Nonetheless, as he lounged in the shadow at the corner of the cafe' courtyard, he achieved a sort of battered dignity, not unlike that of an aging prizefighter. He cocked an insouciant eye toward me, as if daring me to mock his bizarre appearance, and then, having apparently decided that I had no such intention, hoisted himself to his feet with a grumble. Ambling over to where I sat enjoying my late afternoon coffee, he flopped down next to me and, with an air of such unquestioned right as to be almost proprietary, settled his chin across my right instep.
I looked down at him with an amused grin. He had, to all appearances, lapsed into a sound sleep the moment his weight was no longer on his feet. I realized that I was in the presence of the proverbial Lazy Dog.
It is rare that one has the opportunity to encounter such a legend in the flesh. Most dogs, even when sleeping, convey the impression that they have some intention of eventually moving again. Some even go so far as to whine in their sleep, or to twitch their paws as they chase dream rabbits. If this dog dreamed, he concealed it with the skill of a master. He gave the impression of such boneless heaviness that I wondered if I would ever be able to reclaim my foot from him.
Not that I minded all that much. It was one of the first fine days of late spring, warm enough to masquerade as summer, and I was savoring my own laziness. I had taken a sabbatical from attempting to drill some appreciation for literature into the heads of ungrateful teenagers, determined to finally write my "great novel". Now, only a week along, I felt that I didn't much care if I never set pen to paper. The warm afternoon, and my clearly amiable, if uncommunicative, companion induced in me such a feeling of idle self-satisfaction that I found myself of a like mind with the recumbent animal at my feet. On such a day as this, what was there really better to do than to laze in the sun?
My reverie was shattered at this point by the dog performing an action which, only seconds earlier, I would have sworn was impossible. With something amounting to a canine explosion, he shot six inches or so straight up, and rocketed across the courtyard as if all the hounds of Hell were on his tail. No sooner had I made the comparison, however, then I immediately realized my error in simile; he had cast himself in the role of hellhound as, with a most improbable baying sound, he hurled himself in pursuit of a small cat who had had the temerity to poke his nose around the corner of the gateway into the courtyard.
The two of them disappeared from view, but a hullabaloo from the street outside, where the Wednesday market was in full swing, arose and floated over the wall. Mixed with the baying of the dog were sundry clatters, crashes and the curses of the street vendors, and I decided that the sight might reward investigation. Accordingly, I arose, although with very nearly as little energy as my canine friend, and sauntered over to the gateway.
As I did so, however, the cat hopped up onto the wall next to me and, shooting me what I took to be a conspiratorial glance, dropped lightly into the courtyard and trotted off into the cafe'.
The dog, meanwhile, had problems of his own. The owner of a stall specializing in small glassware, whose stock had suffered particularly badly, was venting his ire on my unfortunate companion with what appeared to my untrained eye to be a wickerwork carpet beater, snatched from the display at the next booth. I could only admire the technique and vigor with which he employed this somewhat unwieldy weapon. The yelps of the dog attested to his skill.
After a few painful moments, the dog made good his escape, and disappeared up the street with the enraged glass seller in hot pursuit. That man, obviously poorly versed in canine psychology, was bellowing orders along the lines of, "Come back here so I can kill you!" which were, in my opinion, highly unlikely to achieve the desired result. It seemed that, for the time being, the dog was out of the picture.
My curiosity aroused, I strolled across the courtyard to the cafe' entrance, and peered inside. Once my eyes adjusted to the comparative darkness within, I saw the cat crouched on the counter. The cafe's owner, who was watching with amused tolerance as the cat devoured a large piece of fish, looked up and caught my eye.
"Don't tell the dog, will you?" he requested. "I don't think he'd ever forgive me."
I laughed. "How long has this been going on?"
The man reached over to scratch the cat behind the ears, prompting a grateful purr. "Oh, six or seven months, I suppose. This little rascal comes in a couple of times a week; he seems to know when the market days are. Anyway, he lures poor old Leo out into the market, gets him into trouble and then comes in for his lunch. He was stealing rubbish at first, but I really think all that effort deserves a better reward, don't you?" He grinned indulgently at the cat, who had now finished the fish and sat on the counter washing his paws with every sign of satisfaction.
