Part 10

Shall I tell you of Toddy and Sykes? I think I must, although it does not speak well for the character of my favourites; still one must be an impartial historian. Sykes was a white bull terrier of a truculent aspect, a foe to all the cats in the vicinity of his home. He was not allowed inside the house, nor even to enter the gardener’s cottage on account of a bad habit he had of constantly sharpening his teeth on the furniture. He gnawed legs of chairs and tables until they were quite unfit for use; so the gardener objected to his presence in his small domicile quite as much as did the lady at the great house. Well, under these circumstances, the only cat allowed about the place thought, that if she set up her nursery in the gardener’s kitchen, she would be able to preserve her innocent offspring from the monster, Sykes. Alas! she was mistaken. Looking through the open door, he, Sykes, saw a charming picture of domestic felicity, which he forthwith determined to disturb. There was the old tabby mamma with seven sweet little babies lying on a bit of carpet by the fire. She was licking her children carefully all over, whilst they were cuddling up to her, crawling over each other, and groping about for her soft touch. The kitchen was empty, and the only sounds were the mingled mews and purrs of the pussies. Sykes dared not enter, but still he resolved to exterminate that family of kittens. What was to be done? He trotted off to the great house, walked up the steps, and looked in at the hall door; there he saw Toddy lying in the sunshine on a tiger-skin.

Now Toddy was a beautiful young lady Skye terrier, her appearance was captivating, her manners perfection, and her general character and disposition most sweet and amiable. What fiendish arguments Sykes used to persuade her to be his accomplice I don’t know; but it is certain that, after Sykes had stood at the open door, uttering impatient little yapps, for a moment or two, Toddy rose from her tiger-skin, stretched herself, and at last joined the villanous Sykes on the steps. A whispered consultation took place, accompanied by much wagging of Sykes’s tail, and at last the pair were seen to set off to the gardener’s cottage. They were followed; and here I am happy to be able to state that Toddy evidently hesitated, but at length Sykes overcame her remaining scruples, and she entered the kitchen. The old tabby felt no alarm when Toddy carefully took up one of the kittens in her mouth and brought it out to Sykes—was not Toddy well-known to be an excellent amateur nurse, and most tender and considerate to all sorts of baby things? Sykes received the poor little kitten in his cruel jaws, gave it one nip, which silenced its weak voice, retired under a shrub, and despatched it. In the meantime Toddy had brought him another, which shared the same fate; and doubtless all would have fallen victims to this treacherous arrangement, if Toddy’s mistress had not interfered, and made her heartily ashamed of her cruel conduct. For many days after that, if you said, ‘O Toddy, kittens!’ Toddy would slink away with drooping tail and cringing head, as if she quite understood her fault; but as for Sykes, he was hopeless: the same words addressed to him would put him in a state of furious excitement, and he would rush about searching for them with clearly expressed intentions of instant annihilation.

Now, after these naughty little dogs, let us turn to the story of a beautiful, noble, generous doggie. He was not my own, but he was a great friend of mine, and so was his lovely little mistress. I can’t tell you his real name, because I know if ever his mistress saw these lines she would cry: so we will call him Hero. He was such a magnificent brown retriever, with eyes like yellow topazes. Sometimes their glance was as soft as a dove’s; but let any one appear inclined to molest the queen of his loyal heart, and they would gleam like fire, whilst he looked ready to do or to dare anything in her defence. When she walked, Hero stalked solemnly by her side, supremely happy if her hand rested on his broad head: he thought it his duty to protect her unless she was driving, and then he raced by the carriage making wide circuits, but ever returning to say, by a joyous short bark, ‘I am here, don’t be afraid;’ his grand feathery tail waving so proudly as he galloped about the soft turf.

I have seen him breast huge rolling waves to fetch out a stick, and when he caught sight of his mistress (who was a perfect water-baby by the way) swimming in the sea, Hero would plunge in to her rescue, and insist on fetching her out by her hair, or the sleeve of her pretty bathing dress, quite regardless of her own wishes on the subject. Although he belonged to a rough race of dogs, Hero was as dainty in his habits and person as a young lady. Bread was his only food, varied by a bit of biscuit as a great treat; consequently he was sweet as a nut, and in addition to his sea baths he had daily fresh-water ones, so his coat was silky and glossy as any little girl’s curls. Poor Hero! it makes me sad even now to think of his end.

