“We went past the house to a stable, and there we found a nice-looking man, and a colored servant boy.
“‘Good morning, doctor,’ said Mrs. Martin. ‘I have brought you another cur. Please tell me whether she is sound in wind and limb. Otherwise, we will——’ She nodded her head toward a closet, and I trembled like a leaf. I knew what she meant. If I were not a healthy dog they would kill me.
“How would they do it? and I lay down on the floor and panted. I knew death would mean an end of my troubles, but I had seen dogs killed, and cats and chickens, and it was not till a long time after that I found out that one can kill without torturing.
“The doctor poked my ribs, examined my teeth and rubbed back my hair. Then he said, ‘A healthy dog, three-quarters smooth-haired fox-terrier; age, about three years; a few fleas, coat harsh and uncared for, skin not too dirty, has been washed recently—been struck by motor car or railway train, judging by black plaster on rump.’
“‘Will you let your boy wash her again?’ asked Mrs. Martin.
“‘Certainly,’ said the doctor. