A neighbor, blessed with an extensive litter of Newfoundland pups,
commenced one chapter in our family history by giving us a puppy, brisk,
funny, and lively enough, who was received in our house with acclamations
of joy, and christened “Rover.” An auspicious name we all thought,
for his four or five human playfellows were all rovers,—rovers in the
woods, rovers by the banks of a neighboring patch of water, where they
dashed and splashed, made rafts, inaugurated boats, and lived among the
cat-tails and sweet flags as familiarly as so many muskrats. Rovers also
they were, every few days, down to the shores of the great sea, where
they caught fish, rowed boats, dug clams,—both girls and boys,—and one
sex quite as handily as the other. Rover came into such a lively circle
quite as one of them, and from the very first seemed to regard himself
as part and parcel of all that was going on, in doors or out. But his
exuberant spirits at times brought him into sad scrapes. His vivacity was
such as to amount to decided insanity,—and mamma and Miss Anna and papa
had many grave looks over his capers. Once he actually tore off the leg
of a new pair of trousers that Johnny had just donned, and came racing
home with it in his mouth, with its bare-legged little owner behind,
screaming threats and maledictions on the robber. What a commotion!
The new trousers had just been painfully finished, in those days when
sewing was sewing, and not a mere jig on a sewing-machine; but Rover,
so far from being abashed or ashamed, displayed an impish glee in his
performance, bounding and leaping hither and thither with his trophy in
his mouth, now growling and mangling it, and shaking it at us in elfish
triumph as we chased him hither and thither,—over the wood-pile, into the
wood-house, through the barn, out of the stable door,—vowing all sorts
of dreadful punishments when we caught him. But we might well say that,
for the little wretch would never be caught; after one of his tricks, he
always managed to keep himself out of arm’s length till the thing was a
little blown over, when in he would come, airy as ever, and wagging his
little pudgy puppy tail with an air of the most perfect assurance in the
world.
There is no saying what youthful errors were pardoned to him. Once he
ate a hole in the bed-quilt as his night’s employment, when one of
the boys had surreptitiously got him into bed with them; he nibbled
and variously maltreated sundry sheets; and once actually tore up and
chewed off a corner of the bedroom carpet, to stay his stomach during the
night season. What he did it for, no mortal knows; certainly it could
not be because he was hungry, for there were five little pairs of hands
incessantly feeding him from morning till night. Beside which, he had a
boundless appetite for shoes, which he mumbled, and shook, and tore, and
ruined, greatly to the vexation of their rightful owners,—rushing in and
carrying them from the bedsides in the night-watches, racing off with
them to any out-of-the-way corner that hit his fancy, and leaving them
when he was tired of the fun. So there is no telling of the disgrace into
which he brought his little masters and mistresses, and the tears and
threats and scoldings which were all wasted on him, as he would stand
quite at his ease, lolling out his red, saucy tongue, and never deigning
to tell what he had done with his spoils.
Notwithstanding all these sins, Rover grew up to dog-hood, the pride and
pet of the family,—and in truth a very handsome dog he was.
[Illustration]
It is quite evident from his looks that his Newfoundland blood had been
mingled with that of some other races; for he never attained the full
size of that race, and his points in some respects resembled those of a
good setter. He was grizzled black and white, and spotted on the sides in
little inky drops about the size of a three-cent piece; his hair was long
and silky, his ears beautifully fringed, and his tail long and feathery.
His eyes were bright, soft, and full of expression, and a jollier,
livelier, more loving creature never wore dog-skin. To be sure, his
hunting blood sometimes brought us and him into scrapes. A neighbor now
and then would call with a bill for ducks, chickens, or young turkeys,
which Rover had killed. The last time this occurred it was decided that
something must be done; so Rover was shut up a whole day in a cold
lumber-room, with the murdered duck tied round his neck. Poor fellow! how
dejected and ashamed he looked, and how grateful he was when his little
friends would steal in to sit with him, and “poor” him in his disgrace!
The punishment so improved his principles that he let poultry alone from
that time, except now and then, when he would snap up a young chick or
turkey, in pure absence of mind, before he really knew what he was about.
