Another Place at the Table - J.B. Jones (highly illogical behavior TXT) 📗

Felonious Canine Companions

 

I sat at the bar shooting the breeze with the grizzled old proprietor and watched Whiskey and Bad Karma play.

 

"Those pesky mutts of yours..."

 

"Pffft.  Don't go there, Hal," I interrupted.  "We both know the customers love them.  And you know that I'm good for it if they get boisterous enough to break something.  Besides, they make you money."

 

Hal grinned and gestured at them with his chin.  They were seated near one of the tables.  Their tails swished and long pink tongues slurped their muzzles on occasion.  A child at that table was sneaking pieces of his lunch to them, but the jig was up when he started to giggle any time Whiskey nuzzled his leg to speed up the flow of treats.

 

"That will do, young man.  Leave those animals alone and eat your stew."

 

"But, Mum.  They are so hungry.  Look at them," he said.  "Look, Papa.  They are very sad."

 

Karma and her mate had the act down to a science and both of them put on their pitiful faces.  Their ears drooped and muzzles dipped.  They looked at the boy's mother with quick glances and then looked away.  Even the body language of the hounds changed; shoulders slumped, tails tucked tight to their rumps, the dogs' entire demeanor conveyed their certain and imminent demise - Only you can save us!  Please, please feed us.

 

"Papa?"

 

At a table nearer the center of the comfortable room, Woodja, my forester friend, teased and flirted with Amity, the Tabard's alluring new waitress.  The child's father got her attention and motioned for her to bring a bowl of stew  for the dogs.

 

"See, told you they made you money.  You should be paying me for their help."  I grinned at him and mimicked his peculiar, but common, 'gimme' behavior, cupping one hand then tapping my thumb to the other four fingers.  It resembled the quacking bill of a duck lying on its back. 

 

I finished my ale and slid the empty tankard across the buffed and polished bartop. 

 

"You can start by buying me a beer."

 

Hal snorted his amusement at the notion.  He poured another mug of grog and brought it back to me.  His hand turned palm up and he began to tap his fingers, then stopped.   The habit was such a part of Hal that if he failed to do the 'gimme' folks would ask after his health. I laughed. He joined in, but the cussed old skinflint still made me pay for the beer.

 

Amity returned to Woodsie's table after delivering lunch to the dogs. She is a pleasant sight and I could see why Hal moved her out of the scullery to wait tables.  Woodja was smitten. 

 

Finished with their snack, the canines were back on the prowl.  As Whiskey brushed past her skirt, Amity reached out to scratch his ear and coo 'sweet doggie' endearments.  He stopped and nuzzled her hand, then turned to look at Woods with soulful brown eyes.

 

"Ah, Woodsie, isn't he adorable? Give'im a little piece."

 

 Woodja offered a juicy chunk of mutton to the hound. Bad Karma slinked up beside him and snatched the coin pouch from his belt then bolted for freedom.

 

The canine thief scampered for the scullery door and rear entrance while patrons laughed.  

 

Woodja bellowed, "Hey! Ya friggin' hound, give me back my coin!"

 

He came to his feet with a rapidity that knocked his chair over. That startled Amity and caused some interesting jiggling of her generous anatomy. Woodja pounded across the room toward the scullery, hollering and cursing all the way.

 

Whiskey gulped down his treat, placed his paws on the table and gingerly snatched the bowl of mutton, vegetables and savory gravy from the table.  The hulbor took his prize to the shelter of another table in the corner of the room. He flopped down, chin on his paws and waited for his mate to return.

 

"You teach'em that?  That was impressive, girl.  And funny, too, but I bet Woodja ain't feeling that."  Hal cocked an ear to better hear Woodsie's dire threats as he pursued my purse-snatching pet.

 

Halloran, owner and sometime bartender of the Faded Tabard Inn, smiled. The dogs had a knack for causing folks to do that.  He worked at polishing the smoky dark wood of the bar to a gleam.

 

"Hells, Hal, do you really think I could do that?" 

 

I said that with all the sincerity I could muster.  The act - and my air of affronted innocence - got tarnished a bit when the door opened to admit another patron.  Karma pranced in right behind him, tail held high, looking pleased with herself.  She held the hide coin purse in her mouth.

 

She made a bee-line to my chair and delivered it with a muffled clink at my feet. 

 

Hal crossed his arms over his chest and nodded his head, "Yeah, Arabesque.  I think you maybe could do that very thing." 

 

Around us, those who had been listening to our banter weighed in.

 

"Show me how to train like that, Ari. I'll share the spoils."  "Can you teach a ferret to do that?"  "Do you think Karma could show me how to pick pockets, too?"

 

I chuckled and stretched down to collect the purse, then scratched my girl's shoulder with affection.

 

"Bad Karma!"

 

She grinned her charming doggie smile and, with the nonchalant arrogance of an apex predator, turned to join Whiskey under the far table.  They slurped their ill-gotten gains with relish.

 

The hilarity died down and the customers returned to eating, drinking, chatting, and fantasizing about Amity. 

