Family dog
Jole is a dog who feels everything. When Vito is sad, Jole lies on his feet and waits. When Pino is happy, Jole runs after him around the yard until they both collapse with laughter. He has a slight limp in his back leg — ever since he jumped into the creek as a puppy and pulled out little Pino who had fallen in. Otto found him on the road as a puppy and brought him home, and since then Jole has been the four-legged heart of the family. He loves running through the fields, chewing sticks, and sleeping in the sun — but most of all he loves Pino's bed.
Pino and Vito jumped out of the car and ran towards Luca's farm. The tall grass glowed yellow-green under the sun, and somewhere in the distance, the bray of the donkey Berto could be heard. "Why does the donkey shout so loudly?" asked Vito, his eyes wide open. Pino chuckled as Luca waved from the barn door. "Come on, I'll show you everything!" shouted Luca. But Jole stood frozen under the old fig tree, staring at the approaching goat. "Dad, what about Jole?" Pino asked.
It was a typical afternoon in Vallumora when Maria noticed Loli was missing. "Loli!" Maria called out, but there was no response. Vito started crying, while Pino nervously paced in the kitchen. "Where's Loli?" asked a worried Pino. No one had an answer. "We have to find her!" declared Maja, already sketching a poster with Loli's picture. But as they gathered to discuss the search plan, they heard an unusual sound coming from the attic...
In the backyard lay a broken swing, and Dundo and Pino were getting ready to fix it. Little Vito sat on the grass, holding a box of screws, while Jole sniffed around, eagerly waiting for his chance to help. "How are we going to fix this, Dad?" Pino asked, as Eva watched and smiled from the window.
When Vito was three years old, he noticed that the Moon had a hole. At least it seemed that way — every night the Moon looked smaller and smaller, as if someone was taking bites out of it. "Mama, the Moon is breaking!" he shouted one night. Mama laughed. "Those are phases, Vito. The Moon isn't breaking." But Vito wasn't convinced. He packed glue, tape, cloth, and a flashlight into a small backpack. "I'm going to fix the Moon," he declared. His father, sitting in the living room reading the newspaper, lowered his glasses and looked at his son. Most parents would have said, "Don't be silly." Or: "Go to sleep." But Vito's father wasn't like most parents. "Alright," he said. "But you'll need help. I know someone who tried the same thing once." Vito looked at him with wide eyes. "Who?" "Me. When I was your age, I wanted to fix something that couldn't be fixed. Come, I'll tell you what happened..."
In the neighborhood by the river, there lived a dog that everyone called Jole. He was brown, with one white ear, and as far as anyone could remember — he had always been there. The old women claimed they remembered him from their childhood. "Impossible," the young ones said. "Dogs don't live that long." But Jole was different. He had a scar on his paw, limped on his hind leg, one eye was closed, and he had a knot on his tail. Each injury had its own story. Little Filip, who had just moved to the neighborhood and had no friends, sat every day on the steps in front of the building watching Jole pass by. One day, the dog sat next to him, and — Vito could swear — looked at him with that one eye as if he understood him. "Everyone says you've lived nine times," Filip whispered. "Is that true?" The dog barked. And old Mrs. Maria, who lived on the ground floor and had heard everything, opened her window and said, "Jole hasn't lived nine lives, boy. But nine times he almost died. And each time he learned something people don't know..." From the window, Loli watched the scene with her green eyes, as if she knew the secret herself.
On the terrace of the family house, under the light of the setting sun, Grandpa Otto gathers his grandchildren around him. His hands, strong and skillful, have shaped thousands of wooden creations, but now they hold only a cup of tea. "I want to tell you a story about a teacher," he begins, and Pino is already leaning forward, eyes full of curiosity. Hana sits quietly, while Jole lies beside the children, occasionally lifting his head as if he's following the story too.
Hana had a peculiar habit. Every time it rained, she would rush into the yard with an empty glass jar and collect rainwater. On the shelves of her room stood more than a hundred jars, each with a date and a small label. "Hana, why do you collect rain?" they asked her at school. The children laughed. "It's just water!" But Hana knew something others did not. Her grandmother Maria, who lived in a village on an island, had taught her this before she passed away. She had told her just one sentence — a sentence Hana never repeated to anyone. One day, the worst drought in fifty years struck the town. Parks turned yellow, fountains dried up, people waited in lines for water. That evening, Hana sat on the floor of her room, surrounded by jars, and for the first time opened the oldest one — the one she had filled with her grandmother on the last day they were together. When she opened the lid, she smelled something that stopped her in her tracks...
"Dad, why do we always take this longer path?" Pino asked, looking at the steep trail winding up the hill. Down in the valley, he saw the road—straight, paved, easy. Dundo patted him on the shoulder. "Because there's something you need to see at the top." Jole, their faithful dog, trotted alongside them, wagging his tail happily. They walked for nearly an hour. Pino was already tired, but Dundo encouraged him with stories from his childhood. When they finally reached the top of the cliff, two trees stood before them. One was enormous, sturdy, with a canopy so wide it cast a shadow over half the cliff. Its branches defied the wind that blew incessantly at this height. The other tree, barely five meters away, was dry, broken, almost dead. It creaked sadly in the wind. "Both trees were planted on the same day, from the same seed," Dundo said quietly.
Little Maja ran to her grandpa Otto's workshop every day after school. She loved watching his skilled hands turn pieces of wood into beautiful, functional objects. One rainy afternoon, as the rain drummed on the tin roof of the workshop, Maja noticed something intriguing. Otto was sitting in his chair, with Jole, their loyal dog, lying on the floor beside him, while Loli, their cat, sat on the window sill, observing the outside world. “Grandpa Otto,” Maja asked, “can you tell me a story?” Otto smiled, wiped his hands on his apron, and sat down beside her. “Of course, Maja. Do you know the story of the old potter and his cracked pot?” Maja raised her eyebrows curiously, and Otto continued...
