The strangest thing about the occurrence was that Venus had never seen the lady before, and the only explanation of her conduct seemed to be that a glance told her the stranger was to be regarded as an enemy, inasmuch as she had no love for dogs. It is certain that we poor humans would save ourselves much suffering and many painful disillusions if we had the same intuitive knowledge of those who, under the amenities of social usage, secretly regard us with disfavour.
The second time that Venus put her mistress to shame, she had more apparent ground for her action. In this case she was in a strange house, where she was visiting with her mistress. A lady entered the drawing room, who was perfectly unknown to the terrier, though she was on terms of intimacy with the members of the household. As soon as the usual greetings were over, the visitor turned her attention to the dog. Standing in front of the couch where Venus lay curled up, she exclaimed in a teasing voice, “Do you call that thing a terrier?” and laughed in a manner clearly insulting to a well-bred dog.
Venus lay quietly watching her, but her eyes glowed like two little balls of fire, and as the laugh ended she made one spring, and, fastening her teeth in the visitor’s dress, shook and worried it with every appearance of anger. The offender was borne off in disgrace and was shut up in her owner’s bedroom, there to reflect on her misdeeds. Some days later the same lady came to the house again, and no sooner was she inside the door than with a rush Venus was upon her, and worrying her dress in the way she had done before.
The gentle, amiable nature of the dog made these onslaughts all the more remarkable, for the delicate marks of her attention she bestowed on her friends were such as endeared her to them. To any one who was admitted to her favour—and to others she simply showed a well-bred indifference—she would carry a tiny stick, or failing that, or any small article she could find about the room, she would abstract a small piece of coal from the coal box, and going up to the selected person, would offer it, with every appearance of conferring a favour. Should any one, however, attempt to take the not always tempting morsel from her, she would refuse to part with it, and intimate that her playful condescension was not to be imposed on.
Venus had a way of extending the love she felt for her mistress to some of her belongings that occasionally led to embarrassment. Whenever the dog was left at home during her owner’s absence, she always searched for a pair of old slippers sacred to the use of the bedroom, and made use of one of them for a pillow. If she grew tired of staying in one room, Venus would carry her prize downstairs and, putting it down in front of the drawing room fire, curl up on it and await her mistress’s return. One day, when the latter came home late from hunting, she was told that some friends were awaiting her in the drawing room. On entering the room, she saw to her dismay a pair of dilapidated slippers occupying a prominent position in front of the fire, and Venus in high spirits doing the honours. As a mark of special favour she had offered one of the slippers to a lady who was a great friend of hers, and who was thoroughly enjoying the joke.
Her owner could not account for the anger she showed to the two strangers who received such startling marks of her disfavour. She must often have been in the society of other people who were not to be counted among dog-lovers, and she never, except in these two instances, swerved from the usual dignified indifference she extended to all who were not admitted to the circle of her friends.
XI
“To snarl, and bite, and play the dog.”