My dog is a target here
He loves Frog's Glen, but the local dogs call him names
Dear readers, today I’m posting a story from one of my recent discoveries, Frog’s Glen. Jack Krown has recently moved to Chiba Prefecture (the limp dick east of Tokyo) and he sends out regular dispatches from the deep countryside. Frog’s Glen is funny, informative, and has quickly become one of my favorite newsletters on Substack. Check it out.
We have a whippet named Terashima-kun, or Tera for short. If you’re not familiar, whippets are clean, silent, and shy of strangers.
You’d think that’s an ideal combo for Japan, yet you almost never see another whippet here. It’s probably because they are about 14 kilos. That’s sizes too big for a nation that seems to think dogs should fit in purses.
I walk Tera every morning and evening through our valley, and he almost floats with happiness. He’s been a distraught city dog—this is his first time experiencing silence, sea wind, and beach sand.
I do have one concern though. The other dogs of this area really hate Tera. They laugh at him.
For instance, there’s this Black Shiba we see each morning out on our walk. The owner is quite a cheery old man, but that Shiba he owns is a gnarled cur. He’s a hillbilly rat dog with a tangled rug of black wire-hair that I imagine has never once been brushed or petted.
The mongrel sees Tera coming down the road and—even 100 yards out—stops to stare. He doesn’t growl. He just drops his jaw open and amaze-stares at the whippet freak show approaching.
I can hear the two dog-communicating.
Black Shiba: Oh. Look. Here comes Aoyama Candy Ass.
Tera: Shit.
BS: Nice sweater, fuck face. And is that rose petal shampoo you’re wafting? You kill me.
T: Come on, Jack. Let’s get out of here!! Let’s go. LEFT! NO, RIGHT. BACK. LEFT. RIGHT!!
BS: I bet you have a favorite stuffed Pokemon Doll.
Dogs in these valleys were probably born nice. In their first months they likely even licked and cuddled. But after time the reality of their rather spare country existence rusts their souls.
Dogs out here are kept on ropes outdoors, I believe primarily to warn of wild boar, monkey, and deer incursions. They’re watch dogs, and no, they don’t have sheds over their heads. They eat leftover scraps from owners’ tables—and if they ever do get a treat, it’s probably for mauling monkeys in defense of the sweet potatoes.
I get it. The owners are farmers and they’ll be damned if they’re going to wake to find all their daikon and melons “food processed” by the local fauna. Houses here keep cats for rodents, chickens for insects, and dogs for boar control.
Just last night Tera and I were doing our evening walk to the east end of this valley. I saw a different owner and his Shiba (yes, most everyone has carbon copy hounds) approaching. I call this one Young Shiba as he’s not yet a ball of wire.
I usually like the dog owners in this area even if their pet is planning how to dismember Tera. But this one man I have never trusted. I’ve many times given him my usual cheerful “Good evening,” but he had never responded with more than a nod.
Last night I was surprised that the owner decided to engage me with some chat. He turned out to be fairly nice.
Jack: Good evening!
Nice Man: How old is he (Tera)?
J: What? Oh. He’s four.
NM: Almost same. Mine is two.
J: Two? Wow, Young Shiba really is calm and adult for that age. He’s a great looking dog (*lying, actually a damn cur.)
[Meanwhile, as the humans chat]
Young Shiba: Hey, candy ass.
Tera: Oh no.
YS: Like your tummy rubbed, Marigold?
Tera: Oh my god, Jack. Let’s go! Oh! Please let’s go! LEFT! RIGHT!
YS: Yeah, you got the idea. Go back to Tokyo, sweater boy.
Tera was desperate-surging in all directions, but I wanted to continue the chat. It’s good to get some back-and-forth with the neighbors.
NM: Indoor?
J: Huh?
NM: Your dog. Indoor?
J: Oh. Yes. Actually, this breed must be kept indoors. They have shorter hair and almost no body fat, so can get very cold.
NM: Indoors at night too?
J: Uh, yes…?
NM: Ah I thought so. I sometimes go by your house and don’t see him in your yard. Nice for him.
Farmer was being polite with that final “Nice for him.” I’m sure he was picturing a disturbed foreigner living with an insect-ridden, mange-spreading, indoor-crapping boar alarm free roaming through his kitchen. And somehow loving the arrangement.
Anyway, I’ll keep up the human dialogue. Not sure if Tera will be getting invited to play dates soon.
Thanks for the laughs. 😂