Introduction
On the sun-drenched hills of Attica, where the cypress trees swayed lazily and ancient olives glimmered in the morning light, there was a villa both humble and proud. Its walls bore the blush of clay and years, its garden overflowed with marjoram and thyme, and in the center of it all, under the open sky, lived a master who prized his peace. Within this tranquil home, animals bustled with their own unspoken dramas. Chickens clucked as they darted through dust, a lean cat watched from the shadows, and a gentle brown ass plodded from task to task, loyal and strong. Life had its rhythm: the creak of the well at dawn, the distant bark of a shepherd’s dog, and the steady thud of the ass’s hooves as he carried baskets of figs or jugs of wine. He had no name but was valued by all for his work and patience. Yet even in the most peaceful settings, envy can sprout like a weed. For in this villa also lived a small lap-dog, white and curled, with eyes bright as olive oil and a tail that wagged with mischievous delight. The lap-dog was the master’s favorite: he was fed sweet morsels from the table, stroked upon soft cushions, and doted on by both master and mistress. The ass, ever watchful, would see the little dog leap onto the master’s knee and lick his face while laughter echoed through the columns. He would watch the dog chased in playful circles around the courtyard and marvel at the gentle words and treats bestowed so freely. A yearning began to gnaw at the ass—an ache for that same affection, that warmth, that singular attention. His heart, vast as his frame, began to dream: if only I could be loved as that little lap-dog is loved. But how could such a thing be? Was affection reserved only for the small and sprightly, while the strong and steadfast were meant only for labor? In the golden quiet of a Greek afternoon, as the cicadas sang and the shadows stretched long, the ass began to wonder if, just maybe, he too could earn the master’s fondness—not by strength, but by playfulness. And so a journey began, born not out of malice, but out of longing—a gentle creature’s quest to be seen and cherished for more than just his toil.
A Jealous Heart Stirs
As days turned into weeks, the ass’s yearning grew deeper and more tangled, like wild ivy along a forgotten wall. Each sunrise found him at his tasks: bearing heavy water-jugs from the well, hauling baskets of grapes from vineyard to press, and turning the millstone with a steady gait. He performed each chore without complaint, though the ache in his chest grew sharper every time he glimpsed the lap-dog curled beside their master in the shade. In the evenings, as the villa quieted and the family gathered in the garden for supper, the lap-dog’s high-pitched yaps would break the hush. He’d leap onto the master’s lap, wagging his tail so hard that the whole family would laugh. The mistress would reach for him, cooing softly, tucking him into her arms as if he were a babe. The ass watched from his corner, his long ears drooping, his eyes reflecting the lamplight and a touch of sorrow. Even the kitchen girl would sneak bits of roasted meat to the dog, whispering secrets in its ear, while the ass received only nods of approval and a few carrots for his labor.
One evening, as the moon rose full and ripe over the olive groves, the ass confided in the stable cat. “Why is it,” he asked, “that I work from dawn to dusk and yet never earn the affection the little dog receives for doing nothing at all?” The cat, wise and aloof, replied, “You are strong and useful, friend, but love is not always measured in weight or work. Some creatures are born for the lap, others for the field.” The words offered little comfort. Sleep eluded the ass that night. He stared up at the rafters, listening to the distant laughter drifting from the master’s chambers, where surely the dog was curled up in warmth. In his dreams, the ass saw himself nuzzled and adored, offered honey cakes and laughter instead of harness and harness-bells. The longing became a plan.
The very next morning, as dew sparkled on the grass and swallows darted through the air, the ass resolved to change his fate. If affection was won by playfulness, then playful he would be. He began by mimicking the lap-dog’s antics: he tried prancing around the courtyard, though his heavy hooves struck the stones with thunderous echoes. He wagged his tail, but it swept dust and flower petals in great clouds. The chickens scattered, squawking in alarm; the housecat leapt onto the fence, her fur bristling. Undeterred, the ass tried to chase his own tail as the dog did, but only succeeded in nearly upending a water jug and earning a scold from the gardener.
Still, he pressed on. At mealtimes, while the dog begged at the master’s feet, the ass would inch closer, lowering his head hopefully. The family would laugh at first, amused by the absurdity, and toss him a crust of bread, but no one thought to invite him nearer. The lap-dog, feeling his territory threatened, barked furiously and nipped at the ass’s ankles. The ass, confused but determined, retreated for a time, but his envy only smoldered brighter.
One sweltering afternoon, with cicadas buzzing like tiny rattles, the lap-dog performed his greatest trick: leaping onto the master’s lap and rolling over for a belly rub. The ass watched with wide eyes as laughter filled the air. That, he thought, is how one wins a master’s heart. The idea, once planted, would not let him be.
