EXIT LUMBERLEGS
[Illustration]
One morning the skirmishing that had been going on for several weeks
between Waddles and Lumberlegs broke into open warfare, and it was
the misguided interference of a would-be peacemaker that quickened the
crisis.
This was Mrs. Happy Waddles who, from poking her pretty little nose
where it did not belong, and relying too much upon the indulgence
accorded her sex, not only very nearly made herself a widow, but caused
a household commotion as well.
As we have noticed before, Lumberlegs was very poorly instructed in dog
law, in spite of having grown up side by side with Waddles, who was
letter perfect in it. Not only did Lumberlegs ignore the “rights of
age” and “buried bones law,” but he began breaking the “fresh food law”
as well.
House People should make it as easy as possible for their fourfoots
to keep this law by giving each one its rations separately, for it is
only in early puppy days that dogs may be trusted to feed from the same
dish, and even then the timid and weak fare poorly.
Waddles had the appetite of a dog who had been reared alone, and could
therefore pick and choose. He ate deliberately and never ravenously,
sniffing cautiously at each morsel; for once, when he was ill, Anne had
made the mistake of giving him pills concealed in his food. Of course
he discovered them, spat them out with much sputtering, and never
forgot the occurrence.
On the other hand, Lumberlegs and Happy were both gluttons; the first
because he was so big that it seemed impossible to give him enough,
while the little beagle was perhaps prompted to overeat by a haunting
memory of the single daily meal of her kennel life.
In this particular case the bone of contention belonged to a ham, a
dainty especially kept for Waddles. He had taken a few gnaws from it
and hidden it under the flap of the cellar door, his favourite cache,
while he went for his daily walk to the village with Anne; for whatever
his faults he had always preferred her companionship to food, never
swerving even for liver and bacon.
Along sauntered Lumberlegs, searching for something to add relish to
his ample breakfast of dog bread. He tried to investigate the swill
pail, but it not only had a tight zinc cover, after the fashion of all
well-bred scrap pails, but for double protection there was a stone on
top which he playfully knocked off with one sweep of his paw.
Straws show which way the wind blows, and this stone showed where the
ham bone was by rolling directly against it.
Lumberlegs seized upon the bone with delight and tossed it into the
air gaily, preparing to have a good play before making a meal.
Happy, whose deafness seemed to sharpen her sense of smell, came from
under a bush where she had been taking a nap in company with Jack and
Jill, and sat where she could keep her eyes upon the bone, giving a
little whine now and then, moistening her lips with the edge of her
pink tongue, and casting appealing glances at Lumberlegs that only
seemed to stimulate him to further antics.
It is almost always the soft-haired, mild-eyed, helpless looking sort
of people like Happy that sit still and brew trouble, even in bigger
places than Dogtown.
Waddles, coming home from market half an hour later, took in the
situation at a glance. He had borne a great deal in silence, but this
was too much. It was high time for his position as house fourfoot at
Happy Hall to be upheld. He would try his authority as “oldest dog”
first. So, going forward slowly with a contracted tiptoe gait and tail
held erect, he made a series of noises that seemed graded between
growls and real speech. Lumberlegs understood this language perfectly,
and rolling on his back, he gave the bone a final, careless toss, as
much as to say, “I was only playing, take your old bone.”
Waddles advanced to seize his property, and all would have been well,
at least for that time, if Happy had not interfered.
It had happened several times that when the two dogs had been playing
with or contending for a bone, Happy had ended the matter by running
between them, giving each a caressing lick on the nose, and making off
with the bone herself, leaving them looking sheepish, but too polite
to remonstrate. She now tried the same tactics, but in reaching up to
Lumberlegs, who was rolling in the grass, she received an entirely
unintentional blow from one of his paws, and ran away squealing in
terror out of all proportion to her hurt.
Waddles, with a deep, short growl that must have been a wicked word
in dog talk, sprang upon Lumberlegs; but before he could do more, the
great jaws closed on his neck, and he was shaken as a cat shakes a rat.
