Chapter XXVII: The Strange and Unfortunate History of P. Lootoh C. Razy, the Rat, and the Burden Carried by Goopheek (Part 3)

The festival concluded, as festivals are generally expected to do, with speeches that everyone politely applauded and almost nobody remembered.

The Great Bell of Fellowship rang precisely seven times, though nobody could satisfactorily explain why it had always been seven. Some claimed it represented the seven virtues upon which Dissmey had been founded. Others insisted it commemorated the seven original families who had settled the valley centuries earlier. One elderly gentleman maintained with absolute certainty that the bell had originally rung eight times until budget cuts forced the kingdom to remove one of the rings. His grandchildren had long ago ceased correcting him.

The balloons drifted lazily beyond the rooftops. The merchants began packing away their wares. Children reluctantly surrendered the last of their sticky pastries after receiving the customary promises that there would always be another festival next spring, another sausage next week, and another opportunity to behave considerably better than they had behaved today. Parents have been making such promises for centuries. History offers little evidence that children have ever believed them.

P. Lootoh, meanwhile, had eventually succeeded in retrieving the elusive sausage. Not through determination nor through intelligence but quite by accident actually.

A passing goose, offended by the dog's prolonged occupation beneath the pastry cart, waddled forward with all the righteous confidence peculiar to geese and pecked him sharply upon the tail.

Startled beyond reason, P. Lootoh leapt backwards thus, with his hind legs, struck the wheel causing the cart to move ever so slightly enough to have the sausage rolled free. The goose, satisfied that justice had once again been restored to the natural order, departed without so much as glancing over its shoulder.

P. Lootoh considered the matter for several moments. Then, reaching what historians would later describe as an entirely reasonable conclusion, he decided that Providence had rewarded perseverance and ate the cold and dirty sausage. No further philosophical reflection followed.

Mi-Ki had witnessed the entire episode. He smiled not because the outcome had been amusing, although it unquestionably had, nor because the dog had finally earned his meal, Mi-Ki smiled because accidents fascinated him. Most people dismiss accidents as meaningless interruptions to otherwise orderly lives. Others call them luck. A handful will insist they are miracles, but Mi-Ki preferred another explanation. Accidents, he believed, were often nothing more than systems revealing themselves. One need only watch carefully enough. 

As the square slowly emptied, several citizens stopped to exchange farewells with him.

"Safe journey home, Mi-Ki."

"Until next spring."

"Don't forget the council meeting on Thursday."

He answered each farewell with the same warmth he had shown throughout the afternoon. Nobody noticed that he glanced one last time toward P. Lootoh before departing. Nobody noticed because there was nothing remarkable about the glance. It lasted scarcely longer than a heartbeat. The sort of glance one gives an old fountain, a familiar tree, or a neighbor's cat sleeping in the same sunny patch it had occupied every afternoon for the past ten years. Entire futures have begun with less.

The road leading from the town square curved gently toward the western hills where Mi-Ki's estate overlooked much of Dissmey. The walk was neither hurried nor slow. He acknowledged everyone who greeted him. He tipped his hat to the gardener pruning the roses outside the schoolhouse. He complimented a blacksmith on a horseshoe that, to every untrained eye, appeared indistinguishable from every other horseshoe the blacksmith had ever produced. The compliment was genuine nonetheless. People have always appreciated being seen. Especially when they have become accustomed to being overlooked.

By the time Mi-Ki reached the gates of his estate, the sun had already begun surrendering itself to evening. The servants welcomed him as they always had. Dinner had been prepared for his timely arrival. Correspondence waited upon his desk. Tomorrow's appointments had already been arranged. Everything was exactly as it had been the day before.

Everything...

Except for one thought.

It remained with him long after the music had faded from the square. Long after the applause had been forgotten. Long after P. Lootoh had curled beneath an abandoned wagon, entirely content with a full stomach and absolutely no awareness that he had occupied another man's thoughts all the way home.

There are problems one forgets before supper. There are others that insist upon joining you at the table. For P. Lootoh, Mi-Ki had begun to suspect, belonged to the second sort.

