I say we cannot make a mistake—I mean from the child’s standpoint. We may create a relationship trying to the dog, by giving him to a very inferior child upon whom he must lavish years of loving instruction before improvement appears, but we cannot hurt the child by giving him a bad dog, for the simple reason that there is no such thing, broadly speaking, as a bad dog.
There is the occasional dog, of course, who has not withstood the corrupting influences of human associations as well as his more fortunate brothers, but even he is vastly better than no dog at all.
And once the contact made, the relationship established, what unlimited vistas of speculation lie temptingly before the reflective mind! Those two little figures on the hearthrug—one in the image of man, one showing the sleek and perfect lines of a half-wild creature. Two heads together—one of tousled gold, the other close-cropped and tapering to nostrils of nervous sensitiveness; a relaxed and callous paw held firmly in a dimpled human hand. What are they saying to each other? What lies back of those limpid canine eyes, half closed to the glare and warmth of the hearthstone? Something is going on between them, some delicate transmission of emotion, thought, or stimulus, which we know is infinitely good for the soul of the child and we can hope does no harm to the dog.
An unfamiliar footstep is heard, and the picture changes. The relaxed and languid creature is transformed in an instant from a musing, tolerant playmate to a bristling bundle of potential destruction. He stands, alert and vibrant, muscles tense, set for any contingency, ready for any emergency and any sacrifice. The emergency passes, and with an apologetic shake to relieve the tension of his muscles and a half-sneeze to clear the dryness of expectant fangs, he settles once more upon the hearthrug, to resume his mystic communion with the only person in the household with whom he is on terms of complete mutual understanding.
These are the perfect hours of childhood and doghood. They pass, like all perfect things, and are followed by long hours of separation, while the child is absent in one of those institutions ingeniously contrived to remove him from the priceless opportunities of improvement in the society of a dog and to lighten the duties of idle parents, in exchange for a fleeting familiarity with what is cryptically called the “l.c.d.” And while the child is incarcerated in one of those centres of juvenile infection what prodigies of patience does the dog perform!
In my own case there happen to be two avenues of return from these dreary absences, and for long before the hour of arrival they must be watched. Owing to the entire absence of one eye this is a delicate operation, but Cerberus has found one point where with the least muscular exertion he can sweep his tiny horizon with his one remaining eye. And so he waits—not with the imbecile nervous tension and restless pacing of his master, but relaxed and resting.
Suddenly he becomes alert. The peculiar rattle of a certain rear wheel on a certain automobile is recognized by those miraculous ears long before the solitary eye can see the car. He is off—the long vigil is over. Once more life is sweet and full of interest and adventure.
It is idle to prate of the lessons he teaches. They have been told and retold. Patience, loyalty, devotion—we know them all. It is in the finer shades of his relationship with those about him that his quality appears. His is a wonderful life. Countless hours are spent in investigation. Every nook and cranny, every tree and every stone, every dark and mysterious hole, every living creature in pasture, garden, or stable must be run to earth. What sort of data is he gathering, I wonder? What use does he make of it? I do not know; but it is being stored away and tabulated for future reference in a vastly more usable and convenient form than any card index devised by the bungling brain of his master.
These are the busy hours of dog life. How often we encounter him bent on some important errand! I have a friend, the only adult I ever met who really knows a dog—and by the same token he is that rare thing, the gentleman. He too enjoys a long and solitary tramp, and he often meets on the highways and in the wood paths his various canine acquaintances bent on matters of importance. He makes a practice of saluting them with a cordial but respectful “Good morning” or “Good afternoon,” with perhaps a passing allusion to the fine weather. This by way of tribute to a fellow creature with mutual tastes.
But Cerberus knows that all work and no play is a dangerous method of life, and so hours are devoted to recreation. The duties of guardianship and the demands of education are laid aside, and he shows us how to play. Madly, intently, with no thought of appearances, he rushes into play, preferably with others but alone if necessary; and the simplest things suffice—a stick, a stone, a floating bit of feather is all he needs. No elaborate toy, no calculated programme, no long planning, no arguments and disagreements as to the terminus ad quem, resulting in half-hearted enjoyment or utter boredom (the usual result of human recreations), nothing but utter abandonment to the pleasure of the moment. I envy Cerberus his play more than I ever envied my neighbor’s laboriously acquired and oppressive wealth.