"Papa, the cruel policeman has murdered little Gip? He sneaked up and
frowed a nice piece of meat to Gip, and Gip he eated it, and fanked the
policeman with his tail, and runned after him and teased for more, but the
policeman fought Gip had enough, and then Gip stopped and looked sorry he
had eaten it, and pretty soon he laid down and died, and the policeman
laughed and went off feeling good. If Dan Sheenan was the policeman any
more he wouldn't poison my dog, would he, pa?"
The above was the greeting the bald-headed _Sun_ man received on Thursday,
and a pair of four-year-old brown eyes were full enough of tears to break
the heart of a policeman of many years' standing, and the little, crushed
master of the dead King Charles spaniel went to sleep sobbing and
believing that policemen were the greatest blot upon the civilization of
the nineteenth century.
Here was a little fellow that had from the day he first stood on his feet
after the scarlet fever had left him alive, been allowing his heart to
become entwined with love for that poor little dog. For nearly a year the
dog had been ready to play with the child when everybody else was tired
out, and never once had the dog been cross or backed out of a romp, and
the laughter and the barking has many a time been the only sound of
happiness in the neighborhood.
If the boy slept too long after dinner, the dog went and rooted around him
as much as to say, "Look a here, Mr. Roy, you can't play this on your
partner any longer. You get up here and we will have a high old time, and
don't you forget it." And pretty soon the sound of baby feet and dog's toe
nails would be heard on the stairs, and the circus would commence.
If the dog slept too long of an afternoon, the boy would hunt him
out, take hold of his tail with one hand and an ear with the other, and
lug him into the parlor, saying, "Gip, too much sleep is what is ruining
the dogs in this country. Now, brace up and play horse with me." And then
there was fun.
Well, it is all over; but while we write there is a little fellow sleeping
on a tear-stained pillow, dreaming, perhaps of a heaven where the woods
are full of King Charles' spaniel dogs, and a door-keeper stands with a
club to keep out policemen. And still we cannot blame policemen--it is the
law that is to blame--the wise men who go to the legislature, and make
months with one day too much, pass laws that a dog shall be muzzled and
wear a brass check, or he is liable to go mad. Statistics show that not
one dog in a million ever goes mad and that they are more liable to go mad
in winter than in summer; but several hundred years ago somebody said that
summer was "dog days," and the law makers of this enlightened nineteenth
century still insist on a wire muzzle at a season of the year when a dog
wants air and water, and wants his tongue out.
So we compel our guardians of the peace to go around assassinating dogs.
Men, who as citizens, would cut their hands off before they would injure a
neighbor's property, or speak harsh to his dog, when they hire out to the
city must stifle all feelings of humanity, and descend to the level of
Paris scavengers. We compel them to do this. If they would get on their
ears and say to the city of Milwaukee, "We will guard your city, and
protect you from insult, and die for you if it becomes necessary; but we
will see you in hades before we go around assassinating dogs," we as
people, would think more of them, and perhaps build them a decent station
house to rest in.