"Do you really think he has it all planned out?" I asked with some skepticism.
"I'm quite sure he does," the man replied. "Once or twice might be coincidence, but he's in here almost every market day, Wednesday and Saturday." His mouth twisted ruefully. "It's usually the fellow who runs the glass stall who gets the worst of it. It's costing me a small fortune replacing his breakages, but I tell you, I get such a kick out of the whole thing, it's worth it."
I was highly amused and intrigued. "Doesn't the dog ever work out what's going on?"
"No, apparently not. He just knows there's a cat invading his territory, and off he goes. He's made a stern enemy out of the glass man, though; the cat seems to steer him toward that stall every time!"
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, I returned to my coffee, pondering the ingenuity of animals. It was hard for me to believe that the cat had formulated such a detailed and devious plan. Nonetheless, unless the cafe' owner was misleading me (which seemed unlikely) the evidence certainly indicated that this was a cat of exceptional cunning. I decided to make further study of the situation.
Over the next several weeks, I made it a point to drop in at the cafe' on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, whenever my very relaxed schedule allowed. I established that not only did the cat turn up on those days almost without fail, but that he arrived consistently between 3 and 4 in the afternoon. This was the time at which the market was at its busiest, but the cafe' was usually almost empty, having finished serving lunch and not yet begun with dinner.
My admiration for feline intelligence increased with every evidence of the careful planning which had gone into his scheme. He seemed aware of my regard, as he graciously allowed our acquaintance to develop from an exchange of glances and nod of recognition to actual physical contact. He would stop by my usual table in the courtyard, after his fish of course, to rub against my ankles and allow me to scratch him behind the ears. I think that he enjoyed an appreciative audience for his cleverness.
My increasing friendliness with the cat, however, had an unfortunate cooling effect upon my relations with Leo the dog. One afternoon, returning breathless and chastened from his usual run-in with the man who ran the glass stall, he flopped down in apparent exhaustion next to me, using my foot as a chin rest in his usual fashion. After only a moment, however, he scrambled to his feet, nostrils twitching as he snuffled at my trouser cuff. He obviously smelled the cat, who had left only a minute or to before Leo's return from the market.
He gave me a look of hurt and betrayal of a depth that only dogs and small children can manage. Then, turning his back pointedly, he stalked with all the dignity he could muster to his corner in the shadows and settled down facing firmly away from me. For a dog like Leo to be able to stalk, he must have been offended indeed. It took me several minutes of cajoling, along with the judicious application of some scrap meat supplied by the cafe' owner, before he would consent to rejoin me at the table. And even then, he would occasionally sniff meaningfully at my ankles and cast an accusing glance in my direction, just to make sure that I did not forget that he had caught me consorting with the enemy.
The whole bizarre affair had a definite and established schedule. First the cat would arrive, and the dog would roar out of the courtyard after him. Next would follow commotion in the marketplace and the crashes of breaking glass, and the glass-stall owner would proceed to wreak vengeance upon the hapless Leo while the cat enjoyed his fish in the cafe'.
This was usually good for a diversion of five or ten minutes, as the glass man was a fellow of hot temper, and would often pursue the dog for distances up to half a mile before adrenaline gave way to exhaustion and he came staggering back, red-faced and sweating, to take inventory of the damage to his stock. The cat having departed in the meantime, the glassman would arrive at the cafe' to present the owner with the latest bill for breakage.
The prudent Leo appeared to allow time for this transaction to be completed and his enemy to be safely out of the way before making his own return to the cafe'. I thought, however, that all in all such caution was probably unnecessary. Like many short-tempered men, the stall owner was just as quick to cool off, and although happy to mete out punishment at the scene of the crime, seemed to hold no lasting grudge. All things considered, the cat's scheme provided a welcome break in routine, with little harm to anyone concerned, human or animal.
This idyllic state of things was, sadly, not destined to continue. One Wednesday afternoon, the glass-stall owner arrived after the usual chase, looking pale and grim. He carried the crumpled body of the unfortunate Leo, wrapped in his own jacket, clutched to his chest. I followed him into the cafe'.
