  One morning the skirmishing that had been going on for several weeks between Waddles and Lumberlegs broke into open warfare, and it was the misguided interference of a would-be peacemaker that quickened the crisis. As we have noticed before, Lumberlegs was very poorly instructed in dog law, in spite of having grown up side by side with Waddles, who was letter perfect in it. Not only did Lumberlegs ignore the “rights of age” and “buried bones law,” but he began breaking the “fresh food law” as well. House People should make it as easy as possible for their fourfoots to keep this law by giving each one its rations separately, for it is only in early puppy days that dogs may be trusted to feed from the same dish, and even then the timid and weak fare poorly. Waddles had the appetite of a dog who had been reared alone, and could therefore pick and choose. He ate deliberately and never ravenously, sniffing cautiously at each morsel; for once, when he was ill, Anne had made the mistake of giving him pills concealed in his food. Of course he On the other hand, Lumberlegs and Happy were both gluttons; the first because he was so big that it seemed impossible to give him enough, while the little beagle was perhaps prompted to overeat by a haunting memory of the single daily meal of her kennel life. In this particular case the bone of contention belonged to a ham, a dainty especially kept for Waddles. He had taken a few gnaws from it and hidden it under the flap of the cellar door, his favourite cache, while he went for his daily walk to the village with Anne; for whatever his faults he had always preferred her companionship to food, never swerving even for liver and bacon. Along sauntered Lumberlegs, searching for something to add relish to his ample breakfast of dog bread. He tried to investigate the swill pail, but it not only had a tight zinc cover, after the fashion of all well-bred scrap pails, but for double protection there was a stone on top which he playfully knocked off with one sweep of his paw. Straws show which way the wind blows, and this stone showed where the ham bone was by rolling directly against it. Lumberlegs seized upon the bone with delight Happy, whose deafness seemed to sharpen her sense of smell, came from under a bush where she had been taking a nap in company with Jack and Jill, and sat where she could keep her eyes upon the bone, giving a little whine now and then, moistening her lips with the edge of her pink tongue, and casting appealing glances at Lumberlegs that only seemed to stimulate him to further antics. It is almost always the soft-haired, mild-eyed, helpless looking sort of people like Happy that sit still and brew trouble, even in bigger places than Dogtown. Waddles, coming home from market half an hour later, took in the situation at a glance. He had borne a great deal in silence, but this was too much. It was high time for his position as house fourfoot at Happy Hall to be upheld. He would try his authority as “oldest dog” first. So, going forward slowly with a contracted tiptoe gait and tail held erect, he made a series of noises that seemed graded between growls and real speech. Lumberlegs understood this language perfectly, and rolling on his back, he gave the bone a final, careless toss, as much as to say, “I was only playing, take your old bone.” It had happened several times that when the two dogs had been playing with or contending for a bone, Happy had ended the matter by running between them, giving each a caressing lick on the nose, and making off with the bone herself, leaving them looking sheepish, but too polite to remonstrate. She now tried the same tactics, but in reaching up to Lumberlegs, who was rolling in the grass, she received an entirely unintentional blow from one of his paws, and ran away squealing in terror out of all proportion to her hurt. Waddles, with a deep, short growl that must have been a wicked word in dog talk, sprang upon Lumberlegs; but before he could do more, the great jaws closed on his neck, and he was shaken as a cat shakes a rat. Fortunately, Waddles wore a stout collar which broke the force of the grip, otherwise his neck might have been broken before Baldy, who heard Anne’s cry, came to stop the fray. But as it was, the sleek white neck was streaked with red, there was a rent in one of the beautiful ears, and for the first time in his life Waddles, the Mayor Lumberlegs was shut in the yard beside his kennel, and Waddles retreated to the remotest corner of the cellar, from which he refused to come forth even when Anne, bringing warm water, a bit of sponge, and sticking plaster, called him in her most persuasive voice. “He feels sulky,” said Baldy, “leave him alone a spell and he’ll come out all right. I reckon his feelings is hurt