The Dachshund

       

          Many years ago I had the good fortune to visit Miyazaki a number of times. This southern Japanese prefecture must be one of the country’s most beautiful areas. My abiding memories are of palm trees and translucent rivers cutting through gorges.

        One sweaty summer’s evening I was present at a barbecue thrown by my ex-girlfriend’s family. In addition to myself and the family members, there was a down on his luck youth called Takayama (how can I still remember his name?), and he had brought his dog with him. It was a tiny dachshund which Takayama had not trained, and it became clear he was palming off the responsibility for dealing with it onto the hosts.  

My girlfriend’s family had a dog of their own, a shiba-ken which was as aloof and majestic as a beautiful Parisian woman wandering around a chic arrondissement. It hated the dachshund and would snarl at him if he encroached on her space.

My role on the evening in question was very simple. I wasn’t expected to play a part in the conversation – I couldn’t, because my Japanese was so terrible – but every so often I’d be asked if the food was delicious, or if I wanted another beer. As long as I smiled and gave the appropriate response, I was a welcome member of the group.

We all sat outside enjoying the barbecue while the dachshund gambolled around, yelping and relieving itself on the floor every so often. It had also figured out that my girlfriend’s mother was the weak link in the chain, and could be manipulated very easily. When food was ready it would run in her direction and begin humping her leg with abandon, like Ross’s oversexed monkey Marcel in Friends. She invariably gave in, rewarding the mutt with a morcel of delicious meat.

        At one point I went inside to use the facilities and made a faux-pas, forgetting to remove my shoes and put on slippers. My girlfriend’s mother pounced like a cat. ‘Maiku, da-me!’ she told me, before wiping the floor to remove my footmarks.

         After this incident, two thoughts occurred to me. One was positive, for I now understood that I was genuinely considered part of the inner circle. I don’t think I had ever been rebuked by my girlfriend’s mother before, and I realised this meant she was now felt comfortable enough to tell me off.

        The second realisation was less welcome. I now knew my place in the pecking order. To put it bluntly, I was below that intolerable dachshund. It could urinate on the floor and furiously hump someone’s leg without fear of censure. I couldn’t even go inside in a pair of shoes.