I often think what a lot of trouble human beings take for us dogs. I’ve seen men and women yawning with fatigue, exercising their dogs at night. They know we love them—that is, some of them do. There’s a powerful lot of dog affection wasted on owners who don’t understand dogs, and never take them out with them. Upon my word, my heart has ached to see the pitiful, beseeching glances some dogs give their masters and mistresses, as if saying, “Do like us a little—we just adore you.”
A sudden thought came to me, as I stared at the various dogs disporting themselves on the Drive. I must get a collar off one of them. I fixed my eye on a young but horribly bloated Boston terrier with a white face who was wearing a collar too large for him. He hadn’t any neck worth speaking of. Now, [I am an open-faced, wire-haired fox terrier], and my neck was not nearly as large as this bloated fellow’s. I stalked him for three blocks, till he got skittish, and throwing up his head, left the maid he had been following so closely, and started out by himself for a run in the bushes.
She stood holding his muzzle in her hand, and keeping a keen look-out for policemen.
I stole after him, grabbed his collar with my teeth, slipped my own head in it, and ran like a purse-snatcher with a policeman after him.
Mr. Boston gave an angry roar, but I knew the maid would take care of him, so I loped easily along and forgot about them.
CHAPTER III
I FIND A SECOND FRIEND
I still kept to the Drive, and trotted along well up into the hundredth streets. My plan was to have some one find me with the collar on, which undoubtedly had an address on it—but I must not be found near enough to Mr. Boston’s home to be returned that night, for I might be ignominiously turned out into the darkness of the street.