Dinner was served at precisely the same hour it had been served for nearly twenty-three years.

The soup arrived first in its usual fashion, followed by warm bread whose aroma filled the room long before it ever reached the table. The servants moved quietly between one another with the confidence of people who no longer required instruction, each anticipating the next movement before it became necessary. One replaced a fading candle while another poured the wine, and by the time Mi-Ki reached for his glass someone had already noticed it required filling. He thanked each servant by name, not because he believed gratitude transformed a man into something nobler than he truly was, but because he had learned long ago that remembering a man's name costs considerably less than earning his resentment. Many influential people discover this truth eventually. Most simply discover it after it has become expensive.

The meal itself was excellent, though Mi-Ki scarcely tasted any of it. His attention wandered instead toward the great windows overlooking Dissmey as daylight gradually surrendered itself to evening. One by one the lanterns awakened throughout the valley until the streets below resembled constellations that had somehow forgotten to remain in the heavens. From this distance the kingdom appeared peaceful enough to convince a traveler that nothing of consequence had ever happened there.

Distance has always shown remarkable generosity toward civilization. Cities appear wiser from the surrounding hills than from the streets themselves, where unpaid debts possess names, crying children possess parents, and married couples continue reenacting arguments they both know by heart. One cannot hear any of those things from a hilltop. Distance quietly gathers all the untidy details that make life difficult and replaces them with a pleasant illusion called perspective.

Mi-Ki rested his elbow upon the table while his dinner slowly surrendered its warmth. His thoughts, however, remained stubbornly active. He told himself he was thinking about the dog, but that explanation satisfied him for only a moment before quietly falling apart.

Dogs had always existed throughout Dissmey. Good dogs, troublesome dogs, clever dogs, dogs whose entire contribution to society consisted of barking enthusiastically whenever absolutely nothing was happening. Every village had one. Every farmer knew three. P. Lootoh belonged to none of these familiar categories. Yet neither could he be dismissed simply as different. Difference, Mi-Ki reflected, explains remarkably little. It merely postpones the moment one must begin asking better questions.

The image that refused to leave his thoughts was not P. Lootoh struggling with the sausage beneath the pastry cart. It was everything surrounding him. The little girl kneeling beside him as though encouragement alone could alter the laws governing wheels and sausages. The baker who complained every year yet somehow always found himself leaving scraps within reach. The merchants who grumbled loudly enough to satisfy their pride while quietly tolerating the mutt's presence as though his daily mischief had become another unavoidable expense of doing business. Even the children had abandoned the speeches and songs without consulting one another, gathering instead around a dog whose greatest accomplishment that afternoon had been losing an argument with a piece of smoked meat.

No one had organized any of it.

No committee had been formed. No council had passed a resolution declaring that P. Lootoh should be fed, tolerated, encouraged, or quietly accepted as part of everyday life. Nevertheless, everyone seemed to understand their part with an ease that suggested the arrangement had existed long before any of them had stopped to notice it. It possessed no architect, no written rules, and no apparent authority. Like many of the oldest institutions in civilization, it survived simply because enough people had forgotten there had ever been another way.

That, Mi-Ki finally admitted to himself, was what had followed him home. Not the dog but the arrangement.

Leaving the dining room behind, he wandered into the library carrying a single glass of wine. Shelves climbed from polished floorboards to the ceiling above, crowded with histories of kingdoms that no longer existed, philosophical treatises written by men convinced they had solved humanity, commercial ledgers, maps of forgotten trade routes, and enough biographies of important people to convince any visitor that history had always belonged exclusively to those wealthy enough to hire someone to write it.

He did not remove a single volume.

Books are useful companions when one lacks experience. Observation is the better teacher when experience has just introduced itself. 

Crossing to the window once more, Mi-Ki allowed his gaze to drift back toward the sleeping lights scattered across Dissmey. Somewhere below, P. Lootoh had almost certainly found another place to spend the night, entirely unaware that he had become the subject of an evening's reflection within the largest estate in the kingdom. By morning someone would almost certainly feed him again, not because duty required it, nor because charity demanded it, but simply because that was what people had always done. The kingdom believed it had adopted a peculiar dog.

