laugardagsbrauð

Passing back up behind the library café, a white dog is trotting down the hill towards me. He has big batlike ears held out to the sides like a Fennec fox, like a radio array. He comes around the front of the delivery van and turns his muzzle with mild interest in what might become visible on the long side of the vehicle.

There he pauses the barest instant: oh! (it may only have been a callused hind pad scratching against pavement, or it might have been a sharp intake of dog breath. Certainly the ears hitched up and forward a notch on his cranium) ---row upon row of fresh loaves of bread, and the sliding door of the van wide open, the driver nowhere in sight.

Then just as suddenly the ears slip back and down again and he regains his disinterested composure as if he has just remembered that fresh-baked bread is not a dog's dream of a perfect Saturday morning and that he is a dog.