But, alas, a month afterward, a cloud dimmed Bertha's happiness. Uncle Jean did not like the looks of Clown. It is true that although his coat was well brushed and curled and perfumed, the dog did look more like a little bear than a poodle. Uncle Jean was very particular about the training of dogs. He had horses and dogs of his own (he even had a monkey) and he insisted that his grooms keep all his animals, of whom he was very fond, slick and clean.
No poodle of his would have remained unshaven, with tail uncut, when all proper poodles are shaven and have their tails trimmed off.
He said so much about it that at last it was decided that the dog should be sent to the veterinary surgeon, who in a minute had cut off Clown's tail and shaved him like a lion, leaving just a rim of hair around his hind-quarters as an ornament, and a bushy tuft at the end of his trimmed-off tail.
Poor little Clown was terribly upset.
He was brought home looking like a martyr and horribly ashamed; for more than a week he was feverish and had fits of trembling. Bertha cried and cried. I need not tell you what care she took of him. You can guess that for yourself.
Cured at last, he soon forgot about having his hair cut, and became a proud, fine-looking dog. Only he could not bear the sound of shears, and when he heard the dog-clippers go past he would fall into a rage, wanting to run out and bite them, barking furiously in chorus with the other dogs who felt as he did about it.
Bertha ceased to be angry with her uncle. When as she led Clown on the leash she noticed people turn round and go into raptures over the looks of her dog, it made her feel very proud.
The dog grew so fast you could almost see him getting bigger. His training was undertaken carefully, Uncle Jean looking after it himself. Clown learned quickly and easily; he was naturally intelligent and had a truly wonderful memory.