We had great dread lest he should take to killing sheep, of which there
were many flocks in the neighborhood. A dog which once kills sheep is
a doomed beast,—as much as a man who has committed murder; and if our
Rover, through the hunting blood that was in him, should once mistake a
sheep for a deer, and kill him, we should be obliged to give him up to
justice,—all his good looks and good qualities could not save him.
What anxieties his training under this head cost us! When we were driving
out along the clean sandy roads, among the piny groves of Maine, it was
half our enjoyment to see Rover, with ears and tail wild and flying
with excitement and enjoyment, bounding and barking, now on this side
the carriage, now on that,—now darting through the woods straight as
an arrow, in his leaps after birds or squirrels, and anon returning to
trot obediently by the carriage, and, wagging his tail, to ask applause
for his performances. But anon a flock of sheep appeared in a distant
field, and away would go Rover in full bow-wow, plunging in among them,
scattering them hither and thither in dire confusion. Then Johnny and
Bill and all hands would spring from the carriage in full chase of
the rogue; and all of us shouted vainly in the rear; and finally the
rascal would be dragged back, panting and crestfallen, to be admonished,
scolded, and cuffed with salutary discipline, heartily administered by
his best friends for the sake of saving his life. “Rover, you naughty
dog! Don’t you know you mustn’t chase the sheep? You’ll be killed,
some of these days.” Admonitions of this kind, well shaken and thumped
in, at last seemed to reform him thoroughly. He grew so conscientious,
that, when a flock of sheep appeared on the side of the road, he would
immediately go to the other side of the carriage, and turn away his head,
rolling up his eyes meanwhile to us for praise at his extraordinary good
conduct. “Good dog, Rove! nice dog! good fellow! he doesn’t touch the
sheep,—no, he doesn’t.” Such were the rewards of virtue which sweetened
his self-denial; hearing which, he would plume up his feathery tail, and
loll out his tongue, with an air of virtuous assurance quite edifying to
behold.
Another of Rover’s dangers was a habit he had of running races and
cutting capers with the railroad engines as they passed near our dwelling.
We lived in plain sight of the track, and three or four times a day the
old, puffing, smoky iron horse thundered by, dragging his trains of cars,
and making the very ground shake under him. Rover never could resist
the temptation to run and bark, and race with so lively an antagonist;
and, to say the truth, John and Willy were somewhat of his mind,—so
that, though they were directed to catch and hinder him, they entered
so warmly into his own feelings that they never succeeded in breaking
up the habit. Every day when the distant whistle was heard, away would
go Rover, out of the door or through the window,—no matter which,—race
down to meet the cars, couch down on the track in front of them, barking
with all his might, as if it were only a fellow-dog, and when they came
so near that escape seemed utterly impossible, he would lie flat down
between the rails and suffer the whole train to pass over him, and then
jump up and bark, full of glee, in the rear. Sometimes he varied this
performance more dangerously by jumping out full tilt between two middle
cars when the train had passed half-way over him. Everybody predicted,
of course, that he would be killed or maimed, and the loss of a paw, or
of his fine, saucy tail, was the least of the dreadful things which were
prophesied about him. But Rover lived and throve in his imprudent courses
notwithstanding.
The engineers and firemen, who began by throwing sticks of wood and bits
of coal at him, at last were quite subdued by his successful impudence,
and came to consider him as a regular institution of the railroad, and,
if any family excursion took him off for a day, they would inquire with
interest, “Where’s our dog?—what’s become of Rover?” As to the female
part of our family, we had so often anticipated piteous scenes when poor
Rover would be brought home with broken paws or without his pretty tail,
that we quite used up our sensibilities, and concluded that some kind
angel, such as is appointed to watch over little children’s pets, must
take special care of our Rover.
