Now approached a troublous time in Bruno's career. He fell into bad
ways. We always thought it was Leo who tempted him.
It developed in this way. Soon after dark Bruno would ask to have the
door opened for him to go out. He would look as innocent as if he only
meant to step around to the well for a fresh drink. At bedtime we would
suddenly remember that we had heard nothing of him since he had been let
out. Julius would open the door expecting to find him lying on the
porch. Disappointed in this, he would whistle, call, whistle again, but
there would be no answer. At last we would give him up and go to bed. At
gray dawn there would be a sound of scratching on the door, and when it
was opened Bruno would come in, muddy, draggled, and exhausted. After
drinking with evident relish from his water-bowl, he would curl up on
his bed and sleep till noon.
We scolded him about these "tears," as we called them, until he would in
spite of his fatigue go through with his tricks on being admitted in the
morning: he would "sit up" and offer to "shake hands" with first one
paw, then the other; trying to propitiate whichever of us opened the
door for him. But he would not give up the "tears." Then we tried
chaining him for the night. This kept him at home for nearly a week,
until he finally succeeded in pulling out the staple that held the
chain. In the morning Bruno, chain, and all had vanished; for it was
summer-time and we had chained him outside, under an open shed. The
hours crept on towards afternoon, and still he came not. I had heard at
intervals all day the distant yelping of a dog, but had only noticed it
to suppose that a neighbor some few blocks away had had occasion to tie
up his watch-dog. As evening approached, I anxiously awaited the return
of Julius from his office that he might go in search of our missing
Bruno.
While I was waiting, the milkman came along.
"Where's your dog?" he asked, as he poured out the milk.
Bruno and Rebecca always watched for the milkman and were first to
greet him; this day only Rebecca was there.
"I wish I knew," I answered; "he ran off in the night dragging his
chain, and we don't know what has become of him."
"There's a big brown dog that looks just like yours chained to the
sidewalk over yonder beyond Mr. Black's."
He jerked his head in the direction whence the yelping sounds had come.
Uncle Edwards was then spending a few days with us. He was one of those
people who believe that sooner or later all dogs go mad, and that it is
as much as one's life is worth to come within ten feet of them. He and
Bruno were on the most distant terms of mutual toleration.
But I was desperate. Julius had not come, and I must be at home in case
Bruno did arrive hungry, thirsty, and footsore. There was no help for
it; I must ask assistance from Uncle Edwards.
He was a gentleman of the old school, always obliging and courteous. He
would bow politely and pick up a loaded shell with burning fuse
attached, if asked to do so by a lady.
He readily agreed to go round by Mr. Black's to see if by any chance the
"big brown dog chained to the sidewalk" could be ours. He shortly
returned, leading by the extreme end of his chain a very crestfallen
Bruno; tired, hungry, thirsty, his throat raw with ineffectual yelpings.
Delighted and relieved as I was to see him, I still had room for a
smothered laugh at his and Uncle Edwards's attitude to each other as
they approached. Uncle regarded Bruno out of the tail of his eye, as if
he were some infernal machine, liable at any moment to do things unheard
of; while Bruno, perfectly aware of his distrust, threw tired, meekly
humorous glances out of the tail of _his_ eye. It was comical.
His chain had caught in a cleft board of the sidewalk, and he had been
held there, struggling and yelping, part of the night and all day! All
who had happened to see him thought he had been fastened there for some
purpose or other.
This was a pretty severe lesson for Bruno, and it kept him at home for
several nights. At last temptation again overcame him, and at bedtime
one night he was missing. When he returned at dawn, his side was
peppered with small bloody wounds. He had been shot!
"That settles it," said Julius; "he has been chasing sheep!"
We were extremely troubled at this discovery, and Julius said,--
"Our life is too quiet for him. His instincts are all for chasing
something. Our little promenades are but an aggravation to a dog who is
longing to stretch his legs over miles of country."
We knew he must go at least six miles to find sheep.
For the first time we now began seriously to consider the idea of giving
Bruno away.
A young hunter, whom we will call Mr. Nimrod, had long been wanting him.
He told us it was a shame to turn such a splendid fellow into a
drawing-room dog. He would hold forth indefinitely on Bruno's points,
especially certain extra toes on his various legs. He said a dog with
such toes was built for a "lightning-express" runner, and that it was
outraging nature to try to keep him cooped up in a village lot. After
many discussions we at last decided we ought to give him up to the life
for which he so evidently longed.
We were about to move into the house we had been building, and we
thought the best way to make the dog-transfer would be for Julius to
take him to Mr. Nimrod's the last day before we moved, so that if he
ran away and came to find us, there would be only the deserted house.
It did not occur to us that this would be cruel. We knew we were giving
him up for his own good, and we felt sure he would soon get wonted to
his new home, where he could live the life for which he was created. So,
on the last evening in the old home, Julius took up his hat, which was
always a signal to Bruno, who came and sat up before him, with ears at
"attention," which was his way of asking,--
"May I go?"
"Yes, Boonie can go," answered Julius.
Then Bruno, who had long since learned to understand the difference
between "go" and "stay," went bounding down the walk, leaped over the
gate, and began rushing back and forth along in front of the lot, giving
short barks of delight. Julius called him back, and he came rather
crestfallen, thinking he was, after all, to "stay;" but it was only that
I might hug him and tell him, "Good-bye, you must be a good doggie!"
This puzzled him; but his bewilderment was soon forgotten in the fact
that he was really and truly to "go." When Julius returned an hour
later, he told me he had slipped away while Mr. and Mrs. Nimrod were
petting Bruno, and so had escaped a formal leave-taking. I was glad of
this, for I had dreaded their parting.
In spite of the fact that I was the one to attend to Bruno's wants--that
he always came to me when hungry or thirsty, and that I never
disciplined him as Julius sometimes did,--still he showed in many ways
that Julius's place in his heart was far above mine. So I was relieved
that there had been no good-byes.
We were both entirely engrossed for the next few days by getting moved
and settled. In spite of busy hands, I had many times felt a tugging at
the heart-strings for the absent Bruno. I said nothing about it, though;
and Julius afterwards confessed that he too had felt longings, but had
suppressed them for fear of upsetting me, just as I had concealed my
feelings on his account.
On the afternoon of the fourth day Julius could stand it no longer; he
must have some news of Bruno. So he looked up Mr. Nimrod.
Before he could ask any questions, Mr. Nimrod began,--
"What did you feed that dog, anyway?"
"Why, the same things we ate," answered Julius, in surprise; "whatever
there was on the table."
"Well, he won't eat anything for us. We've tried everything we could
think of. What does he like best?"
"Well," said Julius, "he likes biscuit and toast and fried mush,--all
sorts of crisp and crackly things; and bones,--little ones that he can
bite,--and meats of course."
"We've tried everything except the toast and mush. We'll try him on
those. I'll go right home now and see about it."
When Julius came home and repeated this conversation to me, it produced
what may without exaggeration be called a state of mind. I was half
wild. All the emotions I had been struggling to conceal since Bruno's
departure now held sway. Julius was deeply moved too. We could only
comfort each other by recalling all the trouble we had had with Bruno,
from the anxious night of his first "tear," to that last morning when he
had returned wounded and bloody.
We assured each other that he would soon consent to be happy in such a
good home, and that it would be wrong for us to indulge our feelings to
his ultimate hurt. We dwelt especially on the fact that if he should
again go sheep-chasing and be shot at, he stood at least a chance of
being fatally wounded.
Thus we talked ourselves into a reasonable frame of mind.