It transpired that, in the course of their footrace, the dog had dashed out into traffic and been struck by a passing car. There was really no fault to be assigned in the matter; the driver had been traveling at a reasonable speed, but had simply been unable to stop in time. Although Leo had survived the accident, both of his back legs were badly broken.
The vet was duly summoned, but his prognosis was not encouraging. The damage to Leo's legs was so severe that the dog would never again be able to walk normally. The cafe' owner, whose name I had established was Jim, refused to have Leo put down. To the vet's insistence, and contention that it would be "the kindest thing", Jim responded that the dog led a fairly sedentary existence, and as long as he could get around the cafe' and courtyard, the incident would have little effect on his lifestyle. Under protest, the vet conceded, and Leo was removed to his surgery to have his legs set.
"Well, his days of smashing my glass are done, anyway," the glassman observed as he and I walked out of the building. However, he seemed less than pleased at the way in which the safety of his stock had been ensured.
I visited the cafe' less often after that. Much of the spice of my visits had vanished with Leo's accident, and it depressed me to see my friend pulling himself around the courtyard. His recovery was slow, and destined to be incomplete at best. He spent most of his time lying dejectedly in his favorite shady corner, and I think even Jim began to question the wisdom of his decision to keep the dog alive.
The cat was also despondent. He still turned up on the appointed days, but Leo had no interest in even attempting to chase him. Jim would have fed him if he asked, but the fact that the fish was readily available seemed to have removed its appeal. All in all, the atmosphere had taken a distinct turn for the worse, the happiness of all concerned being blighted by Leo's accident.
As a result, it had been several weeks since my last visit when I stopped in one Saturday afternoon. To my surprise, there was no sign of Leo in either the courtyard or the cafe'. I sadly concluded that Jim had decided to have him put to sleep after all.
The cafe' owner quickly set me right on that. "Oh no, he's here somewhere," he said. "I think he was around the back last time I saw him."
I brightened considerably. "So he's getting around better these days, is he?"
"Yes, indeed," Jim responded. He said this with a strange little grin as he poured my coffee. There were no other customers in the place, so as was his occasional practice, he joined me at the table outside.
"Does that cat still come round to pester Leo?" I asked.
"Yes, he's still turning up," Jim replied with a chuckle. "Every Wednesday and Saturday, same as always."
"Determined little beggar, isn't he?" I said. "Seems a bit pointless, all things considered."
"Well, I don't know about that," my host replied. He refused to elaborate, merely telling me that the cat would be along soon. In fact, he was being very mysterious indeed. His attitude reminded me of something, and after some thought I realized that it was very much like that of my younger brother, who would get so excited as a child with the gifts he had to give at Christmas that he would barely be able to contain himself. I wondered what surprise Jim had up his sleeve.
I didn't have to wait long. "Showtime," Jim announced, sitting up in his chair, as the cat poked his head around the gateway.
From around the corner of the building came Leo's familiar excited bay, accompanied by a peculiar rumbling and pattering sound. I couldn't begin to imagine what it was; then the dog erupted from around the building into the courtyard, and I am sure my mouth dropped wide open with astonishment.
Leo was traveling at some speed, and in some style. His damaged hindquarters were strapped into a small two-wheeled contraption, which looked as if it might have been cobbled together with parts from a child's toy trolley. He trundled across the courtyard with the greatest of ease under the impetus of his one dog-power engine.
He looked utterly ridiculous, but as he passed my table his eyes met mine, and I saw in them the most supreme look of restored confidence and joy. At that moment, I would no sooner have laughed at Leo than I would have laughed at Boadicea as she hacked her way through the Roman legions in her scythe-wheeled chariot.
He hurtled across the cobblestones and out through the gateway. There followed the usual hubbub from the marketplace. Over it all, I could hear the voice of the glass seller casting the most vile aspersions on the dog's already dubious ancestry.
"Oh no," I laughed. "The poor glassman; just when he thought he was safe. He must be beside himself!"
Jim looked at me with a broad grin, as if I was just opening the best present of all.
"Oh, I shouldn't think he minds all that much," he said. " You see, he's the one who made Leo's cart."
