“Is it to be a show for thoroughbreds alone?” asked Mrs. Waverlee.
“No, breeding has nothing to do with it. It is all inner worth—dogs who have saved persons from burning or carried messages, or who have shown great intelligence. In fact, I believe the mongrels will predominate.”
“When does it begin?” enquired Mrs. Waverlee.
“Next week.”
My heart sank within me. Oh! how I dreaded a dog-show. When I was a young dog, I had been exhibited several times, and every time I suffered tortures. It was not so bad in the day time, when my owners were about, and everybody was watching the men who took care of the dogs; but at night it was terrible. All the dog-owners went home, and the men who were left in charge, invariably drank and either quarrelled, played cards or slept, and dogs would get caught in their chains and nearly strangle. Oh! that wretched drink—how much misery it causes. Then the men would tell lies about watering and feeding us, and many a dog suffered the tortures of hunger and thirst. There were a few conscientious attendants, but very few.
I dreaded intensely going through this again—indeed my sufferings at a dog-show were responsible for my wandering life, for it was after being exhibited seven times in one spring, that I ran away from my first home with a dog-fancier.
Another thing I dreaded in connection with the forthcoming dog-show was, that everybody would find out how valuable I was, and attention would be drawn to me as a desirable dog to steal. Mr. Granton knew that my points were good, but he had never chanced to meet any one who could tell him just how good they were. He didn’t know a very doggy set of men.
Well, the day came, and I was entered at the show, and the thing itself was not half as bad as I thought it would be. These dogs were all very much beloved by their owners, and were not held on account of their value as dogs, but as heroes and dog friends to mankind. I was uneasy, for I hated being taken from my nice home and being deprived of my liberty, but I underwent no actual suffering. For there was no drink there, and Louis, who was very fond of King Harry, slept both nights the show lasted, curled up in the straw in the big box-place our good bloodhound occupied. So we did not suffer.
Gringo was furious at having to go. He hated notoriety, and he hated being taken away from Mr. Bonstone; and Mr. Bonstone was just as upset as he was, but there was no help for it. The show was for charity, and to acquaint New York with the actual value of the dog heroes of the country—dogs who had risked their lives to save human beings from harm.
The dog who took first prize was a little mongrel who had so little thoroughbred in him, that nobody could tell in which class of dogs his ancestors had started. He had saved five hundred hotel guests from death by fire. The hotel was a regular fire-trap, and he had barked and raged when he smelt the smoke, till he drew attention to the dreadful danger, and every one got out while the hotel burnt to the ground.