“That would only be twice, though,” said Oscar. “It’s hardly regular if I’ve only sat at it twice, surely?”

“Ah, but we’d be hoping for your patronage a third time, you see, which would allow us opportunity to offer it again, at which time it would certainly fulfil the definition of being regular.”

The dog gestured at said table with a sweep of paw that, in the confines of crowded restaurant, resulted in an inadvertent slap of passing waiter. After apologies, scraping up of spilt meal and hugs, he tried again.

The aforementioned table was already occupied.

“It’s already occupied,” said Oscar.

“Only temporarily, Mister Dooven. Certainly they wouldn’t mind moving for so illustrious a guest.”

“I’m not comfortable with that,” said Oscar. “Nor am I remotely illustrious.”

There was a knowing smile. “Considering what you did for Bisarah, I beg to differ.”

“Half of it’s still on fire.”

“Yes, but so is my restaurant’s kitchen.”

Both looked. The smoke emanating from it was considerable.

“Nevertheless,” said Oscar, “I’m not keen on moving other animals while they’re enjoying their meals of food just so I can sit at a table I’ve only sat at once before.”

“Even if it meant it became regular?”

“Even so. Moreover, I didn’t even like that table.”

“Oh? Why ever not?”

Oscar stared at him, surprised he had to ask, considering what he’d done to it last night. The opportunity to exploit such conviviality was too great. “It was too flat, for a start.”

“Too flat?”

“Yes. And I didn’t like its tablecloth.”

The dog turned to the table with necessary deliberation. “Well, it certainly is flat, there’s no doubt about that,” he agreed. “And judging by the table manners of the animals currently at it, a change of tablecloth would definitely be in order.” He turned back to Oscar with even greater enthusiasm than upon his arrival. “Give me a moment, Mister Dooven, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Also,” said Oscar, “it’s too near the kitchen.”

Another glance and further pondering. “That is true,” he said. “And we certainly don’t want a repeat of last night. Perhaps I could have it moved, or perhaps you could consider a different table?”

“But wouldn’t a different table reduce my chances of having a regular one?”

“That is true also,” the dog conceded, still deliberating, this time with paw tapping chin. “What to do, what to do. I could always move the table—”

“You know what?” said Oscar, “I think this is getting too complicated. I don’t want tables or animals moved. I think the best idea would be to move the kitchen.”

The dog looked at him with a shattered smile. “Move the—?”

“Kitchen,” said Oscar, enjoying himself tremendously. “I think that would be the best idea. There’s no point moving tables about the place, is there? It’s so busy, for a start. I mean, where would you put them all?”

“Well, quite—”

“Definitely the best solution is to move the kitchen altogether. Perhaps over there.” He indicated some pot plants.

A growing concern was apparent. “But, Mister Dooven, that’s most irregular. The kitchen has been over there for years. Moving it would be dreadfully inconvenient. We’d have to close for at least a week, I should think. I mean, I’ve already taken your advice from last night and set fire to it.”

“Or,” said Oscar, warming to inconvenience, “another option would be to insist that everyone else leaves.”

“Leaves?”

“Yes. Everyone. And then I could have any table I wanted.”

There was a concerned swallow as the dog glanced around at his customers, all of which were busy stuffing their snouts with meals of food. “Well, I suppose it’s possible.”

“Of course it’s possible. Do it now.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Tell everyone to leave whatever they’re eating and get out so I can chose whichever able I want, and then you don’t have to move the kitchen anywhere. Or those pot plants.”

Another furtive glance as the economic ramifications began to dawn. “Are you sure I couldn’t just move the table, Mister Dooven?”

Oscar shook his head, adamantly. “I think if you’re going to move one customer, you should move the lot. It’s much fairer. You don’t want to show any favouritism, do you?”

“Don’t I?”

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“No. Where I come from, favouritism’s really frowned upon.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s difficult to spell, for a start.” He waited while the dog stared, his menu having withered. “Come on. I haven’t got all evening. I’m hungry and I don’t want to sit near the kitchen. I’ve had quite enough smoke recently.”

Tears began glistening. “Very well, Mister Dooven.” There was a distinct sagging, before he took a deep breath to make a very loud and public announcement.

Ordinarily, Oscar would never make such an outrageous suggestion, but the immutable amiability of animals here triumphed over inconvenience, regardless of how colossal. The notion of putting oneself above the needs of others was so incomprehensible to them that it was a joy to play with.

“Actually,” said Oscar, “perhaps I’ll sit there, after all.”

The table in question had become vacated by two dogs who’d dropped more meal on tablecloth than they’d managed to ingest, which also meant he’d have an entrée.

The dog’s smile tried restarting. “Are you certain, Mister Dooven?”

“Oh, yes. I’d hate to inconvenience you.”

It flickered for a moment, before withering again. “It would be no inconvenience, I can assure you.”

“Oh, I think it would be. I mean, where would you put the pot plants?”

“That is a concern, yes,” the dog agreed. “Nevertheless, it remains a fascinating proposition, as I’ve never really considered moving kitchens before, and considering the extent to which it’s currently on fire I’ll probably have to shortly. I must talk to my accountant—”

He was interrupted by the vacating dogs, who seemed to have enjoyed their meal of food immensely, despite having left most of it behind and down the front of their jumpers.

“That was jolly nice indeed,” one said to the dog with menu. “Thank you very much!”

“Well, it was my pleasure.”

“Really? Even though you didn’t eat any of it?”

“By the look of the tablecloth, neither did you.”

The animals glanced back at their mess. “That’s the problem with really good food,” the other said. “One becomes so desperate to get the stuff inside one’s tummy that one often misses. How much do we owe you?” There was some rummaging about in a coat pocket.

