Chapter 10 – The bike ride

JIJI RAN five meters behind Kiki’s bike along the brick river walk on the banks of the Edogawa. Two years old, she was near peak strength. Kiki rode fast and Jiji kept up easily. Still the smallest dog in town, she drew exclamations, giggles and smiles wherever she went. She didn’t mind at all. Most of puppyhood’s terrors were forgotten—she loved being the center of attention. Of course, she didn’t like the fools, the ones that called her nezumi—rat—or the awful old ladies that screamed “cute!” at the top of their lungs and grabbed at her. She bit them. Not hard enough to draw blood but sufficient to make them stomp off in a red mist of anger. This grasping unwanted attention was rare. Kiki was terribly protective. Too careful, Jiji thought. She wasn’t one of the idiotic car-chasing males; she didn’t …
    “Dog!” Jiji shouted, her sharp eyes spotting a brown shape coming their way. Kiki slammed on the brakes, reached down and picked her up, and kept riding. They passed a tail-wagging Akita out for a stroll with her owner, a girl about Kiki’s age. Both Akita and the junior high school girl looked harmless and friendly. Kiki smiled and said good morning to both. Jiji peeked out from under Kiki’s arm. She tried to wag her tail, but it was a pathetic little greeting.
    “Your such a chicken.” Kiki said. “That looked like a nice dog.”
    Jiji made a sound that might have indicated agreement. She was, as always, embarrassed. Other dogs terrified her. They were always bigger. They were unpredictable and might bite. She couldn’t understand how they could dash about in little groups sniffing butts and barking, tangling themselves in their leashes. She wanted nothing to do with them. If she tried really hard, she could dimly remember when she was a baby and never getting enough milk from her mother. Her brothers and sisters were so much larger. They nipped her nose and shoved her aside.
    The “danger” passed and Kiki set her back down on the bricks. Jiji shook off her embarrassment, stretched her legs and began running again. Other dogs might be bigger, but she was fast. A gray blur, she raced along, the sun warm on her back. Her tiny paws barely touched the bricks. She laughed to herself and increased her pace.
    Kiki looked back and laughed, too. Jiji was so healthy. She was still angry with the vet that said she wouldn’t live for a year. As far a Kiki could see, she might live forever. And Jiji was tough. She had that terrier attitude. Once she got her jaws clamped on something she would never let go. In her case, it was her favorite sock or a stuffed toy, not another dog’s leg or a hand.
    Her father warned her, but Kiki couldn’t resist. Once Jiji had a good grip on the sock, Kiki could swing her around, if slowly, a few inches above the carpet. Jiji growled, feigning anger, but she loved the play as well. All Kiki had to say was “sock” and Jiji would run to her bed and dig it out from among her toys.
    There was one word she hated, thought. That was “fly.” That meant it was time for Kiki to hold her and gently toss her into the air. She would catch her before she hit the carpet and giggle. Jiji put up with it for Kiki’s sake, but it was scary. She didn’t think anyone liked being tossed about.
    Jiji spurted forward and caught up with Kiki. “How far we gonna go today, Boss?”
    Kiki wasn’t sure how she felt like being called “boss” but Jiji had picked up the lingo watching TV and seemed to enjoy it. She digested slang as easily and with as much enjoyment at doggie bones. “Well, buddy, you think you can make it through the weeds to Urayasu?”
    Jiji howled with pleasure. “You betcha, boss. Let’s shake a leg!”
    Urayasu was a neighboring suburb, one train stop closer to Tokyo, and quite a distance. There and back would take more than an hour. Kiki wasn’t sure she wanted to pedal that far, but she wasn’t about to admit it to a dog about the size of a handful of hamsters.