The ratio of person to dog was about two to one. And I would have usually been fine with that had the customers not insisted the dogs come into the cafe, too.

We, the servers, had already told numerous people that no, pets (no matter how domesticated) were not allowed inside. And no, we couldn’t budge because the health department is not fond of canines, who had probably just finished a morning dump, sniffing around the food cabinet, the hair shedding onto the bacon bagels.

Having watched many food safety inspectors, I’m convinced that to get a job in the health department you must first be a hypochondriac. The inspectors usually walk in immaculately dressed, generally in a white button-up, not a hair out of place, holding a clipboard, shoulders back, and stifly turning around to check for cobwebs like C-P30. I couldn’t imagine the controversy if an inspector entered for a routine check-up and found a horde of dogs under the tables, threatening to cock a leg on a stool.

I didn’t have to worry about that, though, thank goodness, for the customers did eventually tie the dogs to a bench seat outside.

That every dog at the cafe was tied outside, though, didn’t stop the next dog owner from walking inside and ordering a coffee with a chihuahua ensconced in his folded arms.

I wanted to say, sir, we do not allow dogs. But the shock of a burly man holding a pet that resembled a Furby left me without words. And besides, the chihuahua was shivering, as they do, looking so vulnerable that I was scared the dog may die if put on the ground.

The next customer was more understanding. He didn’t explicitly empathise or anything. He just said: “Quite a few dogs, aye.” And with that phrase of recognition, I suddenly felt understood.

He then ordered a coffee to dine in to which I asked where he would be sitting.

“Wherever there’s a free table,” he said and looked around the cafe. “There”—he pointed to an unoccupied space on a bench seat outside—“next to that terrier.”

I said okay and he said: “I might also get that Portuguese tart.”

“For sure,” I said. “The lucky last.”

—

While at university, I house sat my godfather’s house. He was going to the States and asked whether I wanted to look after the home, which I later discovered was code for whether I wanted to look after Sampson, the pet cat.

The instructions for the house were, in fact, simple enough, taking up half a page, but the directions for Sampson carried over three.

I don’t remember the entire list, only that Sampson needed to eat at specific times with breakfast usually being at 5 am (when my godfather meditated every morning) and that the meals needed to be separately weighed out, which presumably was a diet thing, for the cat was very plump.

I usually woke up at 7 am, not 5, and consequently treated the instructions more like guidelines than mandates. Sampson was a cat, after all, and wouldn’t know the difference.

On the first morning, just after 5 am, I was roused from a deep sleep by Sampson who with heavy paws pressed down on my stomach, an inch below the navel, exactly where the bladder is. I don’t know how he opened the bedroom door or knew how to navigate the sensitive parts of human anatomy. I do know, though, that I now feared what the cat was capable of, so instead of going to the bathroom—I was desperate at this point—I went to the kitchen and made Sampson’s breakfast.

The next day, I was more prepared, having barricaded the door shut—it did not have a lock—with pillows and chairs. But, again, I woke at 5 am to Sampson pawing at the door, meowing relentlessly. And he continued to do so until I, again, lumbered to the kitchen to measure out his tuna portion.

I had enough of the cat being demanding. So I decided to finally try out the ‘cry it out’ method, a technique I learnt from overhearing young mothers at the cafe. Not that I had to learn much. The method is basically just neglect: You merely refrain from comforting a baby when he or she cries.

That night, I held off on Sampson’s dinner and cooked myself a juicy tuna steak instead.

Eating the steak on the dining table, I heard Sampson beginning to meow. “This steak is so good,” I said to which he meowed more.

“I can play games, too,” I continued, looking at Sampson sternly. “Remember that the next time you think about the 5 am wake up call.”

Sampson was slightly subdued after that. And I thought, maybe the ‘cry it out’ technique does work.

That night I barricaded the door as before and wore heavy-duty earplugs. I intended to sleep till 7. And I was delighted when I woke the next morning to see that I had.

I walked out of the bedroom and thought about how I should reward Sampson for waiting, hoping the Pavlov's classical conditioning theory applied to felines, too. Maybe he would finally cooperate.

I was gleeful—having had a full eight hours—until I walked into the kitchen to see Sampson sitting next to the fridge with a giant rat. He, the cat, stared at me, fiercely, with piercing green eyes.

Sampson must have known I was feeling nauseous (I have a phobia of rats) because he seemed to savour the moment like he had been waiting to enjoy the scene of my shuddering since 5:05 am.

He continued to stare until he didn’t. After enough time, even a grown man shrilling grows boring. And he then dropped the giant rat at my feet and ambled to the breakfast bowl where he awaited my service.

—

First, I took the Portuguese tart out, placing it on a side table next to the man.

The terrier, after catching the scent of the treat, was keenly following his nose. The terrier’s owners, meanwhile—a middle-aged couple in matching tracksuits who were reading the Sunday Times—had let go of the leash.

I returned inside to collect the man’s flat white as well as two bagels which the tracksuit couple, the terrier’s owners, had ordered.

I knew that something was wrong when I saw that the man who had ordered the tart now looked glum like he had just lost his job or got dumped. I was placing the coffee down when he said: “I think that fucken terrier just ate my tart.” He was flushed and threw his arms in the air as a gesture of injustice. “I was really looking forward to that.”

The dog had obviously snatched the tart off the plate while the man wasn’t looking, but I also knew that confirming a person’s heated accusations can sometimes rouse rather than calm. “Are you sure the terrier took it?” I said.

“Well I sure didn’t eat it,” he said. “Maybe we can ask them.” He pointed to the tracksuit couple who were still reading the paper, unbeknown to anything beyond the sports pages.

I didn’t have time to ask the couple or anyone else around. I was quite happy to accept the obvious and said to the couple, as I placed the bagels on the side table, that you may want to keep an eye on your dog because he just ate this gentleman’s Portuguese tart.

“What?” the woman said, obviously offended. “Chuckles wouldn’t do that.”

The woman carried on about how well Chuckles had been trained, even though he was a rescue dog, and how Chuckles didn’t even like sweets or treats, not even Schmackos. And she continued to defend the dog while I watched Chuckles leap to the table, tongue stretched out, and sloppily lick a piece of bacon hanging out the side of the woman’s bagel.

Because of where the woman was sitting, she could not see whether Chuckles tongue had made contact with the bagel or not. So, she said: “Did he just lick my bagel?”

“No,” I said. “Not even close.” And I turned around, winking at the man who had no tart.