Mi-Ki was beginning to suspect that, over many years and without anyone consciously deciding it, the peculiar dog had quietly persuaded an entire kingdom to adopt him instead.

The following morning, Dissmey awakened precisely as it always had. Bakers prepared their bread before sunrise. Merchants complained about taxes before opening their shops. Farmers complained about the weather regardless of whether it proved favorable or otherwise. The kingdom had always possessed an admirable commitment to consistency in such matters.

P. Lootoh himself had spent the evening sleeping beneath an abandoned wagon just beyond the marketplace and had awakened shortly before dawn after experiencing what historians believe was an exceptionally vivid dream involving seventeen sausages and an unusually accommodating goose. The precise details have unfortunately been lost to history.

He stretched lazily before wandering back toward the marketplace with absolutely no destination in mind. This was not especially unusual. P. Lootoh had never been particularly troubled by questions concerning where he ought to be going, largely because he had never been terribly concerned with where he presently was.

There are, after all, certain advantages to possessing no responsibilities whatsoever.

Mi-Ki, meanwhile, had slept very little.

Not because P. Lootoh occupied his every thought throughout the evening, as some future historians would romantically suggest, but because he had discovered long ago that interesting questions rarely permit immediate answers. They simply accompany a man wherever he goes until curiosity eventually succeeds in exhausting his patience.

The dog was interesting. The arrangement surrounding him was considerably more so.

By midmorning Mi-Ki once again found himself wandering through the marketplace under the rather transparent pretense of conducting ordinary business. This explanation satisfied precisely no one among his servants, who had grown sufficiently familiar with his habits over the years to distinguish between genuine errands and intellectual curiosity disguised as productivity.

Nevertheless, nobody questioned him. The privilege of serving intelligent men is that one is occasionally permitted to observe them, behaving foolishly for reasons that will not become apparent until considerably later.

The marketplace greeted him with all its customary disorder. Merchants negotiated loudly with customers while quietly accepting less than they had demanded only moments before. Children continued inventing games whose rules altered suspiciously whenever they found themselves losing. Somewhere nearby, two elderly men argued passionately over events that had occurred so long ago neither could satisfactorily remember what they had originally disagreed about. Civilization, Mi-Ki reflected, was proceeding admirably.

It was there that he found P. Lootoh once again sitting beside an elderly widow who sold flowers each morning in the marketplace, his head resting comfortably upon her knee while she quietly spoke to him as though continuing a conversation they had begun many years earlier.

Mi-Ki stopped walking. There are moments in life that answer questions one has not yet thought to ask. This proved to be one of them.

The widow smiled faintly as she absent-mindedly scratched behind one of P. Lootoh's ears without ever interrupting her story concerning the disappointing quality of this season's roses. Whether she believed the mutt understood her observations remains uncertain. Like many elderly people throughout history, however, she had long ago discovered that being listened to is frequently more valuable than being understood. P. Lootoh offered no advice whatsoever.

His qualifications in matters of horticulture were, at best, questionable. Nevertheless, he listened with admirable enthusiasm. And for the first time since meeting the peculiar creature, Mi-Ki began wondering whether perhaps the kingdom was receiving considerably more from P. Lootoh than it had ever thought to measure.

Mi-Ki did not announce his presence.

There are some questions that become considerably more difficult to answer the moment people realize they are being observed. Children cease behaving like children whenever they discover their parents are watching. Merchants suddenly become honest whenever tax collectors wander too near their stalls. Philosophers become infinitely more philosophical the moment they discover someone has begun taking notes. Dogs, fortunately, possess no such vanity.

He remained where he stood for several moments longer, observing the peculiar friendship unfolding before him. The widow had now begun complaining about her eldest grandson who, despite reaching thirty-two years of age, continued insisting that every failed business venture was merely a successful one that had not yet discovered its proper timing. Such explanations had become increasingly difficult for her to accept after his fourth attempt at opening a fish market nearly three days' journey from the nearest body of water.

