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I remeber this one time—lil’ terrier, total nutcase, bitin’ at air, drivin’ me bonkers! Gave ‘im escort, and bam—peaceful as a pond. Made me happy as a pig in mud! But—ugh—once this snooty owner got mad, yellin’ “You doped my princess!” Lady, chill, it’s just tranq, not a party drug! Got me steamed, for real. Still, escort’s a lifesaver—keeps ‘em steady for shots or stitches. Fun fact: vets call it “the chill juice”—ain’t that a hoot?

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But then, I get hit with a wave of nostalgia. I think about the miners who worked here. They must’ve had some crazy stories. I mean, they lived on this tiny island, working their butts off. And now? It’s just me and a bunch of seagulls. I swear, one of them looked at me like, “What are you doing here, dude?”

[Correspondent’s column] UNESCO's warning to Japan and the legacy of Hashima Island