He had been staying down in the country, a short distance from London, and had very reluctantly returned to the comparative confinement of a town life; the weather was very bad, snowy and wretched, and he could not be taken out for his usual long walks, so we noticed that he was rather restless. One bitter winter’s morning he dashed out into the garden the moment the door was opened, very early, and after a few rapid circuits make a sudden spring at the wall, cleared it by a tremendous bound, and scampered off as hard as he could. By the time they missed him he was miles away, and in spite of placards and advertisements in all the papers, days passed without any tidings of our beloved Hero. At last there came a dirty, ill-spelled note, saying that the writer had seen the advertisement, and that just such a dog had rushed into his shop some days previously, in a state of great exhaustion and suffering, having met with an accident. We hurried immediately to the address, and I can hardly make you understand how painful it was to ask questions each of which proved clearly that our poor Hero had first been exposed to cold and hunger, and at last had met a cruel death. We ascertained that when he dashed into this little shop—far away from his own home, but on the road to the country place he had left—he had just received a frightful gash; blood was streaming from his side, and he kept making short snaps at the gaping wound after the manner of dogs; but the ignorant people thought he was dangerous, and called in a policeman, who looked at the poor dog from a respectful distance, and immediately pronounced sentence of death against him. A chemist from next door was hastily summoned to execute this decree, he administered an enormous dose of poison, and in half a second Hero’s sufferings were over. Our only comfort was to hear that his death was speedy, but we could not help thinking something might have been done to try to cure him first.

There were so many different stories about the way he met with his wound, that we could not arrive at any certainty. Some said they saw him run over by a cart, but he was so clever and accustomed to the streets, _that_ seemed improbable. Another witness said that he had been seen to make a dash at a joint of meat in a butcher’s shop, and that the butcher straightway flung a cleaver at him; but the strictest inquiries failed to throw any light on this tale. Then a third witness described minutely a deadly combat with another dog, in which Hero was defeated and left for dead on the battlefield; but we knew our favourite’s strength and courage too well to believe that he could be vanquished in a duel.

At last we sorrowfully gave up the attempt to find out how he had been killed, and devoted ourselves to the recovery of his body; but it had been buried, and we did not like to have it dug up again, so we contented ourselves with paying a fancy price for his skin, which had been taken off first, and with this melancholy relic we were obliged to return. But first we had to refund sundry small sums which had been expended for beer. Hero’s death must have caused quite a smart influx of trade to the nearest publichouse, for, according to the statement of our friend the tallow-chandler (whose shop Hero had selected as his refuge), everybody in the neighbourhood had consumed ‘a pot o’ beer’ on the strength of the event; even the tidy mistress of the establishment had felt herself to be so ‘put about’ by the tragedy, that she also had required extra refreshment.

Hero’s successor, who was exactly like him in appearance, had an element of suspicion in his character which Hero did not possess. Upon one occasion, I was taking my five o’clock tea with the lady who owned both Hero and Brownie, when she went upstairs to dress for a drive; but first she poured out her tea to get cool, begged me to take mine, but not to allow the servants to remove hers, saying, as she left the room, ‘Now don’t let them touch it.’ I nodded, and went on with my newspaper. Presently I stretched out my hand for my cup of tea, which was a little way off. A low deep growl startled me; there was Brownie, who knew me almost as well as he did his dear little mistress, sitting up on his haunches gazing steadily at me with an expression of eye which was not at all pleasant. I thought to myself, ‘this is all nonsense, of course the dog knows me; surely he doesn’t think I am a thief.’ But that was just what Brownie _did_ think apparently, and he soon showed me that I was on no account to touch any thing on the table. This state of things was very disagreeable, for I don’t like cold tea, and I was rather thirsty. Suddenly there flashed into my mind the recollection of Brownie’s well-known love for bread and butter. I put out my hand for some saying, in a most conciliatory tone, ‘Good old boy, he shall have some bread and butter then.’ Up rose Brownie, terrible in his indignation at the idea of a bribe; he put both of his broad paws on my lap and growled ferociously, looking at me steadily, his beautiful eyes gleaming with an honest rage. He would not even turn his head towards the tempting plate lest his resolution should waver. I tried again to get my tea. This time came a louder growl and a snap. Nothing would content Brownie but my giving up all idea of eating or drinking for the present, and I was obliged to console myself with the newspaper; but I soon finished it, and then I discovered that Brownie would not hear of my getting another. No; I was to sit still and not touch anything. At last his mistress returned, and Brownie greeted her affectionately, accompanied her to the tea-table, and then came up to me wagging his tail and licking my hands, and saying as plainly as possible, ‘I don’t mind having some bread and butter _now_;’ but I felt very much aggrieved and rather cross, for my tea was quite cold!