more’n his neck.” “That is just it,” said Anne, sorrowfully, “and to a dog like Waddles hurt feelings are much worse to bear than a bitten neck.” But when he failed to appear at dinner time, and Anne took a lantern to hunt for him among the coal-bin caverns, the poor neck was so swollen that the collar was sunken in the flesh like a ring on a fat finger. Even when the collar was taken off, the bite bathed and cooled with a soothing wash, and the rent in the ear drawn together with narrow strips of rubber plaster, he refused “I wouldn’t trouble if I was you,” said Baldy, cheerfully; “they all hev their little scrapes. It’s accordin’ to natur’ for dogs to delight to bark and bite, like it says in the Sunday-school poetry, that everybody knows.” “That’s one of the things that ‘everybody knows’ that isn’t true,” answered Anne, emphatically; “dogs’ real delight is to live with people and be understood and have their feelings respected. That’s why I’m afraid that Waddles will never forget to-day; he has been feeling hurt about Lumberlegs for a long while, and now he thinks he is in disgrace besides.” “Feed the dogs separately, keep them apart for a time and the stray bones raked up, and I think the feud will blow over,” said Anne’s father. Her mother thought differently, for Lumberlegs, the boisterous puppy, and Bigness, the full-grown man dog, standing thirty-five inches at the shoulder, were entirely different beings. She had watched him at play with Tommy and noticed the way he eyed with resentment everything that The feeding separately matter was easily done, for Waddles persistently refused to leave the cellar except on stealthy trips toward evening, or when he was sure that his foe was out of range. How he knew this was a puzzle to Anne, for he could neither see nor hear from the depths of the coal-bin, into which fastness he crawled through the small, square door at the bottom made for the shovel. She soon realized, however, that his keen scent told him. Lumberlegs also knew quite well when Waddles was in his retreat, for though he did not care to venture down the steep stone steps because his back legs were rather sprawly, he would walk past the door growling softly, with bristling hair, and then give a broken bark and, turning, kick grass into the air in the direction of the cellar with a gesture of contempt. The two weeks that followed were ones of trial Even though Lumberlegs was in his yard, Waddles would not follow her to the village. He forsook his friends along the route upon whom he had never before failed to call daily, sturdily going the rounds alone if Anne omitted her walk. It was not until he ceased to follow her that Anne fully realized what a friend she had lost, one who was self-reliant, faithful, and wise, giving no trouble, asking nothing beyond the trifling care his rare ailments needed, and the affection his intelligence won. For Waddles knew the speech of House People as well as Anne interpreted Heart of Nature’s language, and he and his mistress had a perfect, mutual understanding. If Anne, wearing her common hat, said, “Do you want to go to the post-office?” he would give a cheer and start off down the hill before her, waiting on the office steps; while if she said store or market instead of post-office, he would wait by the respective doors. If, on the contrary, she wore a different hat or said, “Not to-day, Waddlekins, I’m going to town,” he might sometimes go with her to the gate but never farther. While he was on guard no one could enter the gate, two hundred yards from the house, unsignalled, either from his post on the porch corner or his summer night quarters in the wide window of the upper hall. For a twofoot whom he did not at once recognize he had a bark of inquiry; for a total stranger a querulous gruff note of warning; for a friend the inquiring tone quickly broke into rapid barks, like voluble talk; while for animals his voice had a wholly different key, starting in a series of monotonous At night when he harked every member of the household knew whether the intruder was man or beast. Oftentimes at dawn he would push open Anne’s door and lick her hand that was lying on the counterpane, to signify that he wanted the front door opened. Then when she, in dressing gown and slippers, or sometimes, I must confess, with bare toes and an airy nighty, would creep down the stairs and undo the bolts, cautioning silence, she was often lured out on to the porch by the expression of his face as he tiptoed about, unravelling the different trails that told him the story of the night. Sometimes he would give a growl and his back bristled—that meant an intruder from Dogtown had left an unwelcome message or disagreeable news. Then his eyes would grow deep and luminous, and when Anne