Fortunately, Waddles wore a stout collar which broke the force of the
grip, otherwise his neck might have been broken before Baldy, who heard
Anne’s cry, came to stop the fray. But as it was, the sleek white neck
was streaked with red, there was a rent in one of the beautiful ears,
and for the first time in his life Waddles, the Mayor of Dogtown,
had been mauled and shaken like a common cur. And this, too, when he
was growing old, and by a dog of the same household. True, in the
old days, he often had differences with Tiger, the miller’s cat; but
cat scratches on one’s nose are considered wounds of honour in dog
etiquette, and are no disgrace.
Lumberlegs was shut in the yard beside his kennel, and Waddles
retreated to the remotest corner of the cellar, from which he refused
to come forth even when Anne, bringing warm water, a bit of sponge, and
sticking plaster, called him in her most persuasive voice.
“He feels sulky,” said Baldy, “leave him alone a spell and he’ll come
out all right. I reckon his feelings is hurt more’n his neck.”
“That is just it,” said Anne, sorrowfully, “and to a dog like Waddles
hurt feelings are much worse to bear than a bitten neck.”
But when he failed to appear at dinner time, and Anne took a lantern to
hunt for him among the coal-bin caverns, the poor neck was so swollen
that the collar was sunken in the flesh like a ring on a fat finger.
Even when the collar was taken off, the bite bathed and cooled with
a soothing wash, and the rent in the ear drawn together with narrow
strips of rubber plaster, he refused either to respond to Anne’s
petting, come upstairs, or in fact move at all, though after she
reluctantly left, she heard him lapping water from the refrigerator pan
after his usual hot weather habit.
“I wouldn’t trouble if I was you,” said Baldy, cheerfully; “they all
hev their little scrapes. It’s accordin’ to natur’ for dogs to delight
to bark and bite, like it says in the Sunday-school poetry, that
everybody knows.”
“That’s one of the things that ‘everybody knows’ that isn’t true,”
answered Anne, emphatically; “dogs’ real delight is to live with people
and be understood and have their feelings respected. That’s why I’m
afraid that Waddles will never forget to-day; he has been feeling hurt
about Lumberlegs for a long while, and now he thinks he is in disgrace
besides.”
“Feed the dogs separately, keep them apart for a time and the stray
bones raked up, and I think the feud will blow over,” said Anne’s
father. Her mother thought differently, for Lumberlegs, the boisterous
puppy, and Bigness, the full-grown man dog, standing thirty-five inches
at the shoulder, were entirely different beings. She had watched him at
play with Tommy and noticed the way he eyed with resentment everything
that came near. She knew that when he followed Anne to the woods
she had more than police protection. He was of the faithful, jealous
disposition, that must be the only one of his kind in a home that gave
wide range for wandering, not one of several house fourfoots that
recognized a smaller dog as master, and lived literally in a town of
numerous dogs.
The feeding separately matter was easily done, for Waddles persistently
refused to leave the cellar except on stealthy trips toward evening, or
when he was sure that his foe was out of range. How he knew this was a
puzzle to Anne, for he could neither see nor hear from the depths of
the coal-bin, into which fastness he crawled through the small, square
door at the bottom made for the shovel. She soon realized, however,
that his keen scent told him.
Lumberlegs also knew quite well when Waddles was in his retreat, for
though he did not care to venture down the steep stone steps because
his back legs were rather sprawly, he would walk past the door growling
softly, with bristling hair, and then give a broken bark and, turning,
kick grass into the air in the direction of the cellar with a gesture
of contempt.
The two weeks that followed were ones of trial for Anne. She was in
perpetual fear that the dogs would meet, for she grew more sure every
day that “making-up” was out of the question.
Even though Lumberlegs was in his yard, Waddles would not follow her to
the village. He forsook his friends along the route upon whom he had
never before failed to call daily, sturdily going the rounds alone if
Anne omitted her walk.
It was not until he ceased to follow her that Anne fully realized what
a friend she had lost, one who was self-reliant, faithful, and wise,
giving no trouble, asking nothing beyond the trifling care his rare
ailments needed, and the affection his intelligence won. For Waddles
knew the speech of House People as well as Anne interpreted Heart
of Nature’s language, and he and his mistress had a perfect, mutual
understanding.