A Fool’s Bold Attempt
The sun blazed high over Attica when the ass made his move. The master sat in his favorite chair beneath a vine-draped pergola, savoring the cool shade and the gentle breeze off the distant Aegean. The family lingered over platters of ripe figs and fresh bread. The lap-dog had already claimed his spot, nestled comfortably on the master’s knee, panting happily and accepting small morsels of cheese.
From his corner by the olive press, the ass took a deep breath. His heart hammered with hope and fear. He summoned every ounce of courage and shuffled closer. As he approached, the family’s laughter faded into silence. The lap-dog yapped in alarm and tried to stand his ground, but the ass—towering, earnest, and utterly out of place—lowered his massive head in greeting.
At first, the master chuckled. "What’s this?" he teased, reaching out to pat the ass’s nose. The ass, encouraged, pressed forward. His hooves clattered on the tiled floor; his great shadow fell over the entire gathering. Then, in one mighty, ill-advised leap—born of desperation and longing—the ass attempted to climb onto the master’s lap as he’d seen the dog do a hundred times.
Chaos erupted. The master’s chair toppled backward. The lap-dog tumbled to the ground, shrieking indignantly. Plates crashed to the floor, scattering grapes and olives in every direction. The mistress shrieked, the children fled, and the kitchen girl dropped her pitcher in shock.
The ass, bewildered but undeterred, tried to nuzzle his face into the master’s shoulder, seeking a caress. Instead, his great weight pinned the man awkwardly to the ground. The master, winded and startled, shouted for help. Servants rushed from all corners of the villa. Someone seized a broom; another flung a bucket of water. The lap-dog barked furiously, darting between legs and nipping at the ass’s flanks.
The ass struggled to rise but only succeeded in knocking over a table and sending a cascade of fruit rolling down the steps. The more he tried to right himself, the worse the chaos became. Finally, with a concerted effort and many hands, the servants hauled the ass to his feet and shooed him out of the courtyard, their voices echoing with anger and dismay.
Once the dust settled and order was restored, the master, still shaken, turned to the servants. "What madness possessed our gentle ass?" he asked. No one had an answer. The lap-dog returned to his cushion, trembling and indignant, while the ass lingered outside the garden wall, heartbroken and bruised.
Lessons in the Olive Shade
Banished to the far end of the garden, near a stand of ancient olive trees, the ass stood with his head low. A dull ache pulsed through his limbs—not just from the scrapes and bruises, but from shame. He heard laughter drifting from the villa as the family recounted the day’s events. Even the lap-dog’s triumphant yaps reached his ears. A flock of sparrows, undisturbed by the morning’s calamity, flitted about in the branches above. The ass watched them for a long time, silent and still.
It was the old housecat who found him there as dusk colored the sky in rose and indigo. She padded up softly and settled on a flat stone beside him. "You look more lost than ever," she said gently. The ass sighed, his voice low. "I tried so hard to win affection, and all I did was cause trouble. I wanted to be loved as the dog is loved." The cat’s eyes gleamed with wisdom. "We each have our place in this world," she replied. "The dog is small and meant for laps and laughter. You are strong and meant for fields and burdens. The master loves you for what you are. You can’t change your nature without inviting disaster."
As night deepened, the ass pondered these words. He recalled moments when the master had spoken kindly to him after a long day’s work, when he’d rested in the cool barn on a fresh bed of straw. He remembered the warm oats and gentle brush of hands across his flanks. These were not the rewards of a lap-dog, but they were real and true.
The next morning dawned quiet and cool. The villa bustled with its usual rhythm—children at play, servants sweeping the stones, the master preparing to walk the fields. The ass remained at the edge of the garden, unsure if he’d be welcomed back. But soon, the master approached, a thoughtful expression on his face.
He spoke softly: "You are my steadfast friend, worthy of trust. I see now that affection comes in many forms. You may never be a lap-dog, but your place here is just as dear." He offered the ass a sweet apple and brushed his coat with steady hands. Gratitude welled up in the ass’s chest—a quiet, steady joy. The envy faded like morning mist.
With time, the villa’s daily rhythms returned. The ass found new contentment in his work, proud of his strength and service. The lap-dog reclaimed his cushion, but sometimes paused to watch the ass from afar. Perhaps, in some unspoken way, both learned that love is not lessened by its different shapes. Under the timeless olive trees, wisdom had taken root.
Conclusion
Not all creatures are meant to fit the same mold, nor does affection flow from mimicry alone. The ass learned that true worth lies not in imitating another’s gifts but in embracing one’s own. His master’s care may not have matched the playful attention lavished on the lap-dog, but it was steadfast and deep—a different sort of love, quieter perhaps, but every bit as enduring. Under the olive trees of ancient Greece, wisdom whispered on the wind: envy fades when one accepts their nature, and peace follows when we walk in our own honest skin. The villa thrived in harmony again, each creature cherished for what it brought to the whole—a gentle reminder, echoed through ages, that to seek another’s place is to risk losing one’s own. And so, beneath the sun and shade of Attica, the ass found his contentment at last.