Rover had very tender domestic affections. His attachment to his little
playfellows was most intense; and one time, when all of them were taken
off together on a week’s excursion, and Rover left alone at home, his low
spirits were really pitiful. He refused entirely to eat for the first
day, and finally could only be coaxed to take nourishment, with many
strokings and caresses, by being fed out of Miss Anna’s own hand. What
perfectly boisterous joy he showed when the children came back!—careering
round and round, picking up chips and bits of sticks, and coming and
offering them to one and another, in the fulness of his doggish heart, to
show how much he wanted to give them something.
This mode of signifying his love by bringing something in his mouth
was one of his most characteristic tricks. At one time he followed the
carriage from Brunswick to Bath, and in the streets of the city somehow
lost his way, so that he was gone all night. Many a little heart went
to bed anxious and sorrowful for the loss of its shaggy playfellow that
night, and Rover doubtless was remembered in many little prayers; what,
therefore, was the joy of being awakened by a joyful barking under
the window the next morning, when his little friends rushed in their
nightgowns to behold Rover back again, fresh and frisky, bearing in his
mouth a branch of a tree about six feet long, as his offering of joy.
When the family removed to Zion Hill, Rover went with them, the trusty
and established family friend. Age had somewhat matured his early
friskiness. Perhaps the grave neighborhood of a theological seminary
and the responsibility of being a Professor’s dog might have something
to do with it, but Rover gained an established character as a dog of
respectable habits, and used to march to the post-office at the heels of
his master twice a day, as regularly as any theological student.
Little Charley the second—the youngest of the brood, who took the place
of our lost little Prince Charley—was yet padding about in short robes,
and seemed to regard Rover in the light of a discreet older brother, and
Rover’s manners to him were of most protecting gentleness. Charley seemed
to consider Rover in all things as such a model, that he overlooked the
difference between a dog and a boy, and wearied himself with fruitless
attempts to scratch his ear with his foot as Rover did, and one day was
brought in dripping from a neighboring swamp, where he had been lying
down in the water, because Rover did.
Once in a while a wild oat or two from Rover’s old sack would seem to
entangle him. Sometimes, when we were driving out, he would, in his races
after the carriage, make a flying leap into a farmer’s yard, and, if he
lighted in a flock of chickens or turkeys, gobble one off-hand, and be
off again and a mile ahead before the mother hen had recovered from her
astonishment. Sometimes, too, he would have a race with the steam-engine
just for old acquaintance’ sake. But these were comparatively transient
follies; in general, no members of the grave institutions around him
behaved with more dignity and decorum than Rover. He tried to listen to
his master’s theological lectures, and to attend chapel on Sundays; but
the prejudices of society were against him, and so he meekly submitted to
be shut out, and waited outside the door on these occasions.
He formed a part of every domestic scene. At family prayers, stretched
out beside his master, he looked up reflectively with his great soft
eyes, and seemed to join in the serious feeling of the hour. When all
were gay, when singing, or frolicking, or games were going on, Rover
barked and frisked in higher glee than any. At night it was his joy to
stretch his furry length by our bedside, where he slept with one ear on
cock for any noise which it might be his business to watch and attend to.
It was a comfort to hear the tinkle of his collar when he moved in the
night, or to be wakened by his cold nose pushed against one’s hand if one
slept late in the morning. And then he was always so glad when we woke;
and when any member of the family circle was gone for a few days, Rover’s
warm delight and welcome were not the least of the pleasures of return.
And what became of him? Alas! the fashion came up of poisoning dogs, and
this poor, good, fond, faithful creature was enticed into swallowing
poisoned meat. One day he came in suddenly, ill and frightened, and
ran to the friends who always had protected him,—but in vain. In a
few moments he was in convulsions, and all the tears and sobs of his
playfellows could not help him; he closed his bright, loving eyes, and
died in their arms.
If those who throw poison to dogs could only see the real grief it brings
into a family to lose the friend and playfellow who has grown up with
the children, and shared their plays, and been for years in every family
scene,—if they could know how sorrowful it is to see the poor dumb friend
suffer agonies which they cannot relieve,—if they could see all this, we
have faith to believe they never would do so more.
Our poor Rover was buried with decent care near the house, and a mound of
petunias over him kept his memory ever bright; but it will be long before
his friends will get another as true.