Well, after the departure of Madam Florence there was a long cessation
of the dog mania in our family. We concluded that we would have no more
pets; for they made too much anxiety, and care, and trouble, and broke
all our hearts by death or desertion.
At last, however, some neighbors of ours took unto themselves, to enliven
their dwelling, a little saucy Scotch terrier, whose bright eyes and
wicked tricks so wrought upon the heart of one of our juvenile branches,
that there was no rest in the camp without this addition to it. Nothing
was so pretty, so bright, so knowing and cunning, as a “Scotch terrier,”
and a Scotch terrier we must have,—so said Miss Jenny, our youngest.
And so a bargain was struck by one of Jenny’s friends with some of the
knowing ones in Boston, and home she came, the happy possessor of a
genuine article,—as wide awake, impertinent, frisky, and wicked a little
elf as ever was covered with a shock of rough tan-colored hair.
His mistress no sooner gazed on him, than she was inspired to give him
a name suited to his peculiar character;—so he frisked into the front
door announced as Wix, and soon made himself perfectly at home in the
family circle, which he took, after his own fashion, by storm. He entered
the house like a small whirlwind, dashed, the first thing, into the
Professor’s study, seized a slipper which was dangling rather uncertainly
on one of his studious feet, and, wresting it off, raced triumphantly
with it around the hall, barking distractedly every minute that he was
not shaking and worrying his prize.
Great was the sensation. Grandma tottered with trembling steps to the
door, and asked, with hesitating tones, what sort of a creature that
might be; and being saluted with the jubilant proclamation, “Why,
Grandma, it’s my dog,—a real genuine, Scotch terrier; he’ll never grow
any larger, and he’s a perfect beauty! don’t you think so?”—Grandma could
only tremblingly reply, “O, there is not any danger of his going mad, is
there? Is he generally so playful?”
Playful was certainly a mild term for the tempest of excitement in
which master Wix flew round and round in giddy circles, springing over
ottomans, diving under sofas, barking from beneath chairs, and resisting
every effort to recapture the slipper with bristling hair and blazing
eyes, as if the whole of his dog-life consisted in keeping his prize;
till at length he caught a glimpse of pussy’s tail,—at which, dropping
the slipper, he precipitated himself after the flying meteor, tumbling,
rolling, and scratching down the kitchen stairs, and standing on his
hind-legs barking distractedly at poor Tom, who had taken refuge in the
sink, and sat with his tail magnified to the size of a small bolster.
This cat, the most reputable and steady individual of his species, the
darling of the most respectable of cooks, had received the name of
Thomas Henry, by which somewhat lengthy appellation he was generally
designated in the family circle, as a mark of the respect which his
serious and contemplative manner commonly excited. Thomas had but one
trick of popularity. With much painstaking and care the cook had taught
him the act of performing a somerset over our hands when held at a
decent height from the floor; and for this one elegant accomplishment,
added to great success in his calling of rat-catching, he was held in
great consideration in the family, and had meandered his decorous way
about house, slept in the sun, and otherwise conducted himself with the
innocent and tranquil freedom which became a family cat of correct habits
and a good conscience.
The irruption of Wix into our establishment was like the bursting of
a bomb at the feet of some respectable citizen going tranquilly to
market. Thomas was a cat of courage, and rats of the largest size shrunk
appalled at the very sight of his whiskers; but now he sat in the sink
quite cowed, consulting with great, anxious yellow eyes the throng of
faces that followed Wix down the stairs, and watching anxiously the
efforts Miss Jenny was making to subdue and quiet him.
“Wix, you naughty little rascal, you mustn’t bark at Thomas Henry;
be still!” Whereat Wix, understanding himself to be blamed, brought
forth his trump card of accomplishments, which he always offered by
way of pacification whenever he was scolded. He reared himself up on
his hind-legs, hung his head languishingly on one side, lolled out his
tongue, and made a series of supplicatory gestures with his fore-paws,—a
trick which never failed to bring down the house in a storm of applause,
and carry him out of any scrape with flying colors.
Poor Thomas Henry, from his desolate sink, saw his terrible rival carried
off in Miss Jenny’s arms amid the applauses of the whole circle, and had
abundance of time to reflect on the unsubstantial nature of popularity.
After that he grew dejected and misanthropic,—a real Cardinal Wolsey
in furs,—for Wix was possessed with a perfect cat-hunting mania, and,
whenever he was not employed in other mischief, was always ready for a
bout with Thomas Henry.