P. Lootoh listened sympathetically. At least, he appeared sympathetic. It is admittedly difficult to determine whether a dog is sympathizing with one's troubles or simply enjoying the pleasant sensation of having his ears scratched while someone speaks warmly in his direction. The widow herself seemed unconcerned by the distinction.

There exists among elderly people a peculiar sort of wisdom that younger generations frequently mistake for eccentricity. They eventually discover that being understood and being listened to are often entirely separate experiences, and that one may sometimes prove considerably more valuable than the other. A creature incapable of interrupting one's complaints possesses certain advantages over philosophers, politicians, and relatives visiting unexpectedly during the holidays.

P. Lootoh possessed all of these qualifications in abundance.

Mi-Ki found himself smiling faintly at the realization that perhaps the kingdom had misunderstood its peculiar mutt entirely. Everyone had spent years attempting to determine what responsibility they possessed toward P. Lootoh while almost nobody had considered whether he quietly fulfilled responsibilities of his own.

Not the grand sort celebrated by festivals and commemorative statues, certainly. No kingdoms had been founded by his wisdom. No wars had been prevented by his counsel. No merchant had ever become wealthier because of his remarkably limited understanding of economics.

Yet there existed throughout history an unfortunate tendency among civilized societies to measure only those contributions sufficiently large to deserve speeches while quietly overlooking the smaller ones that make speeches possible in the first place.

Civilization itself, Mi-Ki reflected, was built almost entirely upon things nobody remembers thanking. Perhaps, occasionally, a peculiar dog whose greatest contribution to society consisted simply of listening whenever someone required listening.

Such contributions are difficult to measure. They are also frequently the first forgotten whenever people begin discussing value.

At length, the widow rose slowly from her chair and gathered the few flowers remaining upon her table. Before departing, she leaned forward to kiss the mutt gently upon his forehead.

"Same time tomorrow," she smiled.

P. Lootoh wagged his tail enthusiastically at what he undoubtedly interpreted as promising news of tomorrow's ear scratches. Their arrangement, like so many others throughout Dissmey, required no signatures, no contracts, and no formal understanding between the parties involved. It had simply happened one day and, finding no particular reason to stop happening, had quietly continued thereafter.

Mi-Ki watched her disappear into the crowded marketplace before finally approaching the creature who had occupied the better part of his thoughts since the festival. P. Lootoh looked upward lazily before immediately abandoning all interest in philosophical questions concerning human civilization the moment he discovered Mi-Ki possessed half of a buttered roll in his hand.

Some things, thankfully, never change.

P. Lootoh rose immediately to his feet with all the enthusiasm one ought reasonably to expect from a creature discovering that civilization had once again arranged itself into the shape of lunch. Historians remain unable to determine whether he recognized Mi-Ki from the previous day's festival or whether he would have displayed precisely the same enthusiasm toward absolutely anyone carrying fresh bread through the marketplace. The latter explanation presently enjoys considerably greater academic support.

Mi-Ki knelt beside him without ceremony and broke the buttered roll neatly in two. One half disappeared with remarkable efficiency while the second received only slightly greater consideration before suffering a similar fate. P. Lootoh then sat patiently before him wearing the peculiar expression common among dogs throughout history who have convinced themselves that consuming two pieces of bread represents compelling evidence that a third almost certainly exists.

Hope, as previously observed, has never suffered greatly from its repeated disagreements with reality.

"Oho...You've become something of a difficult question, haven't you? Oho" Mi-Ki asked quietly.

P. Lootoh wagged his tail.

It was, all things considered, among the better answers anyone had yet provided. The little mutt possessed many admirable qualities, though his ability to contribute meaningfully to philosophical discussions remained regrettably underdeveloped. Had Mi-Ki inquired instead whether seventeen sausages constituted an appropriate breakfast, historians believe the conversation might have progressed considerably further.

