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

Among all the strange creatures that had ever walked beneath the great painted skies of the magical kingdom of Dissmey, there were few whose existence created such a peculiar disturbance in the minds of its citizens as that of the happy mutt known as P. Lootoh C. Razy.

This fact alone would probably have surprised an outsider visiting the kingdom for the first time. For one might reasonably assume that a land inhabited by talking ducks, extraordinarily wealthy rats, philosophical dogs, and whatever it was Goopheek had become by his later years, would possess far stranger matters worthy of its collective attention. One would be mistaken. Dissmey had never concerned itself greatly with reasonableness. It was a kingdom of peculiar priorities and even stranger conclusions, where public opinion traveled considerably faster than truth itself and often arrived at entirely different destinations.

Dissmey was not a particularly large kingdom, though mentioning this unfortunate observation in the company of its citizens was generally considered poor manners and occasionally resulted in lengthy lectures regarding its cultural significance and economic contributions to civilization itself. To those fortunate enough to have been born within its painted borders, there existed no greater society in the known world. The kingdom possessed everything one could reasonably ask for in a civilization. It had merchants and musicians, laborers and philosophers, taverns and marketplaces, and an alarming number of ducks occupying positions of influence despite generations of failed attempts to explain precisely how they had acquired them.

It was, all things considered, a perfectly normal kingdom.

Provided, of course, one agreed never to ask too many questions.

The people of Dissmey knew everything about everyone and almost nothing about themselves. It was among their more admirable contradictions. A fisherman could sneeze on the eastern side of town shortly after sunrise and before noon there would exist no fewer than four entirely different versions of the event being discussed over bread and coffee throughout the western marketplace. The first would involve a seasonal illness. The second would concern itself with rumors of excessive alcohol consumption the previous evening. The third would involve an extramarital affair somehow connected to a local baker despite neither individual having previously met. The fourth, naturally, would involve a conspiracy perpetrated by ducks.

Nobody has ever satisfactorily explained the kingdom's peculiar distrust of ducks, though historians generally agree they have done remarkably little to deserve the benefit of that doubt.

Such was the unfortunate nature of Dissmey. Information traveled quickly throughout the kingdom. Truth generally arrived sometime the following week accompanied by an apology nobody particularly cared to hear by that point.

The kingdom itself was built upon stories. Every crooked stone pathway carried them. The taverns were filled with old men loudly disagreeing about events they had collectively witnessed while somehow remembering them in entirely contradictory ways. It had become something of a local tradition for younger generations to discover that their grandfathers had participated heroically in at least seven different historical events despite never having ventured farther than three streets from their favorite chair and possessing knees entirely unsuitable for adventure.

History, rumor, drunken speculation, and outright fabrication had become so thoroughly intertwined over the centuries that scholars eventually abandoned all attempts at separating one from another and simply began referring to the entire arrangement as "tradition."

It proved considerably easier for everyone involved.

Perhaps no characteristic of the kingdom was more deeply woven into its culture than its obsessive need to categorize absolutely everything unfortunate enough to exist within its borders. The people of Dissmey possessed classifications for matters both important and entirely unnecessary. Its merchants occupied their proper districts while its laborers possessed their proper trades. Its musicians lived among musicians and its performers among performers, though nobody remembered precisely why this arrangement had begun several centuries earlier. Asking why, however, was generally considered somewhat rude and occasionally revolutionary.

Even the kingdom's animals possessed classifications and subcategories of their own, a fact made abundantly clear during the unfortunate incident of 1634 when seventy-three geese were mistakenly registered as tax collectors for nearly six months before anyone discovered the error. Modern historians remain divided on whether the kingdom's tax collection practices improved or deteriorated during this period. Opinions differ greatly depending upon whether one consults the tax collectors or the geese.

The geese, unsurprisingly, have declined all requests for comment.

To the people of Dissmey, categorization represented considerably more than mere convenience. It was how they understood the world itself. Everything possessed its proper place and every place possessed its proper thing. The kingdom could tolerate mysteries only briefly before attempting to organize them into neat little boxes where they might cease causing discomfort.

Uncertainty, after all, is among mankind's least favorite houseguests.

And so the people categorized their merchants, their artists, their philosophers, and their fools with equal enthusiasm. They categorized their successes and quietly categorized their failures. They even possessed several categories reserved exclusively for circumstances nobody wished to discuss publicly but nevertheless required official recognition during matters involving inheritance, livestock disputes, or unusually complicated domestic arrangements.

The kingdom had become remarkably sophisticated in this regard.

