“_Lord! what fools these mortals be._”
The Chow Dog was living in a house on the shores of Loch Lomond; and
the first time I saw him was when he came with his mistress to call at
the hotel. For reasons which will presently appear, I shall call him
Confucius, though this is not his real name.
When his mistress came in to see us Confucius stopped outside, and I
saw him through the window. He was of the shape of a neat little pig;
he was soft and furry, and in colour like a golden fox; he had black
eyes, and a bluish-black tongue. As soon as you saw that tongue you
realised how inartistic, how unfinished, a red tongue is; one might as
well have pink boots. By as much as a black Berkshire is more proper
and neater than a pink pig, so is a bluish-black tongue better than a
red one.
We were so much ravished by the appearance of the Chow Dog that we went
out at once to be introduced to him. As soon as he saw us coming he
began to trot steadily homewards. We had to leave him to his mistress
and retire indoors, and after some conflict of wills and clash of
temperaments she appeared victorious with the dog tucked under her arm.
We found that he was at this time only four months old, and absolutely
the most self-confident creature living. He thought he knew everything,
and scorn was the very breath of his nostrils. Though his personal
experience, compared to ours, was short, he felt behind him the
centuries of Chinese civilisation. When his empire was elderly, our
civilisation was in the cradle. This more than redressed the personal
balance and left him to the good.
Confucius clearly did not care to make our acquaintance, but we felt it
a privilege to be admitted to a greater intimacy with him.
[Illustration: _Photograph by Messrs. Fall_
“Scorn was the very breath of his nostrils.”]
He comported himself at home with dignity, though not always with
civility; he had none of the puppy _abandon_ natural at his age. I
tried to teach him to retrieve a piece of paper. He was bored, but he
would not be taken at a disadvantage; so he walked slowly after the
paper and gravely returned it to me. After I had persisted in this
exercise for some time, he saw that it was meant for a game, and as he
would not appear deficient in a sense of humour, he gambolled a little
as he went after it.
Confucius never gave himself up to a passing emotion. I saw him once
on the rocks with a real puppy, a spaniel puppy bigger than the Chow
and probably older. It crouched before him sinuous and silly; it sprang
up, gambolled round him and crouched again; it flew at a gallop past
his nose and lay down on the other side of him. It exhausted itself
in futilities, and gasped and panted with its efforts; and all this
time the Chow surveyed it with a bright, contemptuous eye. When it was
utterly worn out he got up and went away.
At last Confucius made a mistake. We saw him on the edge of the lake
one day with something in his mouth which he swung and tossed from
side to side. We called him, and with exultant pride he came towards
us. The thing was soft and furry, and so long that it hindered him
as he ran. He laid it down before us with jaunty tail and conceited
eye--it was his first rabbit.
I had so often smarted under the sense of Confucius’ contempt that I
was not prepared to be tender to his humiliation. I had not known what
it would be like. He took corporal punishment with a fair amount of
self-control, but he strained and howled at the indignity of a chain,
and the shame of looking at that furry thing of which but just now he
had been so proud. When he found that he could not get free, he sat
down and thought over the situation until his tail uncurled.
In our walk that evening we were not preceded by a triumphant golden
dog, with well-cocked tail and exalted nose, for Confucius followed
behind, lost in thought. He did not stray for a moment into the bushes;
no rustle of wild creatures could attract him. He was dreeing his
weird.
He had finished dreeing it by next morning, however, and his opinion of
himself was quite restored--more than restored--as he had laid up a new
piece of experience.
The last time I saw the Chow was when we left Loch Lomond. He came with
his party to see us off, but it was wet and the boat was late. They had
to return home, while we waited sheltering in the pierman’s hut.
The party must have fallen out by the way, for we had not waited
long before Confucius came trotting back alone, quite cheerful and
self-possessed. He went round to the further side of the hut so as to
interpose it between himself and the homeward path. Then he sat down
very comfortably. If either a dog or a philosopher could have winked,
Confucius would have winked at us.
The steamer drew away until the shed grew small against the fir-tree
stems, and we could only see a tiny golden speck beside it. But we
knew that was Confucius sitting Jacques-like to mock at the world, at
our superficial brains, our simple wiles and our infant civilisation.
[Illustration: Kitten by Madame Ronner]