Up until recently, I was in that awkward situation with my friends the Professor and Alec Cosgrave, that while I was quite fond of both of them, they weren’t crazy about each other. There were never any open hostilities, of course, just subtle little jibes and interminable oneupmanships. Inevitably, I had to listen to a lot of backbiting from the one when the other wasn’t around. The Professor, for instance, was fond of referring to Cosgrave as “Maxwell” - Maxwell (Smart) Alec - because he maintained that there was nothing Alec didn’t claim to know something about. An accusation which is true of both of them. “The very least he’ll admit to,” the Professor rightly said of him, “is that he knows enough about a thing to know he knows nothing.” For his own part Alec was never behind the door in dragging out those age old and as yet unanswered questions, as to which college conferred the Professor’s title and in which discipline lay his expertise.

Things have changed, however. A few nights back over the usual few drinks down at our regular, an area of common ground emerged between these agitators. It happened that Cosgrave, who is usually first at the venue, was late, and had failed to secure the snug for us, as he normally does. He came in with such a pus on him that even the Professor didn’t dare level an accusatory glance at him, though his seat was in a particularly uncomfortable spot, with its back to the main thoroughfare between the door and the bar. Cosgrave took the seat beside the Professor and with a drink in front of him, related the tale of the sordid encounter that had caused his tardiness, and the painstaking and revolting process of its removal from his shoe.

When Cosgrave had finished the Professor turned to him and, in gentler tones than you’d be used to between this pair, said that he had long been of the opinion that we’re among the greatest of dog lovers in this country. “We must be,” he said, “because we’re apparently happy to live in their filth.”

At this Cosgrave smiled grimly and said that he felt the love of animals to be an admirable quality. Now while it was a bit early to be having a go just yet, this was a pointed remark, but it was unclear to me whether it presaged attack, defence or agreement. The Professor himself seemed unperturbed by it. Cosgrave continued, saying that the dog owners in his area were a particularly admirable bunch. “Anyone who gets up that early in the morning must be deserving of admiration.” I easily identified the irony here, but only the Professor seemed to know precisely where Cosgrave was going.

The Professor speculated that the owners would be keen to get their animals some exercise before they went to work. He paused then to take a sip from his drink, as if willing a premature observation which never came. “That the hour also affords them ample opportunity to void their animals without having to endure the wrath of the non-dog owning populace is, I suppose, a bonus.”

Cosgrave showed us his teeth again. “I think you’ll find, Professor, that you’ve missed the important element of civic-mindedness at work in having these deposits made at such an early hour. Perhaps it’s that your stomach is stronger than mine and you don’t appreciate it. But I assure you that I am eternally grateful that while attempting to avoid the defilement by hopscotching along the pavement in the morning, I’ve never yet been caused to lose a breakfast, because I’ve never been offended by anything really fresh.”

“Hopscotch,” the Professor laughed, “it’s like riding a bike isn’t it?” I could see a new understanding forming between these old adversaries. Before my eyes they were combining their talents to erect a single discussional edifice rather than simultaneously trying to build their own and knock down the other’s. I foresaw a future where even when they took opposing views they’d be working together.

The following day the Professor phoned me for “Maxwell’s” e-mail address. The Professor had told Alec what he used to call him behind his back and, of course, Alec had loved it. I myself often suspected that Cosgrave was disappointed to be the only one among us who wasn’t sometimes referred to by a term of endearment. Anyway, the Professor was good enough to copy me in on the subsequent mail.

“It occurred to me heading out this morning that Hopscotch is a more demanding challenge where I live. The level of difficulty is increased because of the constant danger of distraction from Dublin Corporation Dog Warden signs warning people to clean it up and take it home. Direct awareness of these signs produces a paradoxical situation of such high intensity that the already stressed commuter/athlete undergoes a series of disruptive body spasms, corresponding to barely controlled laughter, which when you’re hopping over doggie-do can prove troublesome.”

A spate of similar mails shot back and forth for the rest of the day, as they fully examined their area of commonality, and approved that foundation for development. “Even if the pavements were spotless,” the newly christened Maxwell wrote near the end of the day, “we’d still have to endure the cloying sentimentality of your average dog enthusiast, and listen to them ascribe virtues like fidelity and nobility to a filthy pack animal.”
The Professor was very familiar with “all of that crass anthropomorphising”, but the thing he most failed to understand was “the lunatic extension of extraordinary rights to the animals – dogs entering the marriage bed, coming between couples, for crying out loud.”