It therefore came as little surprise that Dissmey eventually attempted to do precisely the same thing with P. lootoh C. razy.

He bore a name that carried with it the weight of his entire strange existence, a name that had traveled through taverns, marketplaces, and quiet conversations among the townsfolk of Dissmey. It was spoken differently depending upon who was telling the story, where they came from, and how much of the history they were willing to discuss publicly.

Some names throughout history are remembered because they belonged to kings, conquerors, or great explorers who sailed beyond the known world in search of glory and returned with little more than stories and questionable financial decisions. P. lootoh possessed none of these distinctions. His was the sort of name that lingered in conversation a little longer than ordinary names ought to. The kind that caused old men to scratch thoughtfully at their beards before beginning their stories with the troublesome phrase:

"Well now, it isn't quite that simple."

And simple it most certainly was not.

For there exist throughout history certain unfortunate circumstances so peculiar that societies eventually cease attempting to understand them altogether. Instead, they slowly surround them with sympathy, explanations, traditions, and exceptions until the original questions become obscured beneath generations of comfortable assumptions. Long before the youngest citizens of Dissmey had been born, the kingdom had quietly decided that P. lootoh was simply one of those questions better approached cautiously and preferably after one's second cup of morning coffee.

Nobody wished him harm, at least not intentionally. There existed, after all, very little social benefit in publicly admitting one's dislike for a retarded mutt incapable of offending anyone beyond occasionally urinating upon one's footwear during the summer months. The people of Dissmey therefore found it considerably easier to love P. lootoh than to understand him, which historians have repeatedly demonstrated is among mankind's favorite solutions whenever understanding requires more effort than sympathy.

What they could never quite agree upon, however, was precisely where he belonged among them.

And that, unfortunately, is where our story truly begins.

For although the people of Dissmey possessed an extraordinary talent for categorizing the world around them, they had never developed an equal talent for solving the problems those categories occasionally created. This deficiency had plagued the kingdom for generations and had, in all fairness, become something of a cultural tradition in its own right. There existed throughout Dissmey a curious social phenomenon whereby difficult questions gradually transformed themselves into someone else's responsibility provided sufficient time was allowed to pass and enough public sympathy had been expressed over breakfast.

The arrangement proved remarkably efficient.

A troublesome matter requiring immediate attention could, with proper management, become an unfortunate circumstance requiring understanding. Given another decade or two, it might eventually become a cherished tradition deserving protection from anyone foolish enough to suggest changing it. Such transformations occurred so naturally throughout the kingdom that most citizens never noticed them happening at all.

This was particularly true whenever special cases became involved.

There are few phrases throughout the history of civilization more dangerous than "special circumstances." Kingdoms have risen and fallen over considerably less ambiguous language. Once a matter acquires sufficient importance to become special, it often discovers that ordinary questions no longer apply to it. Rules become flexible things. Exceptions quietly accumulate around it like dust upon old furniture. Before long, nobody remembers where the original exception ended and the entirely new arrangement began.

Special circumstances, historians have observed, possess an unfortunate tendency of reproducing themselves.

The people of Dissmey were especially fond of special circumstances.

They had special circumstances regarding taxes, special circumstances regarding property disputes, and at one particularly unfortunate point in the kingdom's history, maintained seven entirely different legal definitions for what constituted a duck depending upon the season and whether or not it could be reasonably demonstrated that the duck in question belonged to someone sufficiently influential.

It was, by all accounts, a complicated time to be a duck.

P. Lootoh C. Razy would eventually become something considerably more unusual than a mere special circumstance. He became something infinitely more permanent and infinitely more difficult to discuss politely over dinner.

He became everyone's responsibility.

Which, as historians have repeatedly demonstrated throughout the ages, is often another way of saying he became nobody's responsibility at all.

No citizen of Dissmey would ever admit otherwise, of course. Such accusations would have been met with immediate outrage followed shortly thereafter by passionate speeches concerning compassion, community, and the kingdom's unwavering commitment to protecting its most vulnerable citizens. The speeches were often quite moving and occasionally lasted considerably longer than was strictly necessary.

The people genuinely loved such speeches.

There existed in Dissmey very few social activities more beloved than publicly demonstrating one's compassion for difficult problems while privately thanking the heavens one was not personally responsible for solving them. Entire friendships had been built upon such arrangements. One particularly memorable mayoral election had been won almost exclusively upon the promise of caring deeply about matters somebody else would eventually attend to.

He remains one of the kingdom's most successful politicians.

