Chapter 24 Good Times with Older Dogs
Good Times with Older Dogs
Breakfast in the ryokan took the form of rice and fish, served at such low tables that anyone wanting to sit down had to be a yoga expert. But after going to bed without any dinner the night before, I was hungry enough to adapt to the strange food and seating arrangements.
I got up from the table with backache. Before setting out to explore Kyoto, I looked up the address of the atelier of the mysterious postcard sender in my Lonely Planet guidebook—not that I really hoped I’d glean any information about this unknown person who’d brought me all the way to Japan.
And what did a production-line porcelain cat have to do with the organic philosophy of wabi-sabi anyway?
Answer: nothing.
I sat down on an old armchair in the lobby, which gave some support to my back.
On one side of the armchair was a rack containing several Japanese magazines.
On the other side were three shelves with books on different subjects in several languages.
It seemed they’d been left there by visitors to the ryokan who’d read them and didn’t want to lug them around any more.
There was only one book in English, and the title was so odd—Good Times with Older Dogs—that I couldn’t resist taking it down from the shelf.
The cover showed two patient, weary-looking dogs with grizzled muzzles.
I could almost hear their hoarse, muted barking, trying in vain to scare someone who was venturing too close to their house.
The book was written for an American readership, and I checked out the back cover to get an idea of what it was about.
It described the pleasures of living with a dog that is growing old.
The animal has less energy and requires more, but makes up for it with deeper understanding of its owner, who is growing older too.
It was very wabi-sabi.
I imagined dog and owner growing older together and eventually reaching the stage when they’d resemble each other—not only in their way of hobbling around, but also in their expressions.
I returned the book to its place on the shelf, thinking that my old age would be worse than that of those mute old dogs. They at least had someone to follow round and love. Apart from a cat that did what it pleased and would live ten more years at the most, I was all alone in the world.
This upsetting thought made me connect my phone to the ryokan’s Wi-Fi network.
I’d received two messages since the last time I’d been online, in Doha.
The first one, to my great surprise, was from Daniel Lumbreras.
I’d forgotten that I’d given him my number when I’d written to him. His message was to the point.
I’m in Gràcia. Shall we meet for coffee?
I answered that I would have loved to have coffee with him, but was just a little bit too far away to make that possible. I finished by saying I’d contact him when I got back and opened the second message. Seeing that it was from Gabriela, I read it with apprehension.
Titus told me you’ve gone to Tokyo. Nice idea. I wouldn’t worry re trying to find sender of postcards. This person will find you if he wants to. xxx