When I first got Ocha, she was about 3 months old and she fit inside my two hands. Whenever I lifted her up to give her a kiss, she returned the love with an ample amount of licks, thus melting my heart and wetting my face. At first Ocha was a peeing and crapping machine, and later on I found her to be a little bit blonde, but I loved her nonetheless. Everyday, when I returned from work, her two front paws would extend forward, lowering the front half of the body, as if to bow, and her tail would wag at 100 mph. As I took a step closer to her, she'd quickly get up and start hopping like a crazed kangaroo, then she'd pounce on me. Think Dino from the Flintstones.
***
A fellow Assistant Language Teacher (ALT—a JET Programme participant), S, who lived in a town next to mine had a reputation among her neighbors as an animal rescuer. S had found a litter of abandoned kittens and took those dirty, mewing critters home with her. She sent out a mass e-mail to all the foreign teachers in my prefecture asking if anyone would be interested in raising a kitten. Two ALTs, C who happened to be my next door neighbor and P who happened to live not too far from me, each volunteered to take one in. So, when I saw C and P becoming parents to two cute allergy-inducing creatures, I felt a tinge of jealousy and wistfully wished out loud, "if only S had found puppies instead of kittens, I'd adopt one just like that," snapping my fingers.
Fast forward a few weeks, C comes over to my bungalow and says, "S has found a puppy. Do you want it?" You see, S's reputation in her neighborhood has garnered her an unexpected visitor. One day, this visitor came over to S's house with a puppy in tow. Standing in the genkan, an area inside the house where one would take her shoes on and off, an area which the Japanese consider it a public space, the visitor called out to S, "do you want a puppy?" Startled, S came out to the genkan, politely refused the puppy, and sent the interloper on her way. The next morning, as she was about to get on her bike to go to the Junior High School she taught at, her eyes noticed a moving box. Inside it she found the puppy from the night before abandoned. S again sent out a mass e-mail. I read it but at first didn't think much of it; C read it and remembered what I had said.
I had become a proud parent to Ocha.
***
It's a month before my JET contract is set to expire and a month before my departure, but I'm finding myself driving down the winding mountain road with tears welling up. I've just left the prefectural government animal shelter after speaking with one of the caretakers, or whom I would call murderers. When my search for a new home for Ocha yielded no fruit, I've driven up to the animal shelter to ask them if they can take my Ocha in and find her a new family to love her. (Yes people, I would have brought Ocha back with me to the States, but the lack of assurance on my part—will I return home to my Mom's where there's a no pet policy or will I end up in grad school?—the uncertainty made that option impossible.) After hearing my situation, the staff worker at the shelter informs me, "Sure, we can take your dog." But even if by some good fortune, they find a new home for Ocha, she continues, "We are not obligated to let you know. In fact, we are not allowed to." And in an unfortunate circumstance Ocha isn't placed in a new home in three days, in a matter-of-fact tone, void of compassion and full of steely cold, the staff worker concludes, "Your dog will be put to sleep." Murderers!
Once I get home, Ocha greets me with her ritual bow; I let myself fall when she pounces. I give her the biggest and longest hug I can give; she lets me while licking my tears away. I vow never to hand over Ocha into their hands, to cast her away to a most grievous end. I spring into action, calling everyone I knew, asking all of them if they want a dog or know anyone who would, asking those who told me that they may know someone who may want a dog to redouble their efforts and come back to me with a certain "yes" or "no" and not with a dubious "may;" I plead and plead, fighting to give Ocha a new beginning.
Then comes M, a sweet Japanese gal, whom I've met at my favorite bar and befriended immediately, and who has been a gracious target of my childish tease. M calls me, letting me know that she will take Ocha. But she tells me, because she lives under her parents' roof, her only trial is to convince them to give Ocha a home; noticing my immediate despondence, she assures me that it's hardly a tribulation and then asks me to send her pictures of Ocha.
Five minutes have not even passed since I've e-mailed the pictures when M calls me back, "They said okay!" My heart leaps with joy: Ocha will have a new family.***
I won't bore you with how Ocha and I were parted. What I wanted to do when I started writing this post was that—I've gotten a Christmas card from M, and she had put inside the card the best Christmas present I could have received this year—I wanted to share it with you. Inside the card were three pictures. Take a look:
Her new mother (well, not really; M's been with Ocha now for 2.5 years) has been spoiling her; it seems like Ocha is a little wide around the sides. But I'm thankful that she looks so happy.Yes, this is the best Christmas present ever!
No comments:
Post a Comment