Thus, the people loved P.  Lootoh in precisely the same peculiar manner they loved all difficult questions that required no immediate sacrifice on their part. They worried over him. They defended him. They spoke kindly of him whenever his name appeared in conversation. There were even those among the kingdom's older citizens who could become positively emotional when discussing his unfortunate circumstances after their third or fourth glass of wine.

Remarkably few of them ever volunteered to assume responsibility for those circumstances themselves.

Human nature, unfortunately, appears remarkably consistent regardless of which century one happens to examine.

It was therefore perfectly acceptable for everyone throughout Dissmey to agree that something ought to be done provided nobody became unnecessarily specific regarding either the nature of that something or the identity of whoever would ultimately be expected to do it.

And so the years passed.

Children became adults. Merchants opened their shops each morning before loudly complaining about matters they had no intention of changing. The taverns remained occupied by old men whose recollection of historical events improved in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed during their retelling. Even the ducks continued conducting themselves with their customary air of undeserved authority.

Very little changed throughout Dissmey.

Until eventually someone arrived willing to do precisely what everyone else had spent years congratulating themselves for believing ought to be done.

History would remember him as Mi-Ki.

Though historians remain somewhat divided regarding whether that should be considered a compliment.

There existed throughout Dissmey only a handful of names one could speak aloud in a crowded marketplace without first explaining who was being discussed. Such privileges were generally reserved for members of royalty, accomplished military heroes, or exceptionally talented bakers whose contributions to society had survived no fewer than three generations of unnecessary exaggeration.

Mi-Ki belonged to none of these categories and somehow all of them simultaneously.

One did not simply become acquainted with Mi-Ki in Dissmey. One eventually discovered that they had been acquainted with him their entire lives. Children learned his name long before they learned their arithmetic. Travelers encountered his smiling face before they encountered the city gates. Even those citizens who claimed to possess no particular opinion regarding Mi-Ki could usually be found wearing his likeness somewhere upon their person while publicly insisting such circumstances were entirely coincidental.

This was not considered unusual.

It was, after all, Mi-Ki.

Entire generations had grown old beneath his smiling face without ever finding anything particularly remarkable about the arrangement. His image decorated storefronts throughout the kingdom with such enthusiasm that visiting scholars once mistakenly concluded Mi-Ki had served as ruler of Dissmey for nearly two centuries before being informed that he was merely a wealthy businessman with excellent marketing strategies and an unfortunate inability to stop appearing everywhere at once.

The correction reportedly caused even greater confusion.

The truth of the matter was that nobody could quite agree where Mi-Ki's influence ended and Dissmey itself began. This was not because Mi-Ki exercised any great tyranny over the kingdom or marched about the streets issuing commands to terrified citizens. Such behavior would have struck the people of Dissmey as extraordinarily rude and, perhaps more importantly, entirely too obvious. Power throughout civilized societies has always preferred dressing itself in considerably finer clothing than that.

No, Mi-Ki was something infinitely more peculiar than a king.

Kings, after all, generally possess the decency to announce themselves.

Mi-Ki had simply become part of the furniture.

He was discussed over breakfast and occasionally blamed over dinner. He appeared during celebrations and found himself conveniently forgotten during scandals despite somehow reappearing shortly thereafter to accept congratulations whenever matters improved. The merchants admired him, the children adored him, and the old men occupying the taverns had spent nearly half a century loudly announcing his inevitable downfall before purchasing products bearing his smiling face on their walk home.

Tradition is a curious thing in this regard. Given sufficient time, people cease asking how something became important and simply begin assuming that it always was.

The older historians of Dissmey remained particularly fascinated by this phenomenon. One such scholar famously spent thirty-seven years attempting to determine precisely when Mi-Ki became indispensable to the kingdom before eventually abandoning his research entirely after discovering that nobody could remember a time when he was not. His final publication consisted of only fourteen words.

"I've no idea anymore. Please stop asking me about the rat."

It remains among the most respected academic works ever produced throughout Dissmey.

Mi-Ki's wealth had become something of a local legend by this point. Entirely different stories existed regarding how he acquired it, though all agreed that he possessed considerably more of it than anyone knew what to do with. The older citizens occasionally whispered about his more controversial younger years with all the enthusiasm normally reserved for discussing matters one simultaneously disapproves of and finds endlessly entertaining. Such conversations were almost always accompanied by unnecessary coughing whenever children entered the room and invariably concluded with someone loudly changing the subject to agricultural matters despite nobody present having ever farmed anything more demanding than a potted plant.

The kingdom possessed a remarkable talent for pretending not to remember precisely the things it remembered most vividly.

