Tojo and Gus - Part One

A secret love exists only as an unhealthy love. So why should I hide the fact that I love my dog? Always faithful, trustworthy and resourceful; my dog never lets me down. No matter what, he remains my best friend. My little Tojo will always wait hidden just beneath the couch, knowing that sooner or later my feet will have to lower. That means he’ll have another opportunity to play Trojan War, me as Achilles and he as the arrow that struck Achilles’ heel. Method actor defines Tojo as he rips the flesh, aiming to completely sever the tendon. He’d put Marlon Brando to shame, sweet puppy.

Tojo likes to play Sniper when I get home from work. I would call it Hide and Go Seek except that I never get to hide first. I also never get to seek. I simply walk into one of the rooms of our tiny apartment and he leaps out at me, fangs bared, eyes ablaze, froth oozing from the corners of his mouth. He never attacks from the same place twice. One day he’ll charge out from beneath the bed, and the next he’ll be waiting behind the door. Once or twice he has leapt at me from the bookshelf or from atop the refrigerator.

I’ve begun to leave a plastic neck brace outside my front door that I adorn upon my return to keep his foamy slobber from seeping down my shirt when he goes for the jugular. He’s so cute when he gets frustrated. His little body shakes all over and he gives this odd kind of howl. Then he’ll do a few awkward back flips and go hide under the couch. I can see his glowing eyes watch me from the darkness, unblinking. He never takes them off me; he loves me so much.

Tojo actually came with the couch that the previous tenant left in the apartment. At first I thought he might have been some kind of rat or possum until I heard him bark. Then I realized that the poor thing must have a bad case of mange and lost all his fur, which can’t be good for him. He shakes and sneezes a lot. I brought him a blanket my first day there and he playfully tore at my fingers, severing one when I fed him some hotdogs. My fault, but who really needs the top of their pinky? It was only after I’d stayed in the place for a few weeks that he came out and started playing his games with me. Most of them are alright and fun but I do not care too much for his version of Burglar Alarm.

Apparently, Burglar Alarm is a game that we can only play at 2:45am. It goes like this: I lie in bed, fast asleep, and Tojo comes into the room. As stealthy as a jungle beast he crawls up my dresser and quietly takes aim. Then, once he has judged his distance, Tojo leaps onto the bed, howling and snarling like a mad banshee, gnawing my knees through the sheets, raising the alarm of the pretend burglar at the window. We played this game for three weeks solid. Since then, I’ve started closing my bedroom door at night.

John from work came over a few days ago. He wanted to see the new place and meet my new dog. He seemed confused by my neck brace which I wrapped around his throat, but, when I wrapped a thick wool scarf around my own neck, he must have overcome his confusion for he asked instead about my dog.

“What kind of dog is Toe-Poe, Gus,” he asked as I hunted in my pockets for my keys.
“Tojo,” I corrected gently, “is a…. He’s …um.” I did not know what Tojo was. So I guessed. “He’s a pug, I think. But there might be something else mixed in there too.”

John from work nodded as I pulled out my keys and fit the appropriate one in the lock. It turned with a loud, rusty click. The fast scraping sound of claws on linoleum told me that Tojo headed off for another game of Sniper. I paused just to give him time. I knew he’d want to impress our guest.

I dramatically opened the door and gestured that John from work go in first.

He looked at me, his eyes big, and his mouth partially open. I could tell he had grown quite excited by the way he paled and started to sweat.

“Go on, man,” I said. “Tojo will announce himself when he’s ready.”

John from work shook his head and suggested that I go in first. How polite of John, I thought, not wanting to hog all the fun. So I walked in and set my bag down by the foot of the couch, nonchalantly checking under it for Tojo, and sat down comfortably when I saw nothing there but dust and his blanket. I tried to keep my appearance casual as I scanned the room for clues as to Tojo’s whereabouts, but found none.

John stood timidly at the door, still outside. I suppose he wondered what to do about wiping his boots off before he came in. I do not have a door mat.

“Don’t worry about wiping you feet or anything,” I said. “If you track anything of interest into the room Tojo’ll lick it up later.”

Still outside, John from work pointed toward the pile of shattered wood, soiled stuffing and ravaged material that had once been a loveseat.

“Did Tojo do that?” he asked.

I nodded. “He apparently didn’t like the floral pattern, and tried to pick the flowers to make it better. I haven’t gotten around to cleaning it up yet.”

John gulped audibly, and wiped his forehead as he took two small steps into the room.