asked, “Squirrel?” he would give a short yap as if to say, “No good,” and gaze up in the trees. But when he began by wildly zig-zagging to and fro with head down, uttering discordant cries, then dashing off without waiting to answer questions, his mistress knew that he was following either a cat or rabbit, and that he would return late for breakfast and very tired. For a moment he rallied and gave an answering cry which was echoed by Bigness, who, as chance would have it, was lying in the shadow of the house front, Tommy having taken him from his yard and strolled away, forgetting to put him up again. At the sound Waddles bristled and then shrank away, and Anne realized for the first time how thin and altered and spiritless he was. But the next day a change came over him: he forsook the cellar and boldly took his old seat under the apple tree in full sight of Bigness’s house, as if tempting fate; but as he did not come out Waddles returned again to the cellar. Tommy sided with the St. Bernard, wailing that the fault was all Waddles’s, and passionately refused to part with his pet and have Jack and Jill for his very own, even though Bigness should go to a beautiful home to be the pet of his dear “The train killed Lily, and now you want to steal Bigness from me just because your silly Waddles is selfish and wants to fight and have everybody for himself. I don’t care if he was here first; he’s old and he’ll soon be dead, anyway—and I’m glad and—” but he didn’t finish, for Anne, sweet tempered and fifteen though she was, shook her little brother hard and then flew up the hill to her tree perch in tears. It was the first time that Tommy had ever been shaken, and he was as surprised and heartbroken as Waddles had been at his overthrow. However, he did not cry but stood quite still, with a very red face and quivering lips, muttering to himself, “Anne’s as cross as Bigness—and she hardly never cries—and—it’s horrid to be shaken, and I guess I am sorry for Waddles—a—little bit.” And more days passed. In the coal-bin crouched Waddles in dismal plight, his brain full of dark thoughts; for dogs do a deal of thinking when they seem to be only dozing in the sun or before the fire, and Waddles in hiding neither ate nor slept and did nothing Waddles, usually so spotless and neat, who often washed his face twice a day with a queer motion of his hind feet peculiar to himself, was now wholly unkempt, his hair rough and dry, and his nose smutty. The truth was that he did not care for anything now that he thought his mistress misunderstood him, neither would he go among his friends,—he, the only resident of Dogtown who had never been taunted or fought by another dog, to be whipped and driven to cover in a cellar by a dog of his own house who had disobeyed all law and could not be reasoned with! This was a state of things not to be endured. No, he would try once more and give Bigness the punishment he deserved, or die in the attempt. Then he set himself to wait a chance and time for meeting his enemy, for both dogs were closely watched to prevent the very battle that he was planning. Bigness was now given a run morning and evening, Anne, awakened suddenly from a late sleep, stood in the middle of her room half dazed, not knowing whether the sounds she heard belonged to a dream or to reality. Then the sound came again, the awful choking, snarling struggle of fighting dogs, always a horrible sound, but doubly so when you know the dogs. Anne ran to call her father, her heart pounding as if it would jump out of her mouth. Fortunately, he was already dressed and out, and as she almost fell downstairs, hardly touching the steps, the noise ceased and she heard her father’s voice say to Baldy: “Put him in the old hay barn until I decide what to do. I will attend to Waddles.” Then the door opened and her father entered with a distressed face, carrying the beagle in his arms. “Is he killed?” she gasped. “No, neither very badly hurt I hope; but “This is no common dog-fight, little daughter, where both dogs should be punished and tied up until they come to their senses. Waddles has been with us so long that he has almost human feelings and reason; to thrust him out to be a mere dog again would be wicked. Lumberlegs must go!” At these words Waddles, who was lying quite still on the door-mat where his master had laid him, opened his eyes and wagged his tail, with very significant if rather feeble thumps. Though Waddles rallied very quickly, the bites on his neck, which had been this time collarless, had sunk in very deep, and though he was gradually growing less moody, he did not go far from the house or take up his old ways, and seemed quite conscious that Lumberlegs, though invisible, had not yet left the premises. One warm night about a week after the