The most intelligent little dog of my acquaintance, however, is called ‘Tip.’ Good-natured people say he is a ‘fancy-pug;’ unkind friends declare he is a mongrel; but all agree in saying that such charming ugliness never before existed, and, as for sense and cleverness, his equal would be hard to find. Tip’s mamma is a great beauty, a true Japanese pug; his father was a thoroughbred English pug; but neither of his parents are as sagacious as Tip. He resembles his mother in the colour of his coat, which is quite different from that of an ordinary pug, being just like a chestnut in hue, and is as glossy and sleek as satin. It is not in consequence of Tip’s own instincts that his appearance is so beautiful, for he hates his bi-weekly baths. If I say, ‘Tip come and be washed,’ he uncurls his tail, droops his ears, and sits up to beg, shivering piteously, and from time to time holding out his paw to shake hands, as if he thought that would avert his destiny. He really enjoys the most luxurious bathing arrangements, warm water, a good fire, his own sponge and soap, and a large sheet to be dried in. He emerges from his tub looking quite beautiful, but still he is wretched for some hours. When any one says, ‘Naughty Tip,’ he retires into a corner and sits up with his face to the wall till he is forgiven. He has a large and affectionate heart, but his entire devotion is kept for his master whom he perfectly adores. He will only sleep at his feet with his chin resting on them; and, when he leaves the house, Tip is miserable till he returns, watching the door, searching every room for him, and finally welcoming him home with the most frantic joy. To children he is very partial, and perfectly good-tempered in spite of being pulled about by them. A small brown baby was lately added to the establishment where Tip’s home is, and he is most absurd about this infant. When he is left alone with the little creature he guards it most carefully, and licks its hands and feet assiduously; but, when his master speaks to the baby, Tip’s jealousy is aroused, and he dashes about the room, barking, jumps up on his master, licks his boots, does all he can to distract his attention. Any one else may take as much notice as they like of poor baby, but his papa is not to speak or even look at him without Tip’s permission; and it is quite sad to see the expression of real suffering in his large eyes whilst the baby is caressed. It is to be hoped this feeling will subside, and his master is very careful not to wound his feelings by neglect. A few days ago Tip discovered that the servants had not filled his basin, which stands in the hall, with water, and that it was quite empty; so he took in his mouth the piece of sulphur which is kept in it, and trotted off to the room where his master was sitting, laid it down at his feet, and retreated to a short distance wagging his tail, as much as to say, ‘Pray help me in this little difficulty.’

There never was a more friendly and sociable dog than Tip, and he has a large circle of acquaintances among both people and dogs; but his chosen friend is a very handsome Gordon setter, ‘Royal’ by name. Now, although Royal is ten times as big as Tip he is not nearly as clever; consequently Tip looks after Royal when they are out walking, and is full of anxiety because his big friend will roam so far away. Tip only goes a certain distance, looks back anxiously, and tries to coax Royal to return; then, if the other dog persists in keeping at a distance, Tip gallops back and insists, by jumps and barks, on Royal’s being summoned; nor will anything else satisfy him. It is so pretty to see these two at play. Royal lies on his back with his four legs straight up in the air and his great mouth wide open, into which Tip thrusts his head, and you hear the bell on Tip’s collar ringing half way down Royal’s throat! Then Tip jumps on Royal and walks up and down his broad beautiful chest. As soon as this has gone on long enough Royal leaps suddenly up, and the shock throws Tip high into the air as if he were a shuttle-cock! Then, as he touches the ground, the game recommences by Royal pretending to run away, and Tip scampering after him, bringing the big dog back by one of his long silky ears. After some time Royal’s mistress says, ‘Now, children, that is enough; sit down and be quiet;’ and they retreat to different corners of the room and lie down, panting. Tip cannot understand Royal’s taste for ices, and when he sees his big friend enjoying himself at Gunter’s with a ‘strawberry cream,’ Tip sniffs at the dainty, and looks up in his master’s face with a shiver of disgust, for Tip prefers warmth, and is never so happy as when basking in the sunshine.