If Anne, wearing her common hat, said, “Do you want to go to the
post-office?” he would give a cheer and start off down the hill before
her, waiting on the office steps; while if she said store or market
instead of post-office, he would wait by the respective doors.
If, on the contrary, she wore a different hat or said, “Not to-day,
Waddlekins, I’m going to town,” he might sometimes go with her to the
gate but never farther.
His own voice, too, had different shades of meaning, even beyond the
others of his vocal race, for if any dog has speech it is the beagle
hound.
While he was on guard no one could enter the gate, two hundred yards
from the house, unsignalled, either from his post on the porch corner
or his summer night quarters in the wide window of the upper hall.
[Illustration]
For a twofoot whom he did not at once recognize he had a bark of
inquiry; for a total stranger a querulous gruff note of warning; for a
friend the inquiring tone quickly broke into rapid barks, like voluble
talk; while for animals his voice had a wholly different key, starting
in a series of monotonous yaps, until, if at liberty, he would sniff
the air, catch the trail, and follow it in full cry.
At night when he harked every member of the household knew whether the
intruder was man or beast. Oftentimes at dawn he would push open Anne’s
door and lick her hand that was lying on the counterpane, to signify
that he wanted the front door opened. Then when she, in dressing gown
and slippers, or sometimes, I must confess, with bare toes and an airy
nighty, would creep down the stairs and undo the bolts, cautioning
silence, she was often lured out on to the porch by the expression of
his face as he tiptoed about, unravelling the different trails that
told him the story of the night.
Sometimes he would give a growl and his back bristled--that meant an
intruder from Dogtown had left an unwelcome message or disagreeable
news. Then his eyes would grow deep and luminous, and when Anne asked,
“Squirrel?” he would give a short yap as if to say, “No good,” and gaze
up in the trees. But when he began by wildly zig-zagging to and fro
with head down, uttering discordant cries, then dashing off without
waiting to answer questions, his mistress knew that he was following
either a cat or rabbit, and that he would return late for breakfast and
very tired.
To think that the little animal that knew all this should be moping
unkempt and forlorn in the coal-bin, gave affectionate Anne the
heartache. Next she tried the experiment of having Baldy carry him
upstairs and give him a good bath, for his wounds were now healed, and
then invited him to “go to the post-office” in the old-time gay tone.
For a moment he rallied and gave an answering cry which was echoed by
Bigness, who, as chance would have it, was lying in the shadow of the
house front, Tommy having taken him from his yard and strolled away,
forgetting to put him up again.
At the sound Waddles bristled and then shrank away, and Anne realized
for the first time how thin and altered and spiritless he was. But the
next day a change came over him: he forsook the cellar and boldly took
his old seat under the apple tree in full sight of Bigness’s house, as
if tempting fate; but as he did not come out Waddles returned again to
the cellar.
Tommy sided with the St. Bernard, wailing that the fault was all
Waddles’s, and passionately refused to part with his pet and have Jack
and Jill for his very own, even though Bigness should go to a beautiful
home to be the pet of his dear friend, little Miss Muffet, who lived
at a big farm far away and had no dog friend at all.
“The train killed Lily, and now you want to steal Bigness from me just
because your silly Waddles is selfish and wants to fight and have
everybody for himself. I don’t care if he was here first; he’s old and
he’ll soon be dead, anyway--and I’m glad and--” but he didn’t finish,
for Anne, sweet tempered and fifteen though she was, shook her little
brother hard and then flew up the hill to her tree perch in tears.
It was the first time that Tommy had ever been shaken, and he was as
surprised and heartbroken as Waddles had been at his overthrow.
However, he did not cry but stood quite still, with a very red face and
quivering lips, muttering to himself, “Anne’s as cross as Bigness--and
she hardly never cries--and--it’s horrid to be shaken, and I guess I am
sorry for Waddles--a--little bit.” And more days passed.
