JUST ABOUT BOB
Bob had now rounded into a fine, strong dog, pleasing in manners and
respectable in appearance. At the time of his rescue from the barn by
Ned and Hal he was in his hobbledehoy period--in dogs, as in boys, that
awkward, sappy state betwixt puppyhood and eye-teethhood. Out of this
he had grown up, under the good food and kind treatment of the Miller
household, into a dog who was a credit to the family.
He was rather larger than a pointer should be, with a head unusually
wide and full, a sign of great intelligence. His nose was a bit blunt;
and this, and his head, and his stubbornness, caused critics to hold
that somewhere in his ancestry was a strain of bulldog blood.
His ears were thin and long and velvety, drooping below his chops; his
lips were loose and swaying, and the skin of his neck was loose and
wrinkly. His eyes were a beautiful, faithful brown. His coat was a rich
mahogany, and was even and glossy. He had a magnificent chest--broad,
massive, with a bone that jutted out like that of a turkey gobbler.
Behind it was a barrel of a body, which all of Mrs. Miller's stuffing
never could make else but lean; while his ribs narrowed away until at
his flanks they ended in a sad hollow.
In truth, Bob's front half was much superior to his rear half, which
ran off into a short, stubby tail tipped with a warty knob. Whether
some accident had happened, to blight this tail in Bob's infancy, or
whether his mother's family had been so unexpectedly large that there
had not been material enough for finishing Bob completely, no one could
say. At any rate, he was not fitted with a tail such as a dog of his
size and breed should have, and he was always more or less conscious of
the fact.
Reference has been made to Bob's grin. When he was tickled over
anything his whole upper lip curled back, exposing a row of shining
white teeth and brilliant red gums. Thus, grinning at one end and
wagging at the other, he tried to show his pleasure. However, it was
not a becoming face that he made when he grinned, and many people, not
used to his oddity, mistook it for a snarl, and were afraid. As soon as
they came to know him, they understood what a good-natured fellow he
was.
Indeed, a more good-natured dog never lived. Also, never lived a dog
queerer and more human. No one made his acquaintance but to like him,
and he was suffered to do things that would have earned rebuke for any
dog but him.
When Ned was absent at school, sometimes Bob would become lonely, and
would start out to find his master. In manner unknown--but through his
nose, or ears, or eyes--he had discovered the room in which Ned was
caged during school hours, and there, in his quest, he would betake
himself.
If the door was open, in he would saunter, and sniff down the aisle;
and perhaps the first hint to Ned of Bob's presence would be that
sturdy head laid, amid titters, upon his knee.
As a rule Ned was asked by the teacher to escort Bob to the door again.
But occasionally Mr. Bob would choose, rather, to climb into an empty
seat, and there, by quietly curling for sleep, make amends for his
intrusion. In this case he was allowed to remain, and the room speedily
forgot that he was there.
At the stroke of the bell, Bob always promptly arose and trotted out.
Whether or not he learned anything of mathematics or physiology or
grammar during his snooze may be a mooted question; but Ned and friends
claimed that he did.
When it happened that Bob did not find Ned's seat occupied, he hopped
into it, and there sat bolt upright, as if to fill the vacancy, until
Ned returned. Once in a while he would refuse to get out--and then
would be hauled down by the collar, and led in disgrace to the door.
With all the wisdom got in school, nevertheless Bob did many foolish
tricks. For instance, he should have known better than to bury pancakes
in the fall, expecting to dig them up and eat them in the winter! When
the pancakes were buried, they and the ground were soft together; but
when they were sought again, a month or so later, they came up--if at
all--in flinty shreds scarcely to be told from the dirt. Yet Bob seemed
not to foresee this; and even during winter thaws he persisted in
scratching small holes and placing in them buckwheat cakes, for use in
the future!
He so loved to bury things that his nose was nearly always crowned
with a little ridge of soil. Once he brought home a five-pound roast
of beef, which a neighbor had got at the butcher's with intent to have
it for dinner. Bob buried it in the garden, and for a week and more
regularly uncovered it, took a few delicious gnaws, and covered it up
again.
