FIDO THE BRAVE.
First I must relate the somewhat tragical history of a certain little shaggy brown-and-white spaniel belonging to some friends of ours in the country. He was a stray dog, and came to them in a very forlorn condition, and had evidently been vagabondizing about in the fields and woods for some days, for he was ravenously hungry, and his long hair was dirty, and stuck full of straws, briers, and burrs, till he bristled like a hedgehog. The first thing that the kind lady did, after feeding him, was to put him into a warm bath. Then she set herself to work to rid him of his encumbrances,—sticks, straws, briers, and burrs. It was a long time before she got down to the dog; but when at last she laid down scissors, scrubbing-brush, and comb, and deposited her poor protégé on the floor, he was a good deal diminished in size, but looked really handsome, and very bright, quaint, and droll.
He took at once to his new home, and soon became a great pet, showing himself to be grateful, affectionate, and full of cleverness, fun, and fire. His pluck was beyond all question. Though not quarrelsome, he would, when in the least degree put upon, fight any dog in the neighborhood, whatever his size and breed, and he generally came off victorious. But he was altogether too rash and venturesome, given to worrying cows, horses, hogs, and old stragglers; rushing into all sorts of danger, and coming out, when he did come out, and was not brought out, with his little eyes dancing and his bushy tail in air, as though enjoying the risk of the thing, and the terror of his kind mistress.
Among other sportive tricks was a way he had of running before the locomotive when the train was coming in or going out of the station, near by the house of my friends. Nearly every day he could be seen frisking about it, dancing frantically up and down before it, and barking valorously. He really seemed to take a malicious satisfaction in defying and insulting that rumbling, puffing, snorting monster, that, big as it was, ran away from him as fast as possible.
“The pitcher goes often to the well, but is broken at last.”
One fatal day the little spaniel miscalculated the speed of his big enemy, and failed to get out of the way in time. He was all off the track but one hind leg, when he was struck by the locomotive and knocked into a ditch,—that one hind leg being pretty badly mashed, you may believe. The poor little fellow set up a great outcry, but the unfeeling engineer never stopped the train to attend to him, and the railroad folks kept the accident out of the papers. Fido made his way home all alone, dragging his mashed leg behind him. Though greatly shocked, his mistress did not scold him, but sent for a surgeon, who, after a careful examination, and consulting his books, decided that an amputation was necessary. Then the good, brave lady held her poor, dear pet on her lap while the dreadful operation was performed. She asked a gentleman of the family to hold him, but he had not the nerve. After the stump had been skilfully dressed, the little dog evidently felt better, soon ceased to bemoan his loss, and took kindly to a light supper. He rested well that night, and in the morning the doctor pronounced him better. His kind mistress nursed him faithfully till he was restored to perfect health. He never seemed to fret about his maimed condition, but hopped around on three legs as merry and active as ever. It was observed, however, that he gave a wide berth to railway trains, and howled whenever he heard the whistle of the engine, ever after. Still the fight wasn’t out of him. He was as jealous of his honor and as fiery and plucky as before his disaster.
One afternoon, while taking a quiet three-legged stroll some distance away from home, he encountered on the highway a big, surly bull-dog, who presumed on the spaniel’s diminutive size and crippled condition to insult him and rail at him. Brave Fido dashed at once at the ugly bully’s throat, and bit and hung on in the most furious and desperate way. It was a gallant fight he made, and it did seem for a while as though he must come off victorious, like David after his engagement with Goliah. But at last the infuriated bull-dog tore himself free, and then proceeded to make mince-meat of the poor spaniel. He tore his ears half off, and his eyes half out, and mangled his head generally, till it was disfigured to the last degree. Then he bit and chewed the left, the only left hind leg, till one might say that he was next to a locomotive and a whole train of cars at the mangling business. At this desperate stage of the combat a woman came out of a farm-house near by, drove the bull-dog away with a poker, and took up poor Fido. As he had become insensible, she thought him dead, and flung him down in a fence corner, out of the way of travel, and there left him, meaning, let us hope, to have him decently buried in the morning. But Fido was not yet ready to give up this life. The cool evening dew revived him; brought him to his senses, in part at least. He could not yet see, but, guided by some mysterious instinct, he made his sure way, dragging himself by his fore legs, which were only two you know, across the fields to his home. His mistress was awakened in the night by hearing him scratching and whining at the door, and made haste to arise and take in the poor crippled, blinded, bleeding creature, who laid himself panting and moaning at her feet. I hope I need not tell you that she did not give him up. She prepared a soft bed for him in an old basket, washed and dressed his wounds, and though every body, especially the doctor, said he must die, that he was as good as dead then, she was sure she could fetch him round, and she did fetch him round amazingly.
But alas! Fido’s troubles were not over, even when he got so that he could hobble about on his three legs, and see tolerably well; for one cold morning, as he lay curled up in his basket near the kitchen stove, he was, I grieve to say, terribly scalded by a careless cook, who spilled a kettle of hot water over him. Even then his mistress refused to give him up to die, but dressed his burns with sweet oil, or applied a pain-killer, or “Dalley’s Salve,” and administered Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, perhaps,—anyhow she nursed him so skilfully and faithfully that she fetched him round again. He is no beauty nowadays, but alive, and alive like to be. It is my opinion that, like the great Napoleon, that dog bears a charmed life.