America is a golden retriever. Japan is a Shiba Inu. I've believed this for years. Now I have proof. First, the evidence. A golden retriever greets the mailman like a soldier coming home from war. A Shiba watches the mailman through the window and quietly files a report. Call a golden retriever, and he's already there before you finish his name. Call a Shiba, and he takes it under consideration. A golden retriever brings you gifts. Wet ones. Constantly. A Shiba believes every gift is a debt, and he does not want to owe you anything. When a golden retriever is happy, the whole street knows. When a Shiba is happy, he blinks. Once. Slowly. You'll have to take his word for it. A golden retriever has never kept a secret in his life. A Shiba has nothing but secrets. Now the proof. My parents have a Shiba. Twenty pounds. Barks at everyone. Very dignified. Two years ago, an American family rented the house across the street. A Navy dad. A mom. Three kids. And a golden retriever named Murphy. Murphy fell in love on the first day. With the Shiba. Every morning at 7, when my father walked our dog past their gate, Murphy came flying across the yard with a tennis ball in his mouth. He dropped it at the gate. He sat. His whole back half wagged. Our Shiba looked at the ball. Looked at Murphy. Barked once. Turned his head away and kept walking, like a samurai passing a street performer. Every morning. For almost two years. Murphy never gave up. Nearly every morning, a new ball at the gate. Every morning, our dog walked past it like it wasn't there. And every afternoon, the ball was gone. My father blamed the crows. Across the street, the Navy family kept buying tennis balls in bulk. They blamed Murphy. In August, the Navy sent the family home. Virginia. The morning after the truck left, our Shiba walked to their gate at 7 and sat down. Nobody was there. He did it the next morning. And the next. He's still doing it. He sits facing the empty yard for about ten minutes, then he walks home. He doesn't bark. My father said, "He's not sad. He's Japanese." My mother pointed out that my father has also been standing at the front window at 7 every morning since August. He said he was checking the weather. Last week, a pipe broke, and my father crawled under the house to fix it. He came back out very slowly, holding a flashlight, and called my mother. Under the house, in the dark, pushed into one corner, in a neat pile, were tennis balls. Six hundred and twelve. Every ball Murphy ever left at that gate. Our dog had gone back for each one when nobody was looking. Carried it home. Hidden it. Every afternoon, for almost two years. Not one person ever saw him do it. Shibas don't fetch. They keep. My mother took a picture of the pile and sent it to Virginia. That night, a photo came back. A new backyard. A new fence. Murphy, sitting at the gate at 7 a.m., a tennis ball at his feet, looking down the street. "He still brings one out every morning," the Navy mom wrote. "Nobody here is going to tell him." So, America. All those times you dropped something at Japan's feet, and we looked the other way. We went back for every single one. Check under the house. (Golden owners, show me your dog. Shiba owners, your dog would never allow it.)