(_CONTINUED._)
I expected, of course, when I declared the resolution, "Dogs not
Doormats," open for general discussion that there would be some pretty
plain barking, but nothing calling for the intervention of the Chair.
Britain's dogs are sound at heart, even if they do talk a bit wildly
about the Tyranny of Man and Rabbitism and Abolishing the Biscuiteer.
I don't agree with a lot of it myself--we Airedales have always been
conservatively inclined; but I am bound to say that three years in the
Army open one's eyes to a lot of things.
Nothing of a really seditious character was said until the Borzoi
commenced to address the meeting. I had always disliked the fellow
and half suspected him of being an Anarchist or the president of some
brotherhood or other. (It's funny how these rascals, whose one idea
is to get something which belongs to somebody else without working
for it, always call themselves a brotherhood.) But those Russian dogs
have such a shifty slinking way with them that you can't always tell
what they are driving at. This Borzoi chap had tried once or twice to
interest me in what he called the Community of Bones doctrine, but
I soon found out that his master was a conscientious objector and a
vegetarian and that the doctrine really meant that he would do the
communing and I would provide the bones.
The rogue began with some fulsome ingratiating remarks about how
pleased he was to see so many fine representatives of the canine
race prepared to maintain intact their sovereign doghood whatever
the sacrifice might entail. This brought loud applause from the young
hotheads; but I noticed traces of disgust along the backs of the older
dogs. The time had passed, he continued, for speeches and resolutions
and votes of censure. Dogs must act if Man, the enemy, was to be
finally crushed. I intervened at this point and told the Borzoi he
must moderate his language, upon which he began to bluster, shouting
that he would not be put down by an arrogant hireling of effete
Militarism. One learns to practise self-control in the trenches, so
I was able to repress an inclination to assert my authority then and
there. It was no use striking at man himself, he went on, for he
had guns and whips and stones at his command. We must strike at him
through his children.
Cries of dissent greeted this statement, and I really think the matter
would have ended then and there only it so happened that none of those
present were personally interested in children, except old Betty the
bulldog, who belongs to four little girls who treat her sovereign
doghood in a most disrespectful way. But old Betty had gone to sleep,
and, anyway, she is rather deaf and has no teeth, so it's likely she
would have confined herself to a formal snuffle of protest. "Yes,"
shouted the Borzoi, now thoroughly worked up, "let every dog take a
solemn oath to bite every child on every possible occasion--at least
when no one is looking--and Man, the oppressor, will soon come begging
for mercy and make peace with us on our own terms. No false loyalty
or ridiculous sense of chivalry must withhold us," he continued. "The
baby in the pram to-day is the man with the whip of to-morrow and must
be bitten with all the righteous fury of outraged doghood." Cries of
"Shame!" greeted this remark. I decided that it was time to interpose.
With all the severity at my command I bade the wretch be silent.
"Fellow dogs," I said, "it is clear that we must choose here and now,
once and for all, between Britishism and Bolshevism. Tails up those
who wish to remain British!" And of course every tail went up. "Tails
up, the Bolshevists!" But the Borzoi's was down beyond recall and
shivering between his legs. "That being your decision, ladies and
gentlemen," I continued, "the meeting will constitute itself a
Committee of Safety. Remarks have been passed about your Chairman
and the canine forces of His Majesty that cannot be allowed to go
unchallenged. All I ask is plenty of room and no favour."
All this time the Borzoi had been edging towards the door, and I
really think he would have tried to make a dash for it, only at the
last minute he caught the eye of the Irish wolfhound. It's no good
running away from a dog like that, so Bolshy decided to stay and face
the music. Well, as I said before, we war dogs are supposed to be as
modest as we are brave, so I will confine myself to saying that down
our way Bolshevism hasn't a leg to stand on. Of course Master, when
he saw my ear, pretended to be angry, but he knows a war dog doesn't
fight except for his country, and when the Borzoi's owner came round
next day to complain Master told him he was a miserable Pacifist and
had no _locus standi_. I told Master afterwards that the Borzoi had no
_loci standi_ either, because I'd jolly well nearly chewed them off;
and he laughed and gave me a whole cutlet with a lot of delicious meat
on it, saying he wasn't hungry himself.
Of course we dogs met again and adopted the rest of our platform; and
I don't mind saying I kept a pretty tight grip on the proceedings.
In fact, several resolutions, such as those dealing with "Municipal
Dog's-meat," "Rabbits in Regent's Park," "The Prosecution of
Untruthful Parlourmaids," "Shorter Fur and Longer Legs," were carried
without discussion. Naturally the meetings concluded with a vote of
thanks to the Chair, to which I replied (they tell me) felicitously.
That is how the War Dogs' Party came into being; and to-morrow I shall
tell that little terrier fellow from No. 10, Downing Street, that as
long as his master remains faithful to the Dog-in-the-Street the War
Dogs' Party will remain faithful to him.