Now we took Taffy away from his club life, his beloved cabs, his large
circle of friends who threw sticks and catalogues on Sunday, his large
circle of enemies with whom he exchanged stimulating defiances in the
streets; and we buried him in the country.
He enjoyed the journey, because he knows so well how to behave in the
train; he keeps an eye fixed on his mistress, and stays in the carriage
or gets out as he is told; he is open to blandishments from respectable
strangers, and will lie obligingly on their dresses or rest his head
on a knee; he keeps close to one’s side on the platform, and gets into
a cab as obediently as a child. He liked the new house, too, for the
front door was always open, and he needed no kind policeman to ring the
bell.
Thus it was a few days before he began to realise the disadvantages.
His family was arranging the house, and when he lay genially in the
middle of a room he was instantly asked to move. He took offence and
went away by himself, but no one had time to call him and rally him
on his bad temper. Then he found there were few dogs in the benighted
place, and three despicable cats.
But worst of all, an inexplicable change came over the habits of his
family; they did not go for drives, and comparatively seldom for walks;
but they did foolish things in the garden with rakes, and they fed
idiotic hens. They would not even allow him to go into the hen-house to
see what was talking so loud inside; worst of all, they played croquet,
and his greatest friend putted in the garden.
Taffy loathed the sight of a hoe, of a rake, of a mallet, and of a golf
club.
He allowed no ambiguity about the situation; if he saw any one begin
to play croquet he turned his back on them and lay down; he refused
to go out with a golf club; and if his mistress took the turn towards
the poultry yard he went back to the house and lay with a sickened
expression outside the front door.
A bored expression began to be characteristic of Taffy. He lay sulkily
in front of the house, accompanying for a few steps every one who went
out, and turning back as they went straight to some detested occupation.
He got up a fine quarrel with the milkman’s dog, but this had only
the effect of curtailing his walk, for when two parasols had been
fruitlessly broken over the backs of the combatants after morning
church, every one felt a little shy of taking him where he might meet
the milkman’s dog.
The cats were a fresh insult. Two of them were kittens, and not in the
least afraid of Taffy, and it seemed to amuse his family to see them
rout him; to ask him to look at them, which he could not do for fear
of catching their eye; to ask him to kiss them, which he would have
scorned to do even if their claws had been less sharp and their tempers
more serene.
With these new occupations Taffy’s lessons ran risk of being forgotten,
so he did not come to the dining-room for dessert. Demonstrations
of affection lessened, and Taffy restrained his own outpourings of
emotion; in fact he was in danger of becoming a reckless loafer of a
dog.
When his family suddenly woke up to the existence of these tendencies
in him they tried to mend matters. They paid more attention to his
feelings and poured out upon him expressions of affection. Taffy
responded with fervour; lessons were begun again, and Taffy presented
himself nightly at the dining-room door, singing in a loud, excited
tone, greeting the family as if they were a circle of long-lost
friends, jerking his head under each arm so as to make it fall round
his neck. His best friend took Taffy to sleep in his room, which made
Taffy very happy, and he slept nine hours every night and snored most
of the time. When the room was unoccupied he slept on the bed and did
his best to make it comfortable.
Then a delightful event took the sting from the glorious memory of
cabs. Two horses came to the stable, and Taffy could again run down to
meet the carriage and place himself underneath, so close to the heels
of the horse that he ran considerable risk of having his brains kicked
out. There were even advantages in the new arrangement: carriages
seemed to go faster than cabs, and there was a stall for him to lounge
about. No longer need he repair when he was muddy to a dreary hole,
peopled with empty bottles, but to a stall full of crackling straw, to
refresh himself by a little horsey society after the insults of the
kittens.
And with this change and refreshment of spirits he found himself
able to take an interest even in the little tabby cat; he has been
seen to lick her face and smell her in a patronising manner. These
blandishments generally take place in the garden, and he is embarrassed
if they are noticed.
Finally, Taffy resolved to take his part in these restored relations
and to try to sympathise with our pursuits. He joined us in a genial
frame of mind when we were hoeing a garden path. Every time a weed
came up Taffy smelt the place, until his nose was covered with gravel.
Finally, when he saw he had grasped the idea of the thing he dug a nice
large hole in the middle of the path. So we praised him very much for
his kindness and intelligence.
There is no romance about Taffy, and no mystery; we know exactly what
he is feeling, and his very secrets are above board. If he has been
naughty, guilt is written on his countenance; if he is bored by us, he
expresses it as clearly; if he has done well, he goes round the circle
to collect applause. He lives his life in the full light of day--there
are no “silent silver lights and darks undreamed of” about Taffy.
Of course he has his nerves like the rest of us: after a display of
affection he seeks a relief from the strain of emotion and repairs
quickly to the waste-paper basket; if he is ill it is death to pity
him. He becomes unable to raise his head from the ground, unable to
swallow; a profound woe is on his face. The wholesome tonic of a few
tricks, cheerful conversation, and a little bustle is necessary to
restore him. He is now beginning to listen to conversation even when
it is not addressed to himself, but he prefers it to have a healthy,
objective tone. Talk about good dogs and bad dogs will bring him,
self-complacent or apologetic, to your side; but conversation about
walks, about carriages and horses he finds far more stimulating. For
he is a martyr to self-consciousness; if one tries to draw him he
falls helplessly on one side, or moves uneasily, and finally reclines
with his head under the sofa. His photographs, too, are apt to wear a
deprecating, uneasy expression.
Such is Taffy, intelligent, responsive, lovable, ready to impart his
joys and sorrows, thoroughly companionable, entering indeed far more
into one’s life than is possible for any other kind of animal.
But with all this he is essentially dependent; he is but part of the
Red King’s dream, and has no thread of existence which is not rooted
and twined with human lives; his independent actions are isolated, and
the memory of them makes him ashamed and guilty. It is well said that
there is no forlorner thing than an ownerless dog; and no unwilling
prisoner could love his freedom with such wholeness of spirit as Taffy
loves his servitude.