About a month ago we lost our dog. I can't describe him, although I have
tried from time to time; but Elaine, my wife, said I should not speak in
that fashion of a dumb animal. He stands about two hands high, is of a
reseda-green shade, except when in anger, and has no distinguishing marks
except the absence of a piece of the right ear, which was carried off by a
marauding Irish terrier. He answers with a growl to many names, including
that of Timon. He will also answer to a piece of raw meat, another dog or a
postman.
I do not know if dogs can be said to have a hobby; if so, Timon's hobby is
postmen. He studies them closely. In fact I should not be surprised if he
comes to write a monograph on them some day.
As soon as one of them has daringly passed the entrance gates of Bellevue,
Timon trots forth like a reception committee to meet him. He studies the
bunch of communications that the visitor bears in his hand. If they are all
right--cheques from publishers, editors and missing-heir merchants,
invitations to tea and tennis or dinner and dominoes, requests for
autographs--Timon nods and allows the postman to pass unscathed. On the
other hand, if the collection includes rejected manuscripts, income or
other tax demand notes, tracts or circulars, then I hear the low growl with
which Timon customarily goes into action, and the next moment the postman
is making for the neighbouring county and taking a four-foot gate in his
stride.
Consequently it is to be anticipated that if the Olympic Games are ever
held in our neighbourhood the sprint and the hurdles will be simply at the
mercy of our local post-office. They take no credit for it. It is simply
practice, they say.
But, to return to the main subject, we have lost Timon. One month has
passed without his cheery presence at Bellevue. Reckless postmen have made
themselves free of the front garden and all colour has gone out of life.
We have done everything to win him back. We have inserted numerous
advertisements in the agony columns of the newspapers: "If this should
catch the eye of Timon," or "Come back, Timon. All will be forgiven;" but
apparently we have yet to find his favourite newspaper.
We began with the well-known canine papers, trusting vainly that he might
happen to glance through them some day when he was a bit bored or hadn't an
engagement. After that we went through _The Times_, _The Morning Post_
(he's strongly anti-Bolshevik), _The Daily News_ (his views on vivisection
are notorious) and other dailies, and then took to the weeklies.
We had strong hopes for a time that _The Meat Trade Review_ would find him.
Timon is fond of raw meat. But failure again resulted. We have now reached
_Syren and Shipping_ and _The Ironmongers' Gazette_ and--
* * * * *
I must stop here to inform you of the glad news. Elaine has just hurried in
to tell me that Timon has replied and will be back to-morrow.
How did we catch his eye? Well, of course we should have thought of it
before. It was _The Post Office Gazette_.
* * * * *