The man who gave us Michael said that he was a Shetland terrier.
Frankly, I don't believe there is any such thing; unless Michael is it.
But there is no denying a Scotch strain of some sort. There is a good
deal of John Knox about Michael. He recognizes no middle ground. There
was no difficulty, for instance, in convincing Michael of the wickedness
of some manifestations of the grossness which is mortality, but it has
been impossible to make him accept any working compromise such as those
by which men and dogs live. He can see no reason why there should be any
geographical limits or bounds to badness.
There is a certain fierce democracy in that. Michael thinks no less of a
backyard or a sidewalk than he does of a parlor. Or perhaps it would be
better to say he thinks no more of a parlor. Repentance comes to him
more easily than reformation. And yet I have an enormous respect for
Michael's point of view as I understand it. He doesn't want to burn, of
course, but he has no patience with dogs who blandly hope to attain
salvation by leading lamp-post lives.
In some things I would have Michael more practical. That man who brought
him here said that his father was an excellent mouser. I have come to
wonder whether the legitimacy of Michael is beyond question. Doubt
struck me the other day in the kitchen when I saw an over-venturesome
mouse clinging precariously to a window curtain and swinging back and
forth not more than a foot from the ground.
"Look, Michael," I said, "it's a mouse!"
I tried to say it with the same intensity as "Voila un sousmarin!" or
"It's gold, pardner!" or something of the sort, but Michael looked at my
finger instead of the mouse and wagged his tail. He backed away from me
playfully and bounced around a little and barked. Indeed, he backed into
the curtain and the tail of the mouse went swish, swish across his back,
but Michael continued to wag. I have some little hope that this
particular mouse will not come back for a time. He was visibly
terrified, but of course it would be impossible to predict any permanent
condition of shock. At any rate, by a supreme effort he mastered his
panic. Wrenching himself loose from the curtain, he jumped and landed on
Michael's back. Then he hopped to the floor and disappeared behind the
potato barrel. Michael sat down slowly and scratched himself.
Last week I thought I detected a real fusion of Michael's undoubted
idealism and direct practical action. Somebody brought _The New York
American_ into the house and left it on the floor. When I came in I
found that Michael had torn it to shreds. He had been particularly
severe with the editorial page. I patted him and gave him some warm
milk. To-day I discovered he had mutilated a third edition of _The
Tribune_. And upon inquiry I learned that he would chew almost anything
except _The New Republic_. His teeth are not quite sharp enough for such
heavy paper yet. It is just possible that there is some more subtle
reason for the exception. Sometimes I think that Michael has a "New
Republic" mind.