“Papa, the cruel policeman has murdered little Gip! He sneaked up and
frowed a nice piece of meat to Gip, and Gip he eated it, and fanked the
policeman with his tail, and runned after him and teased for more, but
the policeman fought Gip had enough, and then Gip stopped and looked
sorry he had eaten it, and pretty soon he laid down and died, and the
policeman laughed and went off feeling good. If Dan Sheehan was the
policeman any more he wouldn't poison my dog, would he, pa?”
The above was the greeting the bald-headed _Sun_ man received on
Thursday, and a pair of four-year-old brown eyes were full enough of
tears to break the heart of a policeman of many years' standing, and the
little, crushed master of the dead King Charles spaniel went to sleep
sobbing and believing that policemen were the greatest blot upon the
civilization of the nineteenth century.
Here was a little fellow that had from the day he first stood on his
feet after the scarlet fever had left him alive, been allowing his heart
to become entwined with love for that poor little dog. For nearly a year
the dog had been ready to play with the child when everybody else was
tired out, and never once had the dog been cross or backed out of a
romp, and the laughter and the barking has many a time been the only
sound of happiness in the neighborhood.
If the boy slept too long after dinner, the dog went and rooted around
him as much as to say, “Look a here, Mr. Roy, you can't play this on
your partner any longer. You get up here and we will have a high old
time, and don't you forget it.” And pretty soon the sound of baby feet
and dog's toe nails would be heard on the stairs, and the circus would
commence.
If the dog slept too long of an afternoon, the boy would hunt him out,
take hold of his tail with one hand, and an ear with the other, and lug
him into the parlor, saying, “Gip, too much sleep is what is ruining the
dogs in this country. Now, brace up and play horse with me.” And then
there was fun.
Well, it is all over; but while we write there is a little fellow
sleeping on a tear-stained pillow, dreaming, perhaps, of a heaven where
the woods are full of King Charles' spaniel dogs, and a doorkeeper
stands with a club to keep out policemen. And still we cannot blame
policemen--it is the law that is to blame--the wise men who go to the
legislature, and make months with one day too much, pass laws that a
dog shall be muzzled and wear a brass check, or he is liable to go mad.
Statistics show that not one dog in a million ever goes mad, and that
they are more liable to go mad in winter than in summer; but several
hundred years ago somebody said that summer was “dog days,” and the
law-makers of this enlightened nineteenth century still insist on a wire
muzzle at a season of the year when a dog wants air and water, and wants
his tongue out.
So we compel our guardians of the peace to go around assassinating dogs.
Men, who as citizens, would cut their hands off before they would injure
a neighbor's property, or speak harsh to his dog, when they hire out to
the city must stifle all feelings of humanity, and descend to the level
of Paris scavengers. We compel them to do this. If they would get on
their ears and say to the city of Milwaukee, “We will guard your city,
and protect you from insult, and die for you if it becomes necessary;
but we will see you in hades before we will go around assassinating
dogs,” we as a people, would think more of them, and perhaps build them
a decent station house to rest in.
The dog law is as foolish as the anti-treating law, and if it were not
enforced, no harm would be done. Our legislators have to pass about so
many laws anyway, and we should use our judgment about enforcing them.
But the dog is dead, and the little man meditates a terrible revenge. He
is going to have a goat that can whip a policeman, he says; then there
will be fun around the parsonage.