Beautiful Joe [116]
were so amused with his
impudence, that they did not send him away, but said every day, "Surely he will
be gone to-morrow."
However, Mr. Dandy had gotten into comfortable quarters, and he had no intention
of changing them, for a while at least. Then he was very handsome, and had such
a pleasant way with him, that the family could not help liking him. I never
cared for him. He fawned on the Morrises, and pretended he loved them, and
afterward turned around and laughed and sneered at them in a way that made me
very angry. I used to lecture him sometimes, and growl about him to Jim, but Jim
always said, "Let him alone. You can't do him any good. He was born bad. His
mother wasn't good. He tells me that she had a bad name among all the dogs in
her neighborhood. She was a thief and a runaway." Though he provoked me so
often, yet I could not help laughing at some of his stories, they were so funny.
We were lying out in the sun, on the platform at the back of the house, one day,
and he had been more than usually provoking, so I got up to leave him. He put
himself in my way, however, and said, coaxingly, "Don't be cross, old fellow.
I'll tell you some stories to amuse you, old boy. What shall they be about?"
"I think the story of your life would be about as interesting as anything you
could make up," I said, dryly.
"All right, fact or fiction, whichever you like. Here's a fact, plain and
unvarnished. Born and bred in New York. Swell stable. Swell coachman. Swell
master. Jewelled fingers of ladies poking at me, first thing I remember. First
painful experience being sent to vet. to have ears cut."
"What's a vet.?" I said.
"A veterinary animal doctor. Vet. didn't cut ears enough. Master sent me back.
Cut ears again. Summer time, and flies bad. Ears got sore and festered, flies
very attentive. Coachman set little boy to brush flies off, but he'd run out in
yard and leave me. Flies awful. Thought they'd eat me up, or else I'd shake out
brains trying to get rid of them. Mother should have stayed home and licked my
ears, but was cruising about neighborhood. Finally coachman put me in dark
place; powdered ears, and they got well."
"Why didn't they cut your tail, too?" I said, looking at his long, slim tail,
which was like a sewer rat's.
"'Twasn't the fashion, Mr. Wayback; a bull-terrier's ears are clipped to keep
them from getting torn while fighting."
"You're not a fighting dog," I said.
"Not I. Too much trouble. I believe in taking things easy."
"I should think you did," I said, scornfully. "You never put yourself out for
any one, I notice; but, speaking of cropping ears, what do you think of it?"
"Well," he said, with a sly glance at my head, "it isn't a pleasant operation;
but one might well be out of the world as out of the fashion. I don't care, now
my ears are done."
"But," I said, "think of the poor dogs that will come after you."
"What difference does that make to me?" he said. "I'll be dead and out of the
way. Men can cut off their ears, and tails, and legs, too, if they want to."
"Dandy," I said, angrily, "you're the most selfish dog that I ever saw."
"Don't excite yourself," he said, coolly. "Let me get on with my story. When I
was a few months old, I began to find the stable yard narrow and wondered what
there was outside of it. I discovered a hole in the garden wall, and used to
sneak out nights. Oh, what fun it was. I got to know a lot of street dogs, and
we had gay times, barking under people's windows and making them mad, and
getting into back yards and chasing cats. We used to kill a cat nearly every
night. Policeman would chase us, and we would run and run till the water just
ran off our tongues, and we hadn't a bit of breath left. Then I'd go home and
sleep all day, and go out again the next night. When I was about a year old, I
began to stay out days as well as nights. They couldn't keep me home. Then I ran
away for three months. I got with an old lady on Fifth Avenue, who was very fond of
impudence, that they did not send him away, but said every day, "Surely he will
be gone to-morrow."
However, Mr. Dandy had gotten into comfortable quarters, and he had no intention
of changing them, for a while at least. Then he was very handsome, and had such
a pleasant way with him, that the family could not help liking him. I never
cared for him. He fawned on the Morrises, and pretended he loved them, and
afterward turned around and laughed and sneered at them in a way that made me
very angry. I used to lecture him sometimes, and growl about him to Jim, but Jim
always said, "Let him alone. You can't do him any good. He was born bad. His
mother wasn't good. He tells me that she had a bad name among all the dogs in
her neighborhood. She was a thief and a runaway." Though he provoked me so
often, yet I could not help laughing at some of his stories, they were so funny.
We were lying out in the sun, on the platform at the back of the house, one day,
and he had been more than usually provoking, so I got up to leave him. He put
himself in my way, however, and said, coaxingly, "Don't be cross, old fellow.
I'll tell you some stories to amuse you, old boy. What shall they be about?"
"I think the story of your life would be about as interesting as anything you
could make up," I said, dryly.
"All right, fact or fiction, whichever you like. Here's a fact, plain and
unvarnished. Born and bred in New York. Swell stable. Swell coachman. Swell
master. Jewelled fingers of ladies poking at me, first thing I remember. First
painful experience being sent to vet. to have ears cut."
"What's a vet.?" I said.
"A veterinary animal doctor. Vet. didn't cut ears enough. Master sent me back.
Cut ears again. Summer time, and flies bad. Ears got sore and festered, flies
very attentive. Coachman set little boy to brush flies off, but he'd run out in
yard and leave me. Flies awful. Thought they'd eat me up, or else I'd shake out
brains trying to get rid of them. Mother should have stayed home and licked my
ears, but was cruising about neighborhood. Finally coachman put me in dark
place; powdered ears, and they got well."
"Why didn't they cut your tail, too?" I said, looking at his long, slim tail,
which was like a sewer rat's.
"'Twasn't the fashion, Mr. Wayback; a bull-terrier's ears are clipped to keep
them from getting torn while fighting."
"You're not a fighting dog," I said.
"Not I. Too much trouble. I believe in taking things easy."
"I should think you did," I said, scornfully. "You never put yourself out for
any one, I notice; but, speaking of cropping ears, what do you think of it?"
"Well," he said, with a sly glance at my head, "it isn't a pleasant operation;
but one might well be out of the world as out of the fashion. I don't care, now
my ears are done."
"But," I said, "think of the poor dogs that will come after you."
"What difference does that make to me?" he said. "I'll be dead and out of the
way. Men can cut off their ears, and tails, and legs, too, if they want to."
"Dandy," I said, angrily, "you're the most selfish dog that I ever saw."
"Don't excite yourself," he said, coolly. "Let me get on with my story. When I
was a few months old, I began to find the stable yard narrow and wondered what
there was outside of it. I discovered a hole in the garden wall, and used to
sneak out nights. Oh, what fun it was. I got to know a lot of street dogs, and
we had gay times, barking under people's windows and making them mad, and
getting into back yards and chasing cats. We used to kill a cat nearly every
night. Policeman would chase us, and we would run and run till the water just
ran off our tongues, and we hadn't a bit of breath left. Then I'd go home and
sleep all day, and go out again the next night. When I was about a year old, I
began to stay out days as well as nights. They couldn't keep me home. Then I ran
away for three months. I got with an old lady on Fifth Avenue, who was very fond of