THERE is no animal that seems to be so closely allied to man as the dog. He lives in his master’s smiles, defends his person, guards his property, and is grateful for the smallest favors.
In respect to other animals, they are naturally shy; we must attach them to us by food and caresses.
Take, for instance, a kitten, born in the house, and her parents before her for generations; yet the moment it gets its eyes open, it will round up its back, and spit at the little boy or girl who approaches to fondle it, and must be wonted; but a puppy, why, the moment his eyes are open, he’s right on to you, and you have hard work to keep him from licking your face.
When the family leaves the house, the cat will seldom, if ever, follow them, because she cares more about the place than the people; but the dog’s home is where his master is.
John Rhines’s dog, Tige, a Newfoundland of the largest size, possessed—as those who have read the Elm Island stories know—a sagacity greater than that which generally pertains even to that noble breed.
Tige Rhines, as he was called, was known and loved by both young and old, the protector and playmate of all the children, and bore on his neck a broad brass collar, on which were inscribed the date of the year and the day on which he pulled little Fannie Williams from the bottom of the mill-pond, and many other things that he had done.
For many years Tige had been gradually losing his activity, and was quite infirm with age. He had never been accustomed to leave the home of his master, except when sent upon some errand, with a basket or letter in his mouth, unless with some of the family; but after Mary and Elizabeth were married, he would once in a while go to visit each of them in the forenoon, stop to dinner and tea, see the babies, and go home at night. He would also go down to the cove in front of the house, and play with the children of the neighborhood by the hour together. All through Fannie Williams’s childhood (whose life he saved) he was, whenever she came up to see him, which was generally once a month, sent home with her by Captain Rhines. But age, which comes alike upon dogs and men, had compelled him to relinquish all these pleasant excursions. His legs had grown stiff and crooked; his glossy black coat had become a dirty yellow, except along the back and at the roots of the tail; his intelligent eye was dim; and all around his eyes and nose gray hairs were plentifully scattered. It was with great difficulty he could walk; he would attempt sometimes to follow John to the barn, go part way there, and moan because he could get no farther; then John would go back and pat and comfort him. Everything that care and affection could do to render him comfortable and happy in his old age, was done by Captain Rhines and John.
As the weather grew cooler, John made him a bed of sheep-skins with the wool on; for though once apparently insensible to cold, never hesitating in the dead of winter to plunge into the waves, he now trembled before every blast. Captain Rhines would catch smelts and bring to him, for Tige was a dear lover of fish; John would put him in the cart, haul him down in the field, and put him in the sun, at the end of the piece where he was digging potatoes, and as the sun went down, cover him with his jacket. The children around brought him titbits, and all the dogs in the neighborhood came to visit him. He at length became so feeble it was with difficulty he could get out of his kennel. Mornings when John went to the barn to feed the cattle, he would bid him good morning; Tige would wag his tail and look wistfully in his face, unable to rise.
One morning, John, as he passed the kennel, spoke, as usual; but not hearing the noise of Tige’s tail striking against the side of the house, he went back and looked in; he was stretched out, apparently asleep; he put his fingers in his mouth; there was no warmth. “He is dead! poor old Tige,” cried John; “there never was such a dog in this world, and never will be again. I never will love another dog;” and he burst into tears; “I don’t care if I do cry,” he said, at length, wiping away the tears; “he’s been my playmate, ever since I was a boy; has saved my life; and nobody sees me; but if Charlie and Fred were here, they would cry, too.”
Captain Rhines was not yet up. John fed the cattle, and then went to the door of his bedroom.