Faith—and no reward, save the glitter and spangles, and blaring of bands; the noise of the big top, the confusion of the midway; that, it seems, is all that the circus dog wants. And, too, that love seems to be in the heart of every dog; the parade is always a conglomeration of “houn’s,” traveling in the wake of the clown band wagon, or trotting beside the horses. Nor is it necessary that the show be an outdoor affair—just so it is a circus!
Last winter I was called back into the show business for a brief season, that I might produce an indoor circus for a Denver lodge. It was to be a big affair, running to nearly a hundred thousand dollars, and it was necessary that the coming show, which was to be assembled from all parts of the United States, have every bit of unusual publicity possible. A member of the general committee, Ted Syman, came forward with an idea.
“What’s the matter with a hound-dog parade, made up from mutts all over the city?” he asked. “It’d give us a chance to carry publicity matter through the streets, kids with banners and all that sort of thing.”
So the idea grew. There was to be a prize for the muttiest mutt dog in town. A restaurant keeper appeared, with an offer to buy the dog for twenty-five dollars. As a further incentive to the boys of town, the owner and winner was to be allowed to appear at the head of the grand entry each night with his dog. Nobody thought anything of how the mutt himself would react; he was only a dog.
The parade was held. The mutt was selected, a woolly, squatty, pig-eyed nondescript, dirty with the smudges of alleys and coal holes, the muttiest mutt dog in town. The restaurant keeper bought him, for the advertisement of it, possession to be gained at the end of the circus week. The performance came. Dirt and all, the dog was turned over to the clowns, four or five toy balloons attached to him, a banner tied to his waving tail, and the clowns arranged for an escort. The first entry came, and into the big ring trotted the mutt with the clowns, his former boy owner beside him, the clowns trooping and frolicking about him, and the band blaring behind him. There were lights, music, the lifting step of horses, lumbering elephants; crowds, confusion; soon we began to notice that the boy might be a bit late at Clown Alley for his nightly decorations, but never the dog. For it was the dog, we saw, that was gaining continued enjoyment out of it all. After the first few nights it all began to pall upon the boy. But not the mutt. Twice a night he made the circuit of that ring, banner-bedecked tail waving in constant ecstasy, mouth open in excited panting, short legs bobbing, eyes gleaming. Twice a night for a week; then the circus came to a close.
Performers hurried away to begin their regular circus engagements. Horses, performing animals, elephants and seals were loaded into railroad cars for their trip back to winter quarters. The restaurant keeper took his mutt and advertised it—for a day. Then the dog disappeared.
But he did not go to the home of his former owner. Instead, one night, nearly a week after the show was over, I happened to pass the big doors of the darkened Civic Auditorium where the circus had been held. Something woolly and squat, settled right against the door in waiting, attracted my attention. I approached and called a name. It was the mutt.
I petted him and sought to call him away. In vain. I tried the door. It was unlocked, and I opened it. We went within, the mutt and myself, into the great, empty building, where only a few incandescents gleamed dully to light the path of the watchman. The crowds were gone. The dressing rooms were empty. The bandstand was devoid of brightly clothed musicians. The big sawdust hippodrome track, as well as the rings and stages, had disappeared. The circus was gone.
Slowly, as though in wonderment of a changed world, the mutt made the rounds. He sniffed at the empty spaces where once the horses had been quartered. He ran to where Snyder and Toto and Tillie, the performing elephants, once had swayed at their ring pins. They were gone. Downstairs he trotted, but the dressing rooms were empty and dark. At last, as if convinced, he looked up at me and whined. I opened the door. A moment of hesitation, then slowly, wobbling grudgingly upon those stubby little legs, he trotted away, farther and farther, at last to fade into the shadows. His day of glory was done.