Dogs and People

Dogs and People

by Tokuhiko Kise

 

For my elementary school graduation essay, I gave it a rather curious title: Dogs and People. While most of my classmates wrote about fun memories from field trips or sports day, mine stood out—quietly, but definitely. 

What was twelve-year-old Tok trying to say? 

In a Japanese language assignment, I wrote, “I give food to my dog.” When the corrected version came back, there was a big red X on that sentence. The teacher had crossed it out and replaced it with, “You feed a dog. You don’t give it food.” That didn’t sit right with me. I couldn’t understand it—and more than that, I couldn’t accept it. So I wrote about it in my graduation essay. A quiet protest, scribbled in pencil and printed forever. 

Looking back now, I think I just couldn’t accept “the answer” as something absolute—not when it didn’t feel true to me. And I suppose that’s a good thing. Not blindly swallowing what you’re told, but asking, Is that really so? Thinking for yourself. 

Since then, I’ve made furniture, built buildings, and published books. And every time, I’ve worked with professionals—people who know what they do. I really respect that. I love hearing about what they’ve learned from experience, and I always listen carefully. But sometimes they say, “That’s not possible.” 

If I simply replied, “Ah, okay, too bad,” that would be the end of it. But I’ve heard “That’s not possible” more times than I can count. And yet, every time, I’ve made it through with ideas. That’s really the heart of it: ideas. 

First, I try to really understand what the other person is saying. Then, I throw out a few suggestions: “What if we try this, and then that?” And sometimes, they pause and say, “…Actually, that might work.” And from there, it changes. Now we’re on the same side, figuring it out together. And that moment—that shift—is where the real fun begins. 

Trying things. Working around walls instead of backing down. It starts to feel like a game. And when you make it through with a bit of creativity, there’s this sense of deep satisfaction that follows. The outcome is usually better, too. And way more fun. 

I’m not sure what part of my childhood gave me that way of thinking. But when I look back on that little essay—Dogs and People—I realize that something in me was already awake. 

That kid was on to something. Pretty funny little guy, really.