Unless there were guests in the house, we usually slept with all the
inner doors wide open for better circulation of air.
One night we were awakened by tremendous barkings and growlings from
Bruno. Julius spoke to him, and he answered with a whine. Then we could
hear his feet pad-padding on the carpet as he went from our room,
tap-tapping on the oil-cloth in the hall, pad-padding again through the
sitting-room and the dining-room, then tap-tapping on the painted
kitchen floor, with more loud barks and deep growls.
Julius tried again to quiet him, but he refused to be quieted.
"Something disturbs him," I said. "Maybe we'd better let him out."
"No," said Julius, "it is probably that wretched Leo lurking around,
trying to toll him off. He's better inside."
I did not think he would seem so fierce if it were Leo, but I was too
sleepy to argue; so we dozed off, leaving him still on the alert.
Deep was our surprise next morning to find that a band of thieves had
raided the town during the night, and that the houses on both sides of
us had been entered! How we petted and praised Bruno, our defender! He
was quite unconcerned, though, and seemed as if he would say to us,--
"Oh, that was nothing. I only barked and made a racket!"
Truly, it was only necessary for him to bark and make a racket. There
was never any occasion for him to go further. His voice was so loud and
deep it always conveyed the impression of a dog as big as a house,--one
that could swallow a man at one mouthful without winking.
People were always ready to take the hint when he gave voice to his
emotions. They never undertook to argue with him.
After that night we never slept with such comfortable feelings of
perfect security as we felt at those times when we were half aroused by
Bruno's barks and growls.
For a while the days passed uneventfully in our little home. Julius and
I were interested in beautifying and improving our grounds, so time
never dragged with us. Rebecca rejoiced in several successive sets of
kittens. They and Bruno frolicked through the days, with exciting
interruptions in the shape of the milkman's calls, Julius's returns from
the office, and occasional visits from the neighbors' children.
For greater convenience we always spoke collectively of Bruno, Rebecca
and her kits, as "the cattle."
The milkman's daily calls never grew stale to them. They generally heard
his bell before Julius or I suspected he was near, and would all go to
the sidewalk to meet him. Bruno would leap the fence; Rebecca and her
kits would creep through. As soon as the milk was poured out, they all
raced to the back piazza to wait for their share of it. When the dish
was filled and placed before them on the floor, Bruno stood back with
drooping ears, watching them drink. He seemed to feel that it would not
be fair to pit his great flap of a tongue against their tiny
rose-leaves. They always left some for him, which he devoured in two or
three laps, while they all sat about washing their faces. I don't think
he cared for the milk; he took it to be sociable, and seemed to be as
well satisfied with a swallow or two as he was after drinking the
dishful I sometimes offered him. He often tried to chew the grain on
which the chickens were fed, and would eat anything he saw us taking,
including all kinds of fruit, nuts, candies, and ices. Of course the
chief of his diet was the various preparations of cereals and meats, but
he seemed to want a taste of all that was going.
Once, much to his own ultimate disgust, he coaxed me to give him a sniff
of a smelling-bottle he thought I seemed to be enjoying. After that, he
regarded all bottles with the deepest suspicion and aversion.