I am very happy for the most part. I have perfect health and a good
appetite, and They are very good to me here: let me worry them at
meals, and toss me little bits--chiefly bread and toast, I admit, but
nice bread and nice toast; and though He spends far too much time
indoors with books and things, and She doesn’t go for walks, and the
puppy-girl has a dog of her own, and doesn’t want me (nor do I want
her), yet I manage pretty well, for there is a boy who often goes to
the village, through the rabbit fields, and takes me with him, and
there is a big house near by where the servants throw away quite large
bones only half-scraped. Either they are extravagant or they don’t make
that horrid watery stuff, the ruination of good bones, which My People
here will begin their dinner with.
So you see I don’t do badly; and, though now and then I have to be
whacked, still it doesn’t hurt much, and He only half knows how to do
it; while as for Her (when He’s away), She’s just useless.
But my grievance, you say? Oh, yes, I have one grievance, and talking
it over with other dogs, particularly spaniels (like me), I find that
it’s a very common one. My grievance is the game they will play instead
of going for a walk. In winter it’s all right, They walk then; but
in summer They will play this game. I can’t make head or tail of it
myself, but They simply adore it. It is played with four balls--blue
and red and black and yellow--and hoops. First one of Them hits a ball,
and then the other. It goes on for ever. I do all I can to show Them
what I think of it: I lie down just in front of the player; sometimes
I even stop the balls completely; but They don’t take the hint: They
just shout at me or prod me with the mallet.
That’s my grievance. Of course it was pretty bad when They got a dog
for the little puppy-girl, especially as it is not a breed I care for;
but that I can stand. It’s this wretched monopolizing game that I can’t
stand. I hate it.