In Maremma by David Leavitt Page A

predations of wolves, will put out meat laced with poison. Many blameless dogs have died from getting to this meat before the wolves. A couple of days later, one of the neighbors did call: Tolo was at his house, along with a gang of other male dogs,
since there was a female Maremmana sheepdog in heat. The next morning, we took Tolo to Marco, one of the veterinarians in Semproniano, to be castrated.
    He was a perfect traveller and a welcome guest at places where many people were not. Among the hotels at which he stayed were the Principe di Savioa in Milan, the Villa d’Este in Cernobbio, and the Villa Cipriani in Asolo. Sometimes meals were delivered to him by room service at the hotel’s initiative—a cotoletta milanese or fegato alla veneziana. He went to Vienna and to the South of France, to Amsterdam and Brussels, and to America.
    What Christopher Hibbert wrote of King Edward VII’s fox terrier, Caesar, could be written of Tolo:
    Despite the ministrations of the footman whose duty it was to wash and comb him, Caesar ... was often to be seen with his mouth covered with prickles after an unsuccessful tussle with a hedgehog. The King loved him dearly, took him abroad, and allowed him to sleep in an easy chair by his bed ... He could never bring himself to smack the dog, however reprehensible his behavior; and “it was a picture,” so Stamper, the motor engineer, said, “to see the King standing shaking his stick at the dog when he had done wrong. ‘You naughty dog,’ he would say very slowly. ‘You naughty, naughty dog.’ And Caesar would wag his tail and ‘smile’ cheerfully into his master’s eyes, until his Majesty smiled back in spite of himself.” Devoted as he was to the King, though, Caesar showed not the least interest in the advances of other human beings who
bent down to fondle him, disdaining to notice the staff when he accompanied the King on an inspection ...
    Tolo was happy in Maremma—in many ways happier than we were. He took his days and his dreams as a birthright.

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    Trama di Maggio, olio per assagio.
Trama di Giugno, olio per lavarsi il grugno.
    Â 
    Olive blooms in May, oil just to taste.
Olive blooms in June, oil to wash your face.
    OF THE MANY agricultural rituals that defined the Maremman year—the cutting of the hay in May, the threshing of the wheat in July, the vendemmia (grape harvest) in the autumn—none meant more than the November pressing of the olives. Oil, after all, is the foundation of Maremman life; unlike their cousins to the north, the people here almost never used—indeed, barely comprehended—butter, which no doubt contributed to their famous longevity. (Rosaria told us that heart disease was almost unknown in Semproniano.) Nor did the making of the oil lack its element of pageantry. When the young oil arrived, the people of Semproniano would greet it with the sort of exuberance that the French save—inexplicably—for Beaujolais nouveau. Because it had such a peppery kick, the new oil was never used for cooking but instead drizzled over a salad or a bowl of zuppa di ceci. The best way to serve the new oil, however, was to pour some onto a
piece of grilled, unsalted bread that had been rubbed with garlic: this was the famed bruschetta, so commonly imitated and so rarely gotten right, even in Tuscany. For bruschetta must be subtle, which is the point so many restaurateurs miss. The fact that the Florentine version is known as fett’unta —“greasy slice”—attests to its comparative coarseness.
    For a long time, Semproniano had one tourist attraction, the Olivone, an immense olive tree more than two thousand years old. Before Podere Fiume was finished, we visited the Olivone twice, sitting each time for a few moments under its capacious and maternal limbs.
    We spoke of how, when we lived here, we would bring all our friends to see it. Then on May 10, 1998—the evening of