Mi-Ki laughed softly before scratching behind one of his ears.

There are moments throughout history which future generations later insist were infinitely more significant than they actually were. Entire books have been written concerning a king's passing glance or a philosopher's casual remark made shortly before supper. Such stories possess an unfortunate tendency to improve themselves with age.

This was not one of those moments.

No choir began singing in celebration of their meeting. No bells rang throughout the valley announcing that history had quietly altered its course beneath a flower merchant's table. The merchants continued selling their goods exactly as they had the day before.

 Somewhere nearby, two old men remained deeply committed to winning an argument both had forgotten beginning sometime during the previous decade.

Life itself remained thoroughly unimpressed by the occasion. Mi-Ki had merely shared his breakfast with a peculiar dog. History, however, has always possessed considerably more patience than mankind.

Before departing, Mi-Ki produced a small handkerchief from his coat and, after a brief internal debate regarding whether such efforts would ultimately prove worthwhile, gently wiped the remaining butter from around P. Lootoh's mouth. The unfortunate mutt endured this tremendous indignity with admirable restraint before immediately attempting to lick the handkerchief itself. Some creatures simply refuse to become dignified regardless of one's most sincere efforts.

The following day Mi-Ki found himself once again passing through the marketplace. This, he assured himself, was entirely coincidental. By the third consecutive coincidence occurring within the same week, even he had begun finding the explanation somewhat unconvincing. Curiosity possesses an unfortunate habit of disguising itself as routine whenever it fears being discovered.

Some mornings he found P. Lootoh sleeping comfortably beside the flower merchant's stall while listening patiently to observations regarding roses and grandchildren. Other mornings he discovered him enthusiastically pursuing matters of considerably less philosophical importance, such as attempting to determine whether pigeons became easier to catch if one approached them repeatedly from precisely the same direction despite overwhelming historical evidence suggesting otherwise.

They did not. P. Lootoh remained undeterred.

It slowly became apparent to Mi-Ki that the peculiar mutt possessed something considerably more unusual than affection throughout Dissmey. He possessed familiarity.

The baker complained about him exactly as one complains about an old friend whose shortcomings have become too thoroughly intertwined with one's memories to inspire genuine annoyance. The children greeted him by name. The widow expected him each morning without ever arranging to do so. Even Mrs. Bumble's increasingly one-sided war concerning her rose garden had long ago transformed itself from outrage into ritual.

Entire absences throughout civilization are often discovered only after they have occurred. One seldom notices the clock upon the wall until it ceases ticking. The musicians are rarely appreciated until the music itself has fallen silent.

Mi-Ki found himself wondering, though only briefly, what would happen if P. Lootoh simply failed to appear one morning. The thought proved unexpectedly uncomfortable.

By now he had quietly abandoned the question of who fed the mutt. That answer presented itself differently each day and had become considerably less interesting than the question he had only recently begun asking instead.

What exactly was Dissmey receiving in return?

Civilized societies, he reflected, possess remarkably sophisticated methods of measuring certain contributions while remaining almost comically blind toward others. Kingdoms maintain ledgers recording taxes paid and goods exchanged, monuments erected and battles won. Historians faithfully preserve the names of kings and merchants while quietly forgetting the thousand smaller arrangements that permitted both to exist in the first place.

No ledger throughout Dissmey recorded how many lonely afternoons P. Lootoh had occupied simply by existing beside someone who wished not to eat alone. No merchant calculated the value of laughter shared between children gathered around a sausage rolling beneath a cartwheel. No philosopher had ever satisfactorily explained why certain creatures quietly become woven into the ordinary fabric of everyday life while contributing nothing one might reasonably place upon a balance sheet.

Such things rarely survive within history's official records. They survive elsewhere. And so the days passed quietly throughout Dissmey exactly as they always had. Only now, among the many familiar faces occupying its crowded streets each morning, there existed one remarkably influential rat who had begun discovering that the kingdom's most peculiar institution occasionally wagged its tail whenever he approached carrying breakfast.

To be continued in part 4