Half a dozen boys

by Anna Chapin Ray

For Fuzz had returned on the scene, and brought with him the object of his search, a small, soft ball that he could easily hold in his mouth, or, when he preferred, carry it hooked on one of his teeth and hanging out at the side of his mouth. Now, rolling it up towards Bess, but just out of her reach, he ran back a few steps, flattened himself on the carpet, wagged his morsel of a tail convulsively, and rolled his eyes, first at the ball then at Bess. But Bess was in no mood to play, however much Fuzz might desire it. She was just beginning to tell her mother about Fred, when the dog, seeing that the suggestive wag of his tail had no influence, uttered a loud, sharp bark.

"No, no, Fuzz!" said Bess, frowning on the excited little creature. "I'm too tired, and I don't feel like playing."

But Fuzz was deaf to her remonstrances, and again gave vent to his feelings in the same bark, but this time, to add to his powers of persuasion, he sat up on his haunches, dropping his little forepaws in a supplicating fashion, while the stumpy tail still wagged furiously. It was not to be withstood. As usually happened in that house, Fuzz conquered; and Bess rose, took the ball, and threw it into the darkest corner, hoping to gain a moment's rest while the dog hunted up his treasure. Fuzz scrambled after it, his sharp little claws catching in the carpet as he ran, and in another moment he had deposited it at the feet of Bess, and run back as before. Experience had taught his mistress that when Fuzz wished to play, she must obey his will, and keep him running after the ball until, tired out, he should be ready to go back to his cushioned basket.

In the intervals of her attentions to Fuzz, she told her mother Rob's account of Fred, and then went on to speak of the people she had seen, of the sermon, and of other bits of news likely to interest her home-abiding mother. A few moments' rest from Fuzz were succeeded by howls from the next room, at first low and mournful, but as these proved unavailing they gradually turned into the same deafening barks that had before carried his point.

"Oh, you tiresome puppy!" exclaimed Bess, in despair.

Rising, she went to the next room, where, in front of a tall bookcase, lay Fuzz, pawing wildly at the narrow crack that separated it from the floor, in the hope of rolling out his cherished ball. For the twentieth time that day Bess resigned herself to the inevitable, and, kneeling down on the floor, with difficulty she reached under the bookcase, grasped the ball with the tips of her fingers and drew it out, while Fuzz, utterly regardless of her nerves and her Sunday gown, capered back and forth over her, barking madly all the time.

Fuzz was the ruling member of the Carter family. Two years before, Bess, scorning Dominie Sampson, the family collie, had been anxious to own a toy terrier, and her indulgent father had for months been watching for an opportunity to gratify his daughter's wish, when one day he came triumphantly home, and from his pocket produced a tiny, squirming ball of wool. The ball, on being set down on the floor, disclosed four wee paws, a dot of a tail, two huge ears, a short black nose, and an overwhelming tendency to tumble over on it.

Uttering feeble barks, the absurd little creature toddled up to Mrs. Carter's ball of yarn that had fallen from her lap, tried to take it in his mouth, tangled himself up in it, broke the thread, and then stood meditatively viewing the ruin he had worked. For a moment Bess and her mother looked at each other in despair, and then they began to laugh. From that time the puppy's destiny was an established fact.

Fuzz, as he was named, rapidly grew from the dimensions of a six-weeks-old puppy to three times the size of his ancestors. Though bought at a high price for his exceptionally small size, his long, silky blue hair, and his equally blue blood, it must be confessed that in all these respects Fuzz was weighed in the balance and found wanting. His silky blue coat was almost white, and, instead of sweeping the ground, as should the hair of a truly aristocratic Skye terrier, it curled in tight short rings about his head and face, and from there gradually dwindled away until, at his tail, he was only covered with a few sparse locks, through which his darker gray skin was plainly visible. His baskets, collars, and other belongings were rapidly outgrown, and the new ones substituted for them soon shared the same fate. And, as if to keep pace with his body, his temper and will grew at the same time; for the disposition of the dog was an uncertain quantity. Though no one ever spent twenty-four hours in the house with him without yielding to his fascinations, strangers and chance callers, one and all, detested him. In spite of words and blows, Fuzz would run out and bark whenever the bell rang. And on some occasions he varied the monotony by firmly seizing the new-comer by the clothing, greatly to the resentment of the chosen few whom he favored with this attention. Tying him up or shutting him in a room by himself proved of no avail, for, in the one case, he invariably bit the string in two; and, in the other, his small paws scratched the door with such zeal that varnish and paint vanished before his attacks, while his voice was meanwhile raised in protest against his durance vile. Two years fraught with bitter experience had taught Mrs. Carter and Bess that the dog's will was law, and when once his bark was heard the person nearest him hurried to do his bidding. Such was Fuzz, who, while we have been making his acquaintance, had retired, ball and all, into his basket by the fire, where he made his bed by pawing and mouthing his rug into a lump in one corner, and then settled himself to his well-earned repose, occasionally opening one eye and growling sleepily when the fire gave an unusually loud crackle.

For a long time the mother and daughter sat in the fitful light, talking of different matters, until Bess once more spoke of Fred.