A friend of mine calling to see me the other day and observing my faithful
Airedale--"Quilp" by name--whose tail was in a state of violent emotion at
the prospect of a walk, remarked that when the new taxes came in I should
have to pay a guinea for the privilege of keeping that dog. I said I hoped
that Mr. McKenna would do nothing so foolish. In fact, I said, I am sure he
will do nothing so foolish. I know him well, and I have always found him a
sensible man. Let him, said I, tax us all fairly according to our incomes,
but why should he interfere with the way in which we spend the money that
he leaves us? Why should he deny the friendship of that most friendly
animal the dog to a poor man and make it the exclusive possession of the
well-to-do?
The emotion of Quilp's tail kept pace with the fervour of my remarks. He
knew that he was the subject of the conversation, and his large brown eyes
gleamed with intelligence, and his expressive eyebrows were eloquent of
self-pity and appeal. He was satisfied that whatever the issue I was on his
side, and at half a hint he would have given my friend a taste of the rough
side of his tongue. But he is a well-mannered brute, and knows how to
restrain his feelings in company.
What would be the result of your high tax? I continued with passion. It
would be a blow at the democracy of dogs. It would reduce the whole of
dogdom to a pampered class of degenerates. Is there anything more odious
than the spectacle of a fat woman in furs nursing a lap dog in furs, too?
It is as degrading to the noble family of dogs as a footman in gold buttons
and gold braid is to the human family. But it is just these degenerates
whom a high tax would protect. Honest fellows like Quilp here (more
triumphant tail flourishes), dogs that love you like a brother, that will
run for you, carry for you, bark for you, whose candour is so transparent
and whose faithfulness has been the theme of countless poets--dogs like
these would be taxed out of existence.
Now cats, I continued--(at the thrilling word Quilp became tense with
excitement), cats are another affair. Personally I don't care two pence if
Mr. McKenna taxes them a guinea a whisker. There is only one moment in the
life of a cat that is tolerable, and that is when it is not a cat but a
kitten. Who was the Frenchman who said that women ought to be born at
seventeen and die at thirty? Cats ought to die when they cease to be
kittens and become cats.
Cats, said my friend coldly, are the spiritual superiors of dogs. The dog
is a flunkey, a serf, an underling, a creature that is eternally watching
its master. Look at Quilp at this moment. What a spectacle of servility.
You don't see cats making themselves the slaves of men. They like to be
stroked, but they have no affection for the hand that strokes them. They
are not parasites, but independent souls, going their own way, living their
own lives, indifferent to applause, calling no man master. That is why the
French consider them so superior to dogs.