How to get a free lunch

I got Mutt No. 2, Honza, when he was twelve years old. He was a silent little dog, who didn’t bark or lick or run. He was deaf, he had warts and the pink, glistening end of his knob routinely dangled perilously close to the carpet/grass/foot of the person he happened to be sitting on (as you can see from the picture). But he was a contented fellow, who wanted nothing more than his pipe and slippers and a bit of peace and quiet.

I have said that Honza didn’t run, but this not exactly true. He could summon up something akin to speed trotting when it was a matter of escaping from what he perceived to be mortal danger. I have also said that he was deaf, but that is not strictly true either; he could hear thunder.

We were in the park one summer afternoon when the sky began to yellow and darken. We didn’t quite make it home before the first clap. All four of Honza’s legs left the ground at the same time, and when they landed again they did not stay put for long. He scuttled off unsteadily down the hill towards home without so much as a glance in my direction, his eyes rolling wildly, his tongue lolling, and his gammy leg giving him the appearance of a startled crab. To get home from the park, he had to pass that special type of old-fashioned Czech pub where cockroaches scurry across the tablecloth and the chef has not bathed since the Communists were ousted. When I finally caught up with Honza, he was under a table in that pub feasting on a huge bowl of gulas and having his ears rubbed by a crowd of large, sweaty, cooing men, the life-threatening thunder long-forgotten.