Paris

Cindy, Patty and I went to Paris for Easter weekend. It was a short trip- we left on Friday afternoon and came home on Sunday evening. But still, it was my first time in Paris, and I was pretty excited.

Driving into the city, we started seeing signs prohibiting exploding vehicles. At this particular intersection, it seems that trucks, people, and bicycles are also not allowed. It didn't say anything about hamsters, tho.

Seriously... No exploding vehicles.

They REALLY mean it. NO exploding vehicles! Well...
Unless you happen to be on Route 5 behind a yellow truck... Then it's OK. But only then!

Cindy got us a room at a lovely little hotel called "La Petite Hotel d'Horrors." Trouble started when we had difficulty finding the hotel, were out of gas, and couldn't find a place to park. We finally double parked and Cindy went into the hotel to ask where a garage was. Coincidentally, a space opened up while she was inside, so we parked the car and went into the hotel. Walking into the lobby, we found Cindy speaking in the slow quiet tones of somebody preparing to kill a hotel desk clerk. Apparently when Cindy asked where to park, the clerk told her to park on the street. When Cindy said there were no spaces, he said "Then find a garage." When Cindy asked where one was, he told her "Two blocks over, but it's full. You should park on the street until a spot in the garage opens up."

It must be easy to read into this that the guy was being smug and unhelpful. No... He was just dumb. Terrified and dumb. I could see by the look in his eyes that he knew he was inches from his own mortality, yet he could not seem to formulate a response that would save him.

The room was interesting as well. With interior designs by Helen Keller and bedding by Pol Pot, comfort and luxury were well... Not there. That's not entirely true, there was a towel. We shared it. To sleep in my bed I had to wedge my toes under the frame at the foot of the bed, and hang on with both hands at the head of the bed so that I wouldn't fall into what the desk clerk fondly referred to "Le Pit d'Eternal Slumbere." You can see it in the center of my mattress above. The housekeeper tried to disgiuse it with a blanket, a'la Wile E. Coyote.

Cindy and Patty didn't fare any better. Their bed had only one pillow, that was the size, shape, and softness of a large telephone pole. When we walked into the room, Patty flopped down on the bed and need six stitches where her forehead smacked the pillow.

Paris is, of course, most famous for it's city scapes and sweeping vistas (and some art, I think). No other view exemplified this dedication to the panoramic better than the view out of our hotel window. Unfortunately, by the time I grabbed my camera and got back to the window for this shot, the body of the dead hobo had rolled off.

This is a picture of Cindy, Diane, and Patty. Diane and her husband are friends of Cindy's who migrated from Texas to New York City, and then due to a series of wrong turns trying to transfer subway lines, they've found themselves living in Paris for the past 14 years. Diane is an artist, and her husband is a English/French translator. They're a wonderful couple who have an apartment in the city, a "country home" (presumably in the country), and a son who as settled in the States.

On Saturday evening the couple had invited us to dinner, and we met at their art-stuffed apartment in central Paris. They had been drinking champagne before we arrived, and were already into their second bottle. We joined in the fun after we got there, and I personally helped in the cause as much as I could. When we started off for the restaurant, the evening quickly became an accurate reproduction of "Whose Afraid of Virginia Woolf." We had trouble getting onto the right subway train, and then when we got off at the station near the restaurant, Diane's husband said "I can't really remember which way to go, but I think it's down here." Diane had already become irritated because of events leading up to this moment, and she was downright mad that she had to climb the stairs out of the subway. The lack of direction then presented by her husband sent her into near hysterics. The two argued back and forth as they wandered down random streets and alleys. Diane would lead for a few minutes until her husband would convince her to turn at a random corner. He would lead until she was screaming foul names at him, and then she would turn us down some random road.

With each turn the neighborhood became more.. umm... intensely urban. We were finally walking down a dark street with shady characters in dirty clothes leaning against the buildings when her husband (I wish I could remember his name!) turned through an arch into a dark alley. I was seriously wondering if he was trying to make a crack buy. With this last turn Diane became apoplectic. Eyes rolling back in her head, fists clenched, she turned to yell. I entirely expected to hear, "OUR SON IS DEAD!! YOU KILLED HIM!!! YOU KILLED OUR SON!!!" (Makes sense if you saw the movie).

Eventually, we got directions to the place and ended up having a great dinner. I avoided all snails and raw food very successfully.

This guy Mark Flavenhill sure knew how to live!

Patty and I did a quick walking tour of the city. We started at the Eiffel Tower, then to the Arch de Triumphe, and then along the Champs Elysees to the Louvre, then ended up at Notre Dame. Here are some pictures from the walk.

Arch d'Triumphe

Arches at the Arch

The woman knows what she likes

Dog Attacks Communist

This was great... We were at the plaza in front of the Louvre (I'm sure it has some famous name), and at one corner a camera crew was filming this guy in a Chinese flag t-shirt with two Chinese flags doing a routine. A woman walking past lost control of her dog, who really had something against communism. As the woman called him in her thick French accent "No, McCarthy, NO!!" the dog tried to remove the man's mainfesto. Amazingly, the guy never stopped his routine. Even after giving up his left foot to the dog immediately after this picture was taken.