* * * * *
In the coal-bin crouched Waddles in dismal plight, his brain full of
dark thoughts; for dogs do a deal of thinking when they seem to be only
dozing in the sun or before the fire, and Waddles in hiding neither ate
nor slept and did nothing but think, for it was two days now since he
had taken more than a drink of water. Anne did not know this, for the
food she took him disappeared into the capacious stomachs of Jack and
Jill, who amused themselves half the day by rolling and scrambling up
and down the cellar steps.
Waddles, usually so spotless and neat, who often washed his face twice
a day with a queer motion of his hind feet peculiar to himself, was now
wholly unkempt, his hair rough and dry, and his nose smutty.
The truth was that he did not care for anything now that he thought his
mistress misunderstood him, neither would he go among his friends,--he,
the only resident of Dogtown who had never been taunted or fought by
another dog, to be whipped and driven to cover in a cellar by a dog of
his own house who had disobeyed all law and could not be reasoned with!
This was a state of things not to be endured. No, he would try once
more and give Bigness the punishment he deserved, or die in the attempt.
Then he set himself to wait a chance and time for meeting his enemy,
for both dogs were closely watched to prevent the very battle that he
was planning.
Bigness was now given a run morning and evening, but was kept in his
yard the rest of the day when Waddles was at liberty; but the time
soon came when somebody forgot, and Bigness, hurrying home to early
breakfast, met Waddles standing rigid and motionless by the corner of
the house.
* * * * *
Anne, awakened suddenly from a late sleep, stood in the middle of her
room half dazed, not knowing whether the sounds she heard belonged to a
dream or to reality.
Then the sound came again, the awful choking, snarling struggle of
fighting dogs, always a horrible sound, but doubly so when you know the
dogs.
Anne ran to call her father, her heart pounding as if it would jump out
of her mouth. Fortunately, he was already dressed and out, and as she
almost fell downstairs, hardly touching the steps, the noise ceased
and she heard her father’s voice say to Baldy: “Put him in the old hay
barn until I decide what to do. I will attend to Waddles.” Then the
door opened and her father entered with a distressed face, carrying the
beagle in his arms.
“Is he killed?” she gasped.
“No, neither very badly hurt I hope; but quite exhausted. I never
shall forget the expression of his face as he clung to that great jaw
that was dragging him to his death; it was like that of a man who was
hopelessly fighting for his honour and home.
“This is no common dog-fight, little daughter, where both dogs should
be punished and tied up until they come to their senses. Waddles has
been with us so long that he has almost human feelings and reason; to
thrust him out to be a mere dog again would be wicked. Lumberlegs must
go!”
At these words Waddles, who was lying quite still on the door-mat where
his master had laid him, opened his eyes and wagged his tail, with very
significant if rather feeble thumps.
* * * * *
Though Waddles rallied very quickly, the bites on his neck, which had
been this time collarless, had sunk in very deep, and though he was
gradually growing less moody, he did not go far from the house or take
up his old ways, and seemed quite conscious that Lumberlegs, though
invisible, had not yet left the premises.
One warm night about a week after the fight, when doors and windows
were left open, and the dogs roved about at will, Anne waked to find
that Waddles was sitting beside her bed in such a position that her
hand that hung off the edge rested on his neck.
“What is the matter, old fellow, do you want a drink?” she asked,
patting him; but as she did so she felt that one side of his neck was
burning hot and swelled into a hard lump.
Next day the veterinary came and pronounced Waddles a very sick dog,
said that he had been poisoned by the deepest bite, and must have his
neck lanced and be carefully treated, or he would die.
“I’ll take him right along with me to my hospital now if your man will
put him in my buggy. He’ll have the best of treatment, and it will be
cheaper than keeping him here and having me running over. Besides, you
couldn’t take care of him; it’s too much bother for you to dirty your
fingers with,” said the doctor, kindly, for he saw the distress in
Anne’s face.
“My fingers are quite used to dirt,” said Anne, quietly, “and I’ve
got a ‘First Aid to the Injured’ box full of cotton and plaster and
bandages, and such like, for I fix all the cut fingers and baseball
noses hereabout; there are five boys between here and the cross-roads
that play, besides a fat girl and a medium-old lady who are having
trouble in learning to ride wheels, so you see I’ve had experience.