fight, when doors and windows were left open, and the dogs roved about at will, Anne waked to find “What is the matter, old fellow, do you want a drink?” she asked, patting him; but as she did so she felt that one side of his neck was burning hot and swelled into a hard lump. Next day the veterinary came and pronounced Waddles a very sick dog, said that he had been poisoned by the deepest bite, and must have his neck lanced and be carefully treated, or he would die. “I’ll take him right along with me to my hospital now if your man will put him in my buggy. He’ll have the best of treatment, and it will be cheaper than keeping him here and having me running over. Besides, you couldn’t take care of him; it’s too much bother for you to dirty your fingers with,” said the doctor, kindly, for he saw the distress in Anne’s face. “My fingers are quite used to dirt,” said Anne, quietly, “and I’ve got a ‘First Aid to the Injured’ box full of cotton and plaster and bandages, and such like, for I fix all the cut fingers and baseball noses hereabout; there are five boys between here and the cross-roads that play, besides a fat girl and a medium-old lady who are having trouble “If you will lance Waddles’s neck here, I’m sure I can take care of him, and father will pay for the visits. Or, if he doesn’t want to, there is my camera money,” she added half to herself. This same camera money was a family joke and seemed to be composed of magic coin, which, no matter how often it was spent, never seemed to grow less, but rather to increase. “You’d best let me take him to the hospital. You see, I’ve nothing to fasten him with, and he’ll have to be well bound, or he may upset the whole business and perhaps bite me to boot.” “I’m sure he will sit quite still, for he always has before; once the doctor took two stitches in his back because the milkman put barbed wire on his fence rails without Waddles’s knowing it. And then last spring when we were watching a man who didn’t know how to cast, splashing around the stream with a trout rod, he hooked poor Waddles, who was quite far up the bank behind him, and the hook had to be cut out, but Waddles never bit or squealed. He knows when he is ill, and that we want to help him; but if he went away from home to the hospital, he would be too sad to get well, even if you were good to him.” So the deed was done, Waddles neither struggling nor crying, and great relief followed the point of the shining lance. “It’s different with medicines,” said Anne, as the sensitive nose quivered and sneezed when the doctor uncorked a bottle of pungent creolin to make a wash. “Waddles doesn’t understand about them, and he may not like the bandages, because it seems like being tied up; but if you’ll show me once, I know that Baldy and I can manage.” So every morning for a week, precisely at eight, when Baldy’s chores were finished, you might have seen Anne bring her “First Aid” box to the back stoop, and change Waddles’s bandages, dressing his hurt as carefully as the doctor himself could have done. Baldy had to help by holding the patient when the creolin wash was used; for Waddles, the house fourfoot, could bear pain, but Waddles, the rabbit hound, could not endure a strong odour without choking and rolling in the grass. One day, however, a change came. He was lying on the decrepit old sofa in the upper hall, where Anne was used to curl up and read on rainy days. She had lent him her soft poppy chintz sofa pillow that she had made with great pains to match her bureau set, and Waddles, lying there luxuriously, his head on the pillow and his paws held in front of him like hands, gazed at Anne with a glance in which affection, comfort, and sleepiness were mingled. Wheels crushed the gravel and Anne going to the window saw the runabout wagon with Baldy and a strange man in it driving out of the stable yard. Between them on the bottom sat Bigness, Miss Muffet, Brother, and Bigness. Waddles sniffed, and getting stiffly down from the sofa raised himself, paws on window sill, and looked out. He saw the wagon, the men, and the dog, and he understood. He had the courtesy not to bark, but his tail wagged furiously. Then he dropped to the floor and began washing his face vigorously with his hind leg. Waddles was himself again. Bigness went to live with little Miss Muffet and her brother at the hill farm half a day’s drive away, where he had his liberty, good eating, was their “owniest,” and was hugged to his heart’s content; but he never forgot Anne, and when she visited him he had eyes only for her, and awoke the echoes baying long after she left. Anne was his first love, and to be the first love of a big dog is a rather serious thing and not to be lightly undertaken. |
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