Chapter 8 – Jiji visits Asakusa

TWO WEEKS later Kiki’s father said he thought Jiji was strong enough for her first trip outside. She certainly was fatter. A steady died of puppy chow had nearly doubled her weight. Her coat was glossy and her eyes were bright with excitement.
    “Let’s go. Let’s go,” she barked, trying to crawl up Kiki’s leg.
    “OK, but ya gotta get dressed first,” Kiki said. “You can’t go outside naked. It’s chilly outside.”
    She carried Jiji to the elevator and they rode nine floors down to the street. Jiji, clad in her yellow duck outfit—hood with orange beak and wings affixed to her—sniffed. And sniffed, and sniffed. Everything smelled wonderful. She smelled grass and trees and dogs—lots of dogs. It was overwhelming. After her confinement in the apartment, she nearly swooned. Wagging her tail, yelping, she pulled against her leash and yelled at Kiki. “Hurry up, I want to run—run, run, run.”
    Kiki let herself be dragged behind the excited puppy for as long as she could. Finally, she collapsed at a bus stop to catch her breath. Pulled up short, Jiji objected, “Why are we stopping? What’s the delay? Can’t you go any faster? Let’s go. Run fast!”
    Kiki laughed. “No run-run. It’s time for rest-rest. And it’s also time to figure out where we’re going. Got any ideas?” It’s Saturday. We’ve got plenty of time.
    “Don’t care,” Jiji panted, her tongue hanging out. “Just want to go-go.” She sniffed at a corner of the bus stop bench, squatted and took a token pee. “Oh, this is just so much fun.”
    “We’ll maybe for you,” Kiki said, starting off at a much reduced pace. “But running, sniffing and peeing isn’t my idea of a perfect day. Why don’t we go visit Grandma Tomoko? She’d love to meet you.”
    “Does she live near here?”
    “Not really. She lives across the river. We have to take the train. You can hide under my sweatshirt.”
    The grandmother in question was the “nice” one—her father’s mother. The other one, the one supplied by the long-gone mother had never shown any interest in Kiki, any interest in anything but pachinko and sake. Like mother, like daughter—Kiki’s mother had abandoned her in the canned food aisle of a discount warehouse. At first she lay quietly in her stroller, looking up at cases of creamed corn stacked to the rafters. Eventually, she cried. Store employees found her with her name and father’s work phone number written with a felt-tipped pen on Kiki’s forehead. To this day, she refused to eat canned corn and canned food in general made her queasy.
    “Now be quiet,” she whispered, as she zipped the puppy inside her sweatshirt. “And try not to wiggle around too much.” She bought a single ticket and waited on the Tozai Line platform and waited until the train arrived. As she stepped aboard, Jiji kicked her hard in the stomach. “What’s happening?” It’s too dark in here. Let me out.”
    Kiki moved as far from the other passengers as possible. The train wasn’t crowded and she could rub the impatient lump without attracting attention. “Shhh. Next time I’ll buy you a dog carry bag and we can travel in style. You’ll like it—they even little windows.”
    “I’ll still hate it. Let me out,” the lump grumbled.
    Jiji kicked her again and Kiki almost lost her patience. “Stop that, you baby. We’ve still got a long way to go. Just relax.”
    Kiki’s tone of voice did the trick. After a slight whine and a getting-comfy wriggle, Jiji began to snore.
    Grandma Tomoko lived in Asakusa.  It was a this-and-that and everything you could imagine type of place. Old wooden houses sagged against dilapidated shops selling cutlery and plastic food. Sun blocking, skyscraping offices lorded over tiny shrines that seemed to inhabit every nook and cranny. Her neighborhood was one of the last bits of what was called old Tokyo. Tourists, foreign and domestic, clogged the narrow alleys. A pair of country bumpkins watched a woman in kimono and wooden clogs splash water over cobblestones in front of her house to keep the dust down. The tourists from Ibaraki elbowed each other and nodded knowingly: This is how it used to be.
    Kiki climbed the stairs out of the subway station and walked around the corner to a less busy street. She attached Jiji’s leash and set her down on the pavement. The puppy shook herself vigorously to get the kinks out, tripped and fell over. Kiki laughed, and Jiji, to hide her embarrassment, barked loudly, “Where to!”
    “Turn left at the next corner.”
    Jiji charged ahead and Kiki lost her grip on the leash. “Stop!” she screamed, as the dog disappeared around a building. Terrified the puppy would be hit by a car, she began to run. She didn’t have to go far. Jiji had stopped to investigate a bundle of rags and plastic on the sidewalk in front of a cigarette shop. She stood on top of the rags and sniffed.
    Kiki crouched down and whispered, “Don’t make any noise, just get down from there and come here.”
    “What’s wrong? Why are you whispering?” Jiji crawled forward on her belly determined to investigate the lump. She found something interesting—sniff, and oh, no! Lick!
    “Arrrgh,” the plastic and paper moaned. It moved fast—herky-jerky bobble-headed.     Jiji blasted off the pile in fright and landed in Kiki’s arms. An angry gargle-gargle voice chased them down the street.
    “What was that?” Jiji squeaked, still shaking in fear.
    “Just an old lady. She lives there, in that place. You gotta be careful.’’
    “I thought I smelled—“
    “I don’t want to know. “
    “Why is she all wrapped in plastic and newspapers? She doesn’t look like a proper person at all.”
    “That’s because she’s not a proper person, not anymore at least. She just drinks and sleeps on her corner. It’s not her fault. Don’t lick her on the nose again. She doesn’t want you.”
    “Put me down” Jiji demanded.
    “No. Grandma’s place is right over there.