“If you will lance Waddles’s neck here, I’m sure I can take care of
him, and father will pay for the visits. Or, if he doesn’t want to,
there is my camera money,” she added half to herself.
This same camera money was a family joke and seemed to be composed of
magic coin, which, no matter how often it was spent, never seemed to
grow less, but rather to increase.
“You’d best let me take him to the hospital. You see, I’ve nothing to
fasten him with, and he’ll have to be well bound, or he may upset the
whole business and perhaps bite me to boot.”
“I’m sure he will sit quite still, for he always has before; once
the doctor took two stitches in his back because the milkman put
barbed wire on his fence rails without Waddles’s knowing it. And then
last spring when we were watching a man who didn’t know how to cast,
splashing around the stream with a trout rod, he hooked poor Waddles,
who was quite far up the bank behind him, and the hook had to be cut
out, but Waddles never bit or squealed. He knows when he is ill,
and that we want to help him; but if he went away from home to the
hospital, he would be too sad to get well, even if you were good to
him.”
“She’s right,” said Baldy, taking a hand in the discussion. “You jes’
do the business. I’ll see you ain’t bit, and I’ll help Anne fix the
little critter up as often as needs be ’til he’s cured. Ah, yes, he’ll
pull through all right if he stays to home ’cause he’ll want ter; but
if he’s fetched away, he jes’ won’t care.”
So the deed was done, Waddles neither struggling nor crying, and great
relief followed the point of the shining lance.
“It’s different with medicines,” said Anne, as the sensitive nose
quivered and sneezed when the doctor uncorked a bottle of pungent
creolin to make a wash. “Waddles doesn’t understand about them, and he
may not like the bandages, because it seems like being tied up; but if
you’ll show me once, I know that Baldy and I can manage.”
So every morning for a week, precisely at eight, when Baldy’s chores
were finished, you might have seen Anne bring her “First Aid” box to
the back stoop, and change Waddles’s bandages, dressing his hurt as
carefully as the doctor himself could have done. Baldy had to help by
holding the patient when the creolin wash was used; for Waddles, the
house fourfoot, could bear pain, but Waddles, the rabbit hound, could
not endure a strong odour without choking and rolling in the grass.
In another week the bandages came off for good, and he had a bath,
though he did not yet take any of his old interest in making his toilet.
[Illustration]
One day, however, a change came. He was lying on the decrepit old sofa
in the upper hall, where Anne was used to curl up and read on rainy
days. She had lent him her soft poppy chintz sofa pillow that she had
made with great pains to match her bureau set, and Waddles, lying there
luxuriously, his head on the pillow and his paws held in front of him
like hands, gazed at Anne with a glance in which affection, comfort,
and sleepiness were mingled.
Wheels crushed the gravel and Anne going to the window saw the runabout
wagon with Baldy and a strange man in it driving out of the stable
yard. Between them on the bottom sat Bigness, his head almost on
a level with theirs, while he strained at his collar and looked back
longingly as he passed the house.
[Illustration: _Miss Muffet, Brother, and Bigness._]
Anne knew that he was to go to his new home that day. She had gone all
alone to give him a parting hug that morning, and she choked as she
looked at him. Tommy, meantime, was up in the hayloft having his cry
out, with no other company than a white brahma hen who had stolen her
nest.
Waddles sniffed, and getting stiffly down from the sofa raised himself,
paws on window sill, and looked out. He saw the wagon, the men, and the
dog, and he understood. He had the courtesy not to bark, but his tail
wagged furiously. Then he dropped to the floor and began washing his
face vigorously with his hind leg. Waddles was himself again.
* * * * *
Bigness went to live with little Miss Muffet and her brother at the
hill farm half a day’s drive away, where he had his liberty, good
eating, was their “owniest,” and was hugged to his heart’s content; but
he never forgot Anne, and when she visited him he had eyes only for
her, and awoke the echoes baying long after she left.
Anne was his first love, and to be the first love of a big dog is a
rather serious thing and not to be lightly undertaken.
[Illustration]