Ned was obliged to find the neighbor another roast.
Bob was a dog not easily convinced. This is a polite way of putting it,
for the trait was neither more nor less than downright stubbornness.
When he would not do a thing, he wouldn't, until at last persuaded by
kind words, or hope of reward, or fear of punishment.
Ned found that patience and gentle argument were better than blows,
to make Bob yield, so threshings were dropped from the list of
"persuaders." Bob had a keen sense of shame, and the tone of the voice
could make him feel worse than the hardest licking.
His stubbornness was twice very nearly his death. The first time, he
was simply bound not to budge one inch from the way of a heavy farm
wagon. He lay flat in the road, and waited for the wagon to turn out
for _him_. But the wagon kept upon its route, and Bob, still sticking
to his position, did nothing but howl his protests as the wheels passed
over his back.
His bones being soft, he arose unhurt, and stalked off in the sulks.
The second time had as a scene the approach to the high trestle
bridging a slough just beyond the farther end of the river bridge.
Ned and Bob had been for a walk, and upon the return Bob had refused
to walk the trestle. According to his custom he flopped down, like a
spoiled child, on the spot.
Ned went ahead, hoping that at last Bob would arise and follow. He had
gone a short distance, leaving Bob sprawled on the gravel in the middle
of the railroad track, when suddenly he heard the rumble of a train,
nearing from behind.
"Bob! Here, Bob! Here, Bob!" he called, running back.
But Bob dumbly declined.
"Get up! Bob! Get up!" cried Ned.
Bob, with his master coming from one way and the train coming from the
other, stayed on his spot, deaf to the appeals of the former and the
warnings of the latter.
The engine reached him first. Ned, horrified, saw him hurled into the
air, up, up, twenty feet, his legs dangling and his ears flopping.
Turning slow somersaults down he came, clear of the trestle, into the
depths below. Ned caught a glimpse of the engineer and fireman looking
back from the cab and laughing, which made him mad.
The first freeze of the fall had covered the slough with an inch of
ice. Down dropped Bob, as swiftly as though he were from the dog-star,
and lit squarely, in a sitting position, on a shallow place.
The sound of a shrill yelp floated up to Ned, leaning over to gaze. Bob
bounced to his feet, and leaving the outlines of his hind parts, with a
hole marking where his tail had bored, across the slough he fled, his
ki-yi's drifting behind him, fainter and fainter.
After much whistling Ned found him again, hiding in the woods. In body
Bob was uninjured, but his feelings had been hurt; and for some time he
could not be made to believe but that a mean trick had been played upon
him by Ned and the train.
Finally he allowed himself to be coaxed upon the trestle, and with
whimper and trembling, with tail between his legs and with many a
backward glance, he made the journey across.
Thereafter he took the trestle in a hurry, without a sign of
hesitation. He had learned a lesson.
Bob's stubbornness was not always of mischief to him. Sometimes it
stood him in good stead, and above all in his fights. Now, Bob was not
willingly a fighter. There were times when he would run from a dog not
half his size. This lack of spirit was a cause of great vexation to
Ned, who, while he would not have Bob a bully like some dogs, upon the
other hand would not have him a craven and a coward.
But when cornered, or when once started, Bob was a perfect demon at a
fight. The dog that picked upon him, thinking to be able to nag him
without return, was likely to have a sudden rush of trouble.
Bob's great jaws closed on him with a grip that no struggles could
break. When Bob bit, he bit for keeps.
He had, in Beaufort, two particular enemies--almost the sole enemies
that he knew. Both were white bulldogs; one lived down town in a drug
store, and the other lived behind a picket fence, out toward the flats.
Up and down before this picket fence would race Bob, and up and down
behind it would race his enemy, and between the pickets sped a thousand
names and epithets, the most stinging in dog language.
These were Bob's moments of bravery; but let the bulldog dart out at
him, around a corner or through a hole, and Bob would flee for dear
life, with his foe bellowing at his heels.