Such contradictions had long ago ceased surprising anyone.

For reasons that would become increasingly unfortunate as our story progresses, Mi-Ki was also regarded throughout Dissmey as a remarkably compassionate individual. The people admired generosity wherever they discovered it and had spent generations congratulating themselves upon possessing sufficient wisdom to recognize good intentions whenever they appeared publicly and preferably accompanied by charitable acts.

To suggest otherwise would have been considered terribly impolite.

And so it happened, as these things so often do throughout history, that the paths of Dissmey's most unfortunate special circumstance and one of its most influential citizens gradually began moving toward one another.

Though neither the kingdom nor its historians yet appreciated precisely how strange that journey would eventually become.

After all, our unfortunate mutt had not yet found his rat, and Mi-Ki had not yet discovered that some acts of kindness possess remarkably long shadows.

It would, however, be a terrible injustice to both history and the reader if one were to proceed any further without first developing a proper understanding of Mi-Ki himself. Modern historians have become increasingly impatient regarding such matters and would no doubt insist that our unfortunate mutt be introduced immediately lest they lose track of the narrative altogether. Such complaints shall, as always, be respectfully ignored.

History has waited this long. It may wait a little longer.

There are, after all, very few things more dangerous than attempting to understand the circumstances surrounding an influential individual without first understanding the environment that produced him. Trees do not grow independently of their forests, kings do not emerge independently of their kingdoms, and extraordinarily wealthy rats do not accidentally become beloved public figures throughout civilized society without an alarming number of people enthusiastically participating in the arrangement.

Such things require considerably more effort than historians are generally willing to admit.

Mi-Ki had long ago ceased being merely an individual throughout Dissmey. He had become something infinitely more peculiar than that. There existed children throughout the kingdom who sincerely believed Mi-Ki had personally invented happiness itself despite overwhelming historical evidence to the contrary. Others remained equally convinced that civilization would immediately collapse should he ever decide to retire from public life, though historians remain divided regarding which of these positions is ultimately more ridiculous.

The kingdom had become remarkably protective of him over the years. Praise directed toward Mi-Ki was generally received as evidence of one's excellent moral character and sound judgment. Criticism directed toward him, however mild or deserved, frequently produced the peculiar social phenomenon whereby complete strangers would suddenly materialize from seemingly nowhere to explain why one had misunderstood both history and economics simultaneously.

Such individuals could often be identified by their remarkable ability to begin their sentences with the phrase, "You simply don't understand..." before proceeding to demonstrate that they themselves understood remarkably little about whatever subject happened to be under discussion.

Their existence remains among civilization's great mysteries.

Mi-Ki himself had never asked for such devotion, at least not publicly. Human beings possess a curious tendency throughout history of voluntarily constructing temples whenever they encounter sufficient influence accompanied by enough smiling faces and charitable acts. Some construct them from marble and stone while others prefer public sentiment and social expectations. The materials themselves are largely irrelevant provided enough people agree to continue maintaining them.

Dissmey, it should be noted, possessed both.

Throughout the kingdom no fewer than seventeen entirely different annual celebrations commemorating Mi-Ki's various contributions to society, though historians remain unable to explain precisely how this number continues increasing despite no additional contributions having been added to the official records in over forty years. One particularly unfortunate village had accidentally celebrated Mi-Ki's birthday three separate times during the same calendar year before eventually concluding that such enthusiasm was considerably preferable to discovering they had forgotten it altogether.

No complaints were ever filed.

This was, after all, Mi-Ki.

The older citizens had become especially fond of informing younger generations that things simply would not be the same without him. Precisely what things they referred to changed considerably depending upon whom one happened to ask. Some meant commerce. Others meant culture. A surprising number meant the annual fireworks celebration held each summer despite considerable evidence suggesting Mi-Ki had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with its creation.

Nobody seemed particularly troubled by this contradiction.

Tradition rarely concerns itself greatly with accuracy.

And perhaps that is why the people of Dissmey found themselves so eager to trust that whatever arrangements emerged around Mi-Ki would naturally prove beneficial in the fullness of time. Good intentions, after all, are among mankind's favorite substitutes for difficult questions.

It is therefore hardly surprising that when the kingdom's most unfortunate special circumstance eventually crossed paths with one of its most beloved public figures, remarkably few citizens paused to ask whether kindness and dependence are always the same thing.

Such questions are generally asked much later. Usually by historians, and almost always after something has gone terribly wrong.