I cannot give you a description of Tip’s varied accomplishments, for he is always improving his education, and gives Royal lessons in begging, walking, ‘on trust,’ &c.; but he has one game of play in which he indulges when alone, and which is exceedingly ridiculous. He takes the end of his tail firmly in his mouth—and this is the most difficult part of the performance, as it is tightly curled over his back—and twirls round and round until he falls down from giddiness; as soon as he can get up he sets off again the reverse way, and he has been seen to go on thus for half an hour. Tip often makes journeys by the underground railway, which he hates, and, as soon as his master gets out of the carriage, Tip scampers off up the steps until he comes to the ticket collector; there he stops and sits down sedately, looking up in the man’s face from time to time, as much as to say, ‘It’s all right,’ till his master arrives with the tickets: as soon as these are given up Tip knows he may pass, and sets off at full speed for the open street. The reason of this conduct is, that he was once stopped by a ticket collector and detained until his master claimed him: he evidently learned how to manage in future.

I must end this chapter by telling you of a narrow escape poor Tip had lately. His home is in a distant part of London, and he is fond of disporting himself in the square in front of his dwelling. Into this inclosure dogs are not generally admitted, but, as Shakspeare tells us, that ‘Nice customs curtesy to great kings,’ so all rules are relaxed in favour of a little dog who fascinates everybody in spite of his very ugly face. Tip therefore is allowed to run after his ball within the square, and he was thus amusing himself, much to the delight of his young friends, when a small pack of beagles passed by the half-open gate in charge of a feeble old coachman. The ball was instantly neglected, and Tip darted out to welcome the strangers: but what a reception he met with; the whole pack thought he was a hare, down went their heads up went their sterns and uttering their musical cry they chevyed poor Tip round and round the square. Every now and then Tip thought to himself, ‘This _must_ be all a mistake, they only want to play;’ so he would stop his career and turn short round with the most amiable expression of face, wagging his tail furiously as if he would say, ‘Now that’s enough, pax;’ but he was instantly tumbled over and worried, so he had to pick himself up as best he might and resume his flight. He never thought of coming to his master for shelter; he evidently considered he could manage matters alone; his mistress was frantic; she flew to the old coachman, and scolded him well for bringing out such brutes; but he was quite helpless and frightened, and only said, ‘I durs’n’t go near ’em;’ then she turned to see Tip’s master beating off some of the dogs, but one vixen had got Tip down on the ground and was choking him, whilst another was helping to worry him. The poor little doggie was quite exhausted, and seemed to have resigned himself to his fate. He was all over wounds, and his ugly little turned-up nose was a mass of bites. His mistress thought it was time to rush to the rescue of her pet and friend; so she boldly dashed in among the shrubs, and, in spite of furious snaps and snarls, and getting her gown torn into ribbons, she picked up her beloved Tip and carried him off in safety and triumph. Tip’s gratitude was great, and he showed it in a thousand pretty ways, though he was so thoroughly done he could hardly stand. Whenever he afterwards passed any dog in the street which at all resembled his enemies, the beagles, Tip gave them a very wide berth, and looked at them with an expression which meant, ‘I’ll have nothing to say to you.’

Dear little Tip, long may he live! for his life is a very happy one; he is so good-tempered and unselfish that everyone loves him; and he is not in the least pampered or indulged, consequently he is always in perfect health, and ready for a game of play. He has just brought me his little collar and laid it at my feet, so I must leave off writing and take him out for a walk; that is what he wishes me to do.

ABOUT BOYS.

I have numbered many pet boys among my kinsfolk and friends, and I am going to tell you a few of their pranks. It would not be fair, I suppose, to the little girls, to relate _their_ pieces of mischief, for they are nearly all grown up now, and have boys and girls of their own, who would be very much shocked if they could know that mamma had ever been concerned in a small riot, or had nearly killed herself in attempting to fly down from a heap of piled up boxes, by means of large paper wings! I am sorry to say that my own chicks prefer the recital of their mother’s wrong doings to any other tale, and when,

Between the dark and the day-light, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day’s occupations That is known as the children’s hour,

I am taken prisoner, held captive in an armchair by the fire, and not released till I have told, for the hundredth time, most of my own childish scrapes. Once or twice I have tried to substitute a little stray bit of goodness, but that was not half as popular as ‘Mamma’s naughtiness.’