It is wonderful and beautiful how a man and his dog will stick to one
another, through thick and thin. Butler tells of an undivided Indian
tribe, in the Far North which was all but exterminated by an internecine
feud over a dog that belonged to one man and was killed by his neighbor;
and among ourselves we have lawsuits, fights, and deadly feuds, all
pointing the same old moral, 'Love me, love my dog.'
One of our neighbors had a very fine hound that he thought the best and
dearest dog in the world. I loved him, so I loved his dog, and when
one day poor Tan crawled home terribly mangled and died by the door, I
joined my threats of vengeance with those of his master and thenceforth
lost no opportunity of tracing the miscreant, both by offering rewards
and by collecting scraps of evidence. At length it was clear that one of
three men to the southward had had a hand in the cruel affair. The scent
was warming up, and soon we should have been in a position to exact
rigorous justice, at least, from the wretch who had murdered poor old
Tan.
Then something took place which at once changed my mind and led me
to believe that the mangling of the old hound was not by any means an
unpardonable crime, but indeed on second thoughts was rather commendable
than otherwise.
Gordon Wright's farm lay to the south of us, and while there one day,
Gordon Jr., knowing that I was tracking the murderer, took me aside and
looking about furtively, he whispered, in tragic tones:
"It was Bing done it."
And the matter dropped right there. For I confess that from that moment
I did all in my power to baffle the justice I had previously striven so
hard to further. I had given Bingo away long before, but the feeling of
ownership did not die; and of this indissoluble fellowship of dog and
man he was soon to take part in another important illustration.
Old Gordon and Oliver were close neighbors and friends; they joined in
a contract to cut wood, and worked together harmoniously till late on in
winter. Then Oliver's old horse died, and he, determining to profit as
far as possible, dragged it out on the plain and laid poison baits for
wolves around it. Alas for poor Bingo! He would lead a wolfish life,
though again and again it brought him into wolfish misfortunes.
He was as fond of dead horse as any of his wild kindred. That very
night, with Wright's own dog Curley, he visited the carcass. It seemed
as though Bing had busied himself chiefly keeping off the wolves, but
Curley feasted immoderately. The tracks in the snow told the story of
the banquet; the interruption as the poison began to work, and of
the dreadful spasms of pain during the erratic course back home where
Curley, falling in convulsions at Gordon's feet, died in the greatest
agony.
'Love me, love my dog,' No explanations or apology were acceptable;
it was useless to urge that it was accidental; the long-standing feud
between Bingo and Oliver was now remembered as an important sidelight.
The wood-contract was thrown up, all friendly relations ceased, and to
this day there is no county big enough to hold the rival factions which
were called at once into existence and to arms by Curley's dying yell.
It was months before Bingo really recovered from the poison. We believed
indeed that he never again would be the sturdy old-time Bingo. But when
the spring came he began to gain strength, and bettering as the grass
grew, he was within a few weeks once more in full health and vigor to be
a pride to his friends and a nuisance to his neighbors.