Before continuing any further, however, it is perhaps necessary that we pause briefly to discuss one of the kingdom's more peculiar customs regarding responsibility itself. To understand the unfortunate circumstances surrounding P. Lootoh C. Razy, one must first understand that the people of Dissmey had long ago developed an almost supernatural ability to transform difficult questions into permanent arrangements. It was among their greatest accomplishments and, depending entirely upon whom one happened to ask, among their greatest failures as well.

The arrangement was quite simple, though its simplicity should not be mistaken for honesty. Whenever confronted with a problem sufficiently complicated that nobody wished to solve it personally, the kingdom would concern itself greatly with the matter for approximately two weeks before collectively arriving at the conclusion that someone ought to do something about it. Having reached this extraordinary achievement, the people would then spend several decades congratulating themselves upon their collective compassion while patiently waiting for that mysterious someone to reveal themselves.

Remarkably enough, this strategy proved successful far more frequently than common sense would otherwise permit.

Perhaps nowhere was this more evident than within the taverns of Dissmey themselves.  An unwritten law among old men occupying wooden chairs near fireplaces stating that absolutely every problem facing civilization could be solved provided somebody else was willing to make sufficient sacrifices on one's behalf. The old men considered themselves particularly qualified to discuss such matters despite possessing no experience whatsoever in making sacrifices beyond occasionally paying for a younger man's drink whenever sufficiently intoxicated.

Many of Dissmey's greatest social institutions had begun their lives as conversations between three old men, four mugs of ale, and entirely unreasonable expectations regarding other people's generosity.

Their contributions to civilization remain difficult to calculate.

P. Lootoh himself, however, contributed very little to these conversations, owing largely to the unfortunate circumstance that he was a dog.

This limitation had, throughout his life, proven surprisingly inconvenient.

There existed among younger generations an entirely false rumor that P. Lootoh secretly possessed extraordinary wisdom hidden somewhere beneath his peculiar disposition and unfortunate intellectual limitations. Such stories became especially popular whenever traveling philosophers passed through the kingdom and discovered there was considerable profit to be made by attributing profound observations to creatures incapable of denying authorship.

One particularly successful philosopher published an entire collection of P. Lootoh's alleged teachings entitled The Silent Wisdom of the Happy Mutt , which remained among Dissmey's best selling philosophical works for nearly fourteen years despite overwhelming evidence suggesting its primary author had once attempted to eat one of its pages shortly after publication.

The philosopher himself insisted this merely demonstrated P. Lootoh's desire to become one with his teachings.

Historians remain unconvinced.

The unfortunate mutt possessed many admirable qualities throughout his life. Profound philosophical insight was regrettably not among them. He was, by all accounts, an extraordinarily happy creature whose greatest ambitions seldom extended beyond an afternoon nap, a full stomach, and whatever mysterious business occupied his thoughts whenever he enthusiastically barked at passing butterflies for reasons known only to himself and perhaps the butterflies. No satisfactory explanation for these encounters has ever been recorded within the historical archives of Dissmey.

Nor has anyone been particularly eager to investigate the matter further.

P. Lootoh also possessed the unfortunate habit of wandering throughout the kingdom precisely as though it belonged to him personally. Gardens ceased being gardens whenever he discovered them. Freshly washed laundry became public property whenever sufficiently curious circumstances presented themselves. The kingdom's merchants eventually developed an unofficial understanding that any food product left unattended for longer than seven minutes ought to be considered a charitable donation should P. Lootoh happen to discover its existence beforehand.

He was never charged for his contributions to these arrangements.

It was generally considered poor manners throughout Dissmey to publicly announce that one had discovered P. Lootoh relieving himself upon one's begonias before breakfast. Such matters were expected to be discussed privately among one's immediate family before eventually becoming public knowledge approximately twenty-seven minutes later. The proper social etiquette required one to begin the conversation with, "Well, it was hardly his fault," before proceeding to describe the incident in exhaustive detail to absolutely everyone one encountered throughout the remainder of the afternoon.

Compassion, after all, had always remained considerably easier whenever accompanied by sufficiently entertaining stories.

And thus the years passed throughout Dissmey exactly as years are inclined to do. Children became adults. The old men occupying the taverns became older men occupying the same taverns. The ducks continued conducting themselves with their customary air of undeserved authority. And P. Lootoh continued existing precisely as he always had, blissfully unaware that entire philosophical debates concerning his circumstances had occupied the better part of three generations.

Ignorance, historians have occasionally observed, is sometimes among life's greatest luxuries. The fortunate seldom recognize it. The unfortunate seldom possess it. P. Lootoh, by some remarkable twist of fate, had somehow managed to become both.

To be continued...