Part 13 (1/2)
”But,” expostulated the scandalized collie man, ”if you withdraw your dog like that, the a.s.sociation will never allow you to exhibit him at its shows again.”
”The a.s.sociation can have a pretty silver cup,” retorted the Mistress, ”to console it for losing Lad. As for exhibiting him again--well, I wouldn't lose these two ribbons for a hundred dollars, but I wouldn't put my worst enemy's dog to the torture of winning them over again--for a thousand. Come along, Lad, we're going back home.”
At the talisman-word, Lad broke silence for the first time in all that vilely wretched day. He broke it with a series of thunderously trumpeting barks that quite put to shame the puny noise-making efforts of every other dog in the show.
CHAPTER VI
LOST!
Four of us were discussing abstract themes, idly, as men will, after a good dinner and in front of a country-house fire. Someone asked:
”What is the saddest sight in everyday life? I don't mean the most gloomily tragic, but the saddest?”
A frivolous member of the fireside group cited a helpless man between two quarreling women. A sentimentalist said:
”A lost child in a city street.”
The Dog-Master contradicted:
”A lost _dog_ in a city street.”
n.o.body agreed with him of course; but that was because none of the others chanced to know dogs--to know their psychology--their souls, if you prefer. The dog-man was right. A lost dog in a city street is the very saddest and most hopeless sight in all a city street's abounding everyday sadness.
A man between two quarreling women is an object piteous enough, heaven knows. Yet his plight verges too much on the grotesque to be called sad.
A lost child?--No. Let a child stand in the middle of a crowded sidewalk and begin to cry. In one minute fifty amateur and professional rescuers have flocked to the Lost One's aid. An hour, at most, suffices to bring it in touch with its frenzied guardians.
A lost dog?--Yes. No succoring cohort surges to the relief. A gang of boys, perhaps, may give chase, but a.s.suredly not in kindness. A policeman seeking a record for ”mad dog” shooting--a professional dog-catcher in quest of his dirty fee--these will show marked attention to the wanderer. But, again, not in kindness.
A dog, at some turn in the street, misses his master--doubles back to where the human demiG.o.d was last seen--darts ahead once more to find him, through the press of other human folk--halts, hesitates, begins the same maneuvers all over again; then stands, shaking in panic at his utter aloneness.
Get the look in his eyes, then--you who do not mind seeing such things--and answer, honestly: Is there anything sadder on earth? All this, before the pursuit of boys and the fever of thirst and the final knowledge of desolation have turned him from a handsome and prideful pet into a slinking outcast.
Yes, a lost dog is the saddest thing that can meet the gaze of a man or woman who understands dogs. As perhaps my story may help to show--or perhaps not.
Lad had been brushed and bathed, daily, for a week, until his mahogany-and-snow coat shone. All this, at The Place, far up in the North Jersey hinterland and all to make him presentable for the Westminster Kennel Show at New York's Madison Square Garden. After which, his two G.o.ds, the Mistress and the Master took him for a thirty-mile ride in The Place's only car, one morning.
The drive began at The Place--the domain where Lad had ruled as King among the lesser folk for so many years. It ended at Madison Square Garden, where the annual four-day dog show was in progress.
You have read how Lad fared at that show--how, at the close of the first day, when he had two victories to his credit, the Mistress had taken pity on his misery and had decreed that he should be taken home, without waiting out the remaining three days of torture-ordeal.
The Master went out first, to get the car and bring it around to the side exit of the Garden. The Mistress gathered up Lad's belongings--his brush, his dog biscuits, etc., and followed, with Lad himself.
Out of the huge building, with its reverberating barks and yells from two thousand canine throats, she went. Lad paced, happy and majestic, at her side. He knew he was going home, and the unhappiness of the hideous day dropped from him.
At the exit, the Mistress was forced to leave a deposit of five dollars, ”to insure the return of the dog to his bench” (to which bench of agony she vowed, secretly, Lad should never return). Then she was told the law demands that all dogs in New York City streets shall be muzzled.
In vain she explained that Lad would be in the streets only for such brief time as the car would require to journey to the One Hundred and Thirtieth Street ferry. The door attendant insisted that the law was inexorable. So, lest a policeman hold up the car for such disobedience to the city statutes, the Mistress reluctantly bought a muzzle.