The dog took a moment to check some paperwork. “Oh,” he said, after making the appropriate calculations, “thirteen hugs, if you don’t mind.”

They didn’t at all, and the embraces that followed meant even more meal was mashed into the dog’s attire and he almost dropped his menu.

When Oscar sat at the table, he reached across it protectively and growled at a waiter who tried clearing the mess.

“You wouldn’t like things tidied up a bit?” the waiter asked.

“No,” said Oscar. “And when you see the state I intend leaving this table in when I’ve finished, you’ll realise there was no point doing anything now.”

“I see.” The waiter smiled, apparently quite understanding. “Can I get you something to drink, sir?”

“I’d like a fluffing huge vat of hot-fin, please.”

“A vat of what, sir?”

“Hot-fin.”

“Hot—?”

“Fin.”

The waiter glanced at the kitchen and tried thinking constructively.

Oscar sighed. He missed hot-fin desperately, and hadn’t dared tried Jeffemeries’s attempts for obvious reasons. “We went over this last night. You’ve not heard of hot-fin, have you?”

“Not until last night, sir, no.”

Oscar sat back with a sigh. “You know, I wouldn’t even mind one with lumps.”

“Lumps, sir?”

“Yes. A hot-fin with lumps. I could manage that, though I didn’t ever think I’d hear myself say it.”

“Is that because it’s a foreign thing, sir?”

“What?”

“Is that because it’s a foreign thing?”

“Is what a foreign thing?”

“What you said: the thing about hot lumps. It certainly sounds foreign.”

“Why does it sound foreign?”

“Because I’ve never heard of it.”

Another sigh. “Forget the hot-fin. What would you recommend?”

“Besides charcoaled kitchen?”

Oscar felt a stab of regret. “Besides that, yes.”

Another glance at the kitchen. “I mean, judging by the smoke, I think it’s nearly ready.”

“I’ll save it for pudding.”

“Of course, sir.” He flicked through a little pad. “Now, let me see. What about the pumpkin curry?”

“Pumpkin curry.”

“Yes, sir. It’s remarkably lumpy, for a start, and quite pumpkiny.”

Oscar stared at him, wondering if the animal recalled him dining here yesterday and being responsible for the burning kitchen. “I have been here before, you know.”

“Yes, sir. I know. Last night, as I recall. It’s why the kitchen’s on fire.”

“And I had the pumpkin curry.”

“Eventually, yes.”

Oscar’s stare continued, amazed that the animal was so amicable about it, considering the fuss he’d made and the current state of the kitchen.“All right,” he said, folding his paws and keen for a challenge. “I would like the pumpkin curry. With extra lumps.”

“E-x-t-r-a l-u-m-p-s.” There was a scribble on a little pad. “Excellent choice, sir. You won’t regret it.”

“Maybe not, but I’m certain you will.”

There was a smile, some about-turning, before he strode away through smoke.

The dog who’d greeted him upon arrival returned momentarily.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, Mister Dooven?”

“Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we? I hope it will be better than last night.”

There was a chuckle. “Indeed. You are quite certain the smoke doesn’t bother you?”

“It bothers me a great deal, but I’ll manage.”

“I can always move the table?”

“You’re not moving the table.”

“No, but I can if you like?”

“Don’t move the table.”

“Not even a little bit?”

“Leave the table.” He scooped up some mess and smeared it on a wall. “I’m saving this for later, all right?”

The smile was genuine. “But of course, Mister Dooven. Much of this mess is left over from last night, in fact.”

“Last night?”

“Yes. Don’t you remember?”

Of course he remembered. “I thought this mess was from those dogs who just left.”

The animal pointed at a moist bit. “That bit is, yes. And that bit there. But the rest—all the dry, crusting bits—are from your meal last night.”

“I thought you cleaned up after closing?”

“Yes, but we’ve only had twenty-four hours.”

Oscar looked at the filth, impressed that his efforts had endured, before feeling ashamed at his antics. It wasn’t fair to tease these animals, even if there were no consequences to appalling behaviour.

He looked past the dog at the billowing smoke.

“How’s the kitchen?”

The dog looked also. “Oh, you know. On fire.”

“You can probably put it out now.”

The relief was immediate. “Are you certain?”

Oscar nodded. “Yes. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it.”

“But you ordered cooked kitchen, Mister Dooven.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t being serious.”

“You weren’t being—?”

“Serious. Not really. Nobody eats cooked kitchen.”

The stare was remarkable. “But I thought it was a foreign thing.”

“I know, but you’re so depressingly nice and accommodating that I just wanted to see how far I could push things, frankly.”

“I don’t understand.”

He sighed. “I know. It’s not your fault, it’s mine.”

“Nonsense, Mister Dooven. It’s certainly my fault.”

“Me telling you that I’d like a medium-rare kitchen is definitely my fault.”

“But I’m the one who set fire to it. And that sort of thing has become all the rage, recently.”

Some pumpkin curry was brought out and placed amidst the table’s squalor by mashing it into crust until stability was achieved.

Both animals waited for his reaction.

“It’s too lumpy,” said Oscar, after peering at it.

“Too lumpy?” said the waiter.

“Yes.” Oscar pointed at a lump. “I don’t like that one at all. It’s so big that it requires its own plate.”

“Shall I get its own plate?”

“No. Remove the lumps.”

“I thought you wanted extra lumps?”

“Yes, but lumps that go with it. That lump doesn’t go. It’s the wrong size. It’s too big and doesn’t go with the others. It’s not complicated. Fetch another.”

“Of course, sir.” It was whisked away.