Loki is once more Only-dog in London. He is unspeakably grimy, as none
of the _famiglia_ except Juvenal are ever able or willing to tub him
when he most wants it. Juvenal, his special friend, has been away on his
holiday—poor little Loki could not understand his absence. He was
perpetually rushing out of the rooms and downstairs to see if he had
arrived. At last, worn out with suspense, he dashed up to his butler’s
bedroom and would not be satisfied till he was admitted; when, jumping
on the bed, he began to tear up the clothes, believing, we suppose, that
Juvenal shared his propensity for curling under the quilt. Odd little
dog! He has as many moods as a fine lady, and when really annoyed lies
in a strained attitude with his hind paws stuck outward like the embryo
legs of a little crocodile. This is the sign that he wants “a powder”:
what we call in our playful dog-language, “a pow-pow.”
[Sidenote: FREEMASONRY OF DOG-LOVERS]
What a freemasonry the love of dogs creates! Loki’s Grandfather,
travelling up from our moors the other day, met a family likewise going
to London; and these had with them a small Pekinese, who sat very sadly
with drooping head and tail. The owner of Loki watched him
sympathetically for some time in silence, then unable to repress his
feelings, he leant forward and said very solemnly to the Pekinese’s
lady:
“This little dog wants a pow-wow!”
“Oh! we know,” eagerly cried the lady in charge, “we know he does! He
should have had it this morning, only we were travelling.”
We were pleased with the anecdote when Loki’s Grandfather told us. No
introductions, no explanations needed: even our own special doggy
dialect instantly apprehended! One touch of Peky makes the whole world
kin.
* * * * *
A divine discontent seems an unavoidable accompaniment of garden
ambition. The Lady of Villino Loki is always furiously disappointed
every time she returns home—except in the Spring. She had, this time,
wonderful visions of her Madonna Lilies, proudly straight against the
upper terrace wall; of her Blue Border foaming blue; of her new turf
settling down into greenness. And, behold, the Lilies have got the lily
disease, drat them! the Blue Border never will be blue, whatever she
does; the Anchusas have gone back to the wild; and not one drop of water
has the infant turf received through three weeks of drought since her
departure—with the results that can be imagined!
[Illustration: man working in garden]
Not one of our precious packets of seed have come up! We once knew a
pretty American whose daughter married a rather impoverished young
Englishman of very good connexions. He was, however, scarcely important
enough himself to attract much attention: and the day before the wedding
he was nonplussed by his future mother-in-law, hitherto the most silky
and smiling of beings, taking him by the arm and marching him round the
displayed wedding presents, pausing at every step to remark: “I do not
see the present of your uncle, Lord A.! I do not see the present of your
cousin, Lady B.! I do not see the present of your great aunt, the
Duchess of C.!”...
We want to take the seedsman in similar fashion round the greenhouse
shelves:
“Where are the pots of Mignonette?” we will say. “Where the serried
ranks of Scarlet Verbena? Where are the potted Nicotianas?”...
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