Papá Canchero

Every evening, a professor in Tokyo came home by train, and every evening his dog Hachi walked to Shibuya Station to meet him. On May 21, 1925, the professor suffered a brain hemorrhage at work and never came home. Hachi went to the station that evening anyway. And the next evening. And the next. He was given away to new homes. He escaped, every time, and walked back to Shibuya Station. Rain. Snow. Nine and a half years. An Akita dog stood at the same exit every evening, scanning thousands of faces for the one face that was never coming. Commuters began to feed him. A newspaper wrote his story, and a nation fell in love. In 1934, Japan raised a bronze statue of Hachi at the exact spot where he waited. Hachi himself attended the unveiling. He kept waiting one more year. In March 1935, he died near the station, an old dog, still on duty. Japan buried his remains beside Professor Ueno's grave. So the waiting could finally end. But here is the detail that undoes me. In 2015, ninety years after they were separated, the University of Tokyo built a second statue: Hachi, jumping up in joy, finally greeting his returning master. An entire country looked at a dog who waited 10 years, and decided that somewhere, in bronze if nowhere else, he deserved to hear the train doors open and see the professor step out. The statue at Shibuya is still Japan's favorite meeting spot. Millions of people a year say the same sentence: "Wait for me at Hachiko." And so, ninety years on, everyone is still keeping the dog company.