This state of affairs lasted for several months, until, one day, Bob
was surprised and crowded against a high sidewalk, and obliged to make
a stand. The bulldog, after worrying him for a short space, on a
sudden found himself matched against a very angry lion. Bob's temper
was roused. He outweighed the bulldog, he outdid him in strength
and agility, and that canine had a sorry time before the people who
gathered could force Bob's teeth to unclose from a certain white
fore-leg. As for Bob, the loose skin about his throat had been all that
the bulldog could seize.
This bulldog's day as an ogre was over. Henceforth he was a wiser and
more humble animal.
The drug store dog learned a like lesson in a like way. One evening he
cornered Bob in between some dry goods boxes, and set about to have
fun out of him. The "fun" ended with Ned dancing around in dismay,
while a policeman, by the aid of lighted matches and the handle of his
club, induced Bob to let go! Then the bulldog's owner, crestfallen and
wrathful, carried his fallen champion home in his arms.
Bob proudly trotted on his way, licking his bloody chops. His enemy was
retired for a week, and came forth again more discreet, and smelling of
arnica.
Yet, with all his victories, Bob never went around with a chip on his
shoulder. He much preferred peace to war.
Bob's greatest gift was swimming. The pointer family is supposed not
to like the water, especially, save as a relief from the heat; but be
it hot or cold, Bob was ever ready for a plunge. His favorite fun was
to get out in the middle of the river, where the current was deepest
and swiftest, and swim up stream. He would do this with no object, it
seemed, except showing off his powers in the water.
Ah, what a grand swimmer Bob was! With his splendid fore-shoulders high
and dry above the surface, and his mighty chest throwing the waters
aside in a rolling wave, he would plough his path, regardless of the
distance, to the goal. If permitted, he would swim for hours at a
time--aimlessly paddling hither and thither, chasing stray bits of wood
and even bubbles.
He would make a pretense at diving, but this consisted simply in
sticking his head under, and withdraw it in a instant, coughing, and
shaking the water out of his ears.
Had he not been gun-shy he would have been an ideal retriever for
ducks. Indeed, Ned taught him to retrieve sticks and balls, and other
things thrown for the purpose; and whether or not Bob had seen them
drop, by ranging in circles he always found them and laid them at his
master's feet.
Ned also taught him to "charge." Bob would stay crouched against the
walk or road until Ned or Mr. Miller had gone on for a block, perhaps;
his eyes would be shining with eagerness, and his body fairly quivering
with excitement.
"Come on, Bob," would sound the whistle.
One note was enough. Up would he leap, and like a cannon-ball down
would he streak, yapping with glee at every jump. He never grew tired
of this game.
He would mind Ned or Mr. Miller--but upon Mrs. Miller or Maggie, the
girl, he used to impose dreadfully. Let them try to stir him from the
space that he had chosen before the kitchen or dining-room stove, and
he would give a growl so gruff as to frighten them into the distance
again. They would not catch the chuckle under the growl. However, he
never tried to fool Ned or Ned's father. When they said "Get up," Bob
got!
If he decided to accompany Mrs. Miller or Maggie, he always managed
to do it. They might send him back, as they supposed, a dozen times;
he only made a short circuit, and sneaking along behind fences and
sidewalks would come out upon them, and grin. In spite of their
scolding, and the stones and sticks that they tried to throw at him, he
persevered, and had his way.
He did not bamboozle the two other members of the family. It was only
the women upon whom he played tricks. He knew that, with all their
threats, they could not bear to hurt him.
His bedroom was the barn loft, save when, in the hottest weather, he
moved down-stairs. His favorite bed was a burrow in the hay; when a
fresh load arrived, Bob would dig and nose into it, until he had made a
long hole extending so far back that, in his nest at the end of it, he
was quite out of reach.
To Bob, Ned was the whole world. It offered no bliss that could equal
the touch of Ned's hand, and no music that might equal the sound of
Ned's voice. Just to be near Ned was joy enough for Bob, and if allowed
to snuggle at his master's side he was in ecstasy. A kind pat and an
encouraging word was all the reward that he wanted, no matter how hard
had been his task. Ned was at once his playmate and his king, and life
held nothing more.