They did not see her again until late the next fall, when, as though she never had been away, she trotted into the house, made the rounds of the place, nipped at the trousers leg of the former superintendent, ran out the door, came back, ran away again, and returned in an effort to lead the man forth. At last he followed, with his wife, far over the hills, to a hollow log where Nosey halted in proud maternity. Within, yowling and tumbling, were four half-breed coyote puppies.
They gathered up the babies and took them home, Nosey trotting happily beside them. But again it was only a momentary return to civilization. Once more she disappeared, taking her puppies with her, this time in finality. Up there in the Elkhorn a former menagerie superintendent and his wife set out food when the heavy snows come and scan the hills when the coyotes shriek, but Nosey evidently has settled upon her own existence. Once came a howling in the night, close to the house, a track in the snow; but that was all. Nosey has not been seen since the day she left with her puppies, to “troupe” with the coyotes.
Quite the opposite to the story of Nosey is that of Mike, one of a trio of performing fox terriers with a small circus. The day was unusually hot and sultry; every animal on the show was tired and logy—the trainers were as fatigued as the dogs. In cracking his whip for the “flash” of the act, the terrier trainer miscalculated and caught Mike a terrific blow across the back and flanks.
The dog did not understand that it all was a mistake. He only knew that he had been punished when he did not deserve it. A yelp of pain, a rush and he had disappeared from the ring, not to be found again. The show left town, a new dog was broken for the act, and Mike all but forgotten.
Two years later, the show returned to the stand where Mike had disappeared. The same dog boy was in charge of the wagon, the same trainer handling his trio of fox terriers. Late afternoon came, and with it a tramp fox terrier, dirty, bony, and rough-coated, which trotted upon the circus lot with an air of easy familiarity, sniffed about the horse tents, investigated the dressing room, then found the way to the dog boy and sought by every possible form of dog language to make himself known. For a long time it all was a mystery, then the dog boy grinned.
“Hello, Mike!” he announced. “Decided to come back, huh?”
Mike it was! What was more, when they took him into the ring and gave him cues which he had not heard in two years, he responded almost immediately, doing his flips, stretching for the “bridge” and returning to his various “stands” and “set-ups” as though he never had been away. Mike is still on the job with the circus; more, so faithful is he that he is not confined at a picket line as are the other dogs. He has had his taste of the “towner’s world,” and the circus is all he wants.
In fact, faithfulness seems to be the quality of qualities with dogs who join the circus. Several years ago, George Brown, an English clown, who with his performing fox terriers long has been a feature with all the big shows, was stricken with ptomaine poisoning and taken to the hospital. That afternoon one of his dogs, whose act consisted of being “dressed” in a miniature horse’s head and tail, and doing a high-school act around the hippodrome track, suddenly rebelled against the substitute clown who had taken Brown’s place and scurried under the side wall, horse’s head and all. To the dressing tent he went, to dart in frenzied fashion up and down the aisles of trunks, searching for his master; then before any one could catch him, once more he disappeared. That afternoon and night a frantic dog boy and all of Clown Alley searched in vain for George Brown’s dog. The circus left town without him, and a frightened dog boy waited in trembling for the return of the clown. But when George Brown came back to the show, there was the dog under his arm!
“I thought I had ’em,” he announced joyfully. “It was two days after the show’d gone and I was able to sit up. Happened to look out the window, and there was a horse, about ten inches high, running around the hospital lawn, like he was trying to follow a trail. After I’d got my senses, I whistled. Sure enough, it was the pup! Hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for two days; was just about gone when the nurse brought him in. Couldn’t take anything, you know, on account of that horse’s head over his own. Been following my trail all the time, I guess. Next time I get sick,” and George Brown blinked slightly, “those pups go with me!”
Nor is that instance any more marked than the one of Ragsy, who was nothing to the circus, yet everything. Ragsy belonged to a “skinner” or teamster, and she had a place all her own in the life of the big show. Circus folk live in a small circle. The world is theirs to travel, yet the world really means nothing to them; the happenings of that little universe all their own are the ones which really count, and every animal, every horse, every trifling incident in that circus is a part of their lives. Ragsy played a big part.