It is true, he sometimes came back from these encounters with a scratched
and bloody nose, for Thomas Henry was a cat of no mean claw, and would
turn to bay at times; but generally he felt the exertion too much for his
advanced years and quiet habits, and so for safety he passed much of his
time in the sink, over the battlements of which he would leisurely survey
the efforts of the enemy to get at him. The cook hinted strongly of the
danger of rheumatism to her favorite from these damp quarters, but Wix at
present was the reigning favorite, and it was vain to dispute his sway.
Next to Thomas Henry, Wix directed his principal efforts to teasing
Grandmamma. Something or other about her black dress and quiet movements
seemed to suggest to him suspicions. He viewed her as something to be
narrowly watched; he would lie down under some chair or table, and watch
her motions with his head on his fore-paws as if he were watching at a
rat-hole. She evidently was not a rat, he seemed to say to himself, but
who knows what she may be; and he would wink at her with his great bright
eyes, and, if she began to get up, would spring from his ambush and bark
at her feet with frantic energy,—by which means he nearly threw her over
two or three times.
His young mistress kept a rod, and put him through a severe course of
discipline for these offences; after which he grew more careful,—but
still the unaccountable fascination seemed to continue; still he would
lie in ambush, and, though forbidden to bark, would dart stealthily
forward when he saw her preparing to rise, and be under her dress
smelling in a suspicious manner at her heels. He would spring from his
place at the fire, and rush to the staircase when he heard her leisurely
step descending the stairs, and once or twice nearly overset her by being
under her heels, bringing on himself a chastisement which he in vain
sought to avert by the most vigorous deprecatory pawing.
Grandmamma’s favorite evening employment was to sit sleeping in her
chair, gradually bobbing her head lower and lower,—all which movements
Wix would watch, giving a short snap, or a suppressed growl, at every
bow. What he would have done, if, as John Bunyan says, he had been
allowed to have his “doggish way” with her, it is impossible to say. Once
he succeeded in seizing the slipper from her foot as she sat napping, and
a glorious race he had with it,—out at the front door, up the path to the
Theological Seminary, and round and round the halls consecrated to better
things, with all the glee of an imp. At another time he made a dart into
her apartment, and seized a turkey-wing which the good old lady had
used for a duster, and made such a regular forenoon’s work of worrying,
shaking, and teasing it, that every feather in it was utterly demolished.
In fact, there was about Wix something so elfish and impish, that
there began to be shrewd suspicions that he must be somehow or other
a descendant of the celebrated poodle of Faust, and that one need
not be surprised some day to have him suddenly looming up into some
uncanny shape, or entering into conversation, and uttering all sorts of
improprieties unbefitting a theological professor’s family.
He had a persistence in wicked ways that resisted the most energetic
nurture and admonition of his young mistress. His combativeness was
such, that a peaceable walk down the fashionable street of Zion Hill
in his company became impossible; all was race and scurry, cackle and
flutter, wherever he appeared,—hens and poultry flying, frightened cats
mounting trees with magnified tails, dogs yelping and snarling, and
children and cows running in every direction. No modest young lady could
possibly walk out in company with such a son of confusion. Beside this,
Wix had his own private inexplicable personal piques against different
visitors in the family, and in the most unexpected moment would give
a snap or a nip to the most unoffending person. His friends in the
family circle dropped off. His ways were pronounced too bad, his conduct
perfectly indefensible; his young mistress alone clung to him, and
declared that her vigorous system of education would at last reform his
eccentricities, and turn him out a tip-top dog. But when he would slyly
leave home, and, after rolling and steeping himself in the ill-smelling
deposits of the stable or drain, come home and spring with impudent ease
into her lap, or put himself to sleep on her little white bed, the magic
cords of affection gave out, and disgust began to succeed. It began to
be remarked that this was a stable-dog, educated for the coach-boy and
stable, and to be doubted whether it was worth while to endeavor to raise
him to a lady’s boudoir; and so at last, when the family removed from
Zion Hill, he was taken back and disposed of at a somewhat reduced price.
Since then, as we are informed, he has risen to fame and honor. His name
has even appeared in sporting gazettes as the most celebrated “ratter”
in little Boston, and his mistress was solemnly assured by his present
possessor that for “cat work” he was unequalled, and that he would not
take fifty dollars for him. From all which it appears that a dog which is
only a torment and a nuisance in one sphere may be an eminent character
in another.
The catalogue of our dogs ends with Wix. Whether we shall ever have
another or not we cannot tell, but in the following pages I will tell my
young readers a few true stories of other domestic pets which may amuse
them.