 

A short while later, the door crashed open and a thoroughly pissed off forester barged in brandishing a huge wood axe.

 

"Woodja, wait!"  But, of course, that didn't work.  Should I tell him I've got his coin?  Nah, the exercise won't kill him and this could be funny.  I hope he doesn't hurt the dogs.  Hells, I hope they don't hurt him.

 

Glaring at me, Wood snarled, "Ari? You're gonna need to tame something else.  Where in all the Hells are those thieving hounds?"

 

He cast his gaze about the room until he spied them munching under the table.

 

"And the Gods-cursed things are eating my LUNCH, too?"

 

 Indignant, Woodsie stalked toward the corner table and raised the axe over his head. Karma poked her head out and gave a warning growl that had no impact on the stout woodsman.  Woodja brought down the axe with a crash that turned the table into little more than firewood and the dogs yelped in surprise, then dashed for the exit. Wood pursued them, thundering threats and waving his axe. We could hear his shouts for some time as he chased my hulbors.

 

Hal's casual swipes of soft cloth over the bartop gave it a gleam brighter than the one in his eyes as he told me, "You know what, Ari? I've got the lowest prices in this village because I save so much on furniture and entertainment."  He laughed with unbridled delight. "Keep it up, Arabesque.  And could you make this next table big enough to seat, oh, six or so?"

 

He then made the 'gimme' motion with his fingers and, with a theater performance-quality sigh, I reached into the coin pouch to pay for the latest damages and wondered how much time I'd need to gather the materials to make a new table for him.

 

"Big enough to seat six."  Sly, demanding, old cuss!

 

With a warning growl that Bad Karma would be jealous of, Hal reached across the bar and plucked Woodja's coin purse from my hand.

 

"Use your own, ya conniving wench! Gods, it ain't like ye won't get some of it back for the mats you'll use to make me that new table." Furry caterpillars danced above his rheumy eyes as he wiggled his brows a time or two.  "That poor old wood chopping friend of yours will need his coin to quench a powerful thirst when he gets back from chasing your mutts.  And I intend to profit from that, Ari."

 

I took a long slug from the tankard, thought about it and figured Hal was right. By now, the hounds were half the distance to Lafcadio Woods and home. Woodsie would be pooped when he returned.

 

I hoped he would not come back with fresh hulbor hides hanging from his belt; or bloody bites, for that matter.  I liked that fellow.  He worked his arse off.  And I adored my canine cohorts.

 

Oh well, worse comes to worst, I would miss those hounds something awful but I could always tame something else, I suppose. I've wondered if you could teach a bobcat anything useful. And bears!  Yeah, bears are pretty smart.  And then there are...

Hulbors...and something...and Bears. Oh, My!

 My forester pal, Woodja, and I lugged our exhausted carcasses into the Faded Tabard Inn. I tossed a tired 'Hello' wave to the customers I knew and made my way to the bar.

 

Woodja caught the eye of Amity, looking pretty fetching in her "Tip me, I'm yours!," attire and signed with a drinking gesture his need for a beer. Amity winked and moved toward the bar to fetch it while he sagged into the nearest available place to park his worn-out self.

 

"Beer!  Mugs and pitchers and buckets of beer.  If I don't get something to drink, I'll turn to dust, Hal."

 

The Tabard's owner and occasional barkeep acknowledged me with a glance over his shoulder and wave of the towel he'd been using to polish the striking ironwood bar top to its signature luster. 

 

 "Milady, an aperitif," he said, then imitated a courtier's bow and put a mug of the house brew on the counter in front of me.

 

  I rolled my eyes to give him my opinion of his snooty performance and didn't waste a second, just grabbed a fistful and chugged.

 

"Ahhh, Gods, Halloran. Don't you love me anymore? This swill is awful."

 

I suppose I could have told a more believeable fib. The Tabard's grog is renowned for its quality. I downed the rest of it and shoved the tankard across the bar top.

 

"Keep'em coming, you lazy bar toad. Me and Woodsie have been working our tails off and we're going to drink enough for you to afford to open another location in Farlan'."

 

He cackled with avarice and poured some more grog. "Where're the mutts?"

 

I poured another measure of the beer down my gullet, wiped foam from my lips with the back of a hand and smiled.  I got up and moved toward the door.

 

"Wait 'til you see this."

 

Woodja heard me and tucked his coin pouch inside his vest.  Those thieving mutts would need to be extra sneaky and creative to get at it, this time.  He tugged a time or two at the leather thong suspending it and nodded once, satisfied that it was secure.

 

I opened the door,  gave two sharp whistles and my hounds, Bad Karma and Whiskey, trotted into the room followed by a clumsy, furry, panting bear cub.

 

Well, they trotted, Nightmare the Bear tripped on the top step and tumbled into the room. His graceless entrance provided the bar's customers a bit of amusement.

 

"Yo, Ari! Looks like the bear's been drinkin more'n you have." 

 

I shot a look of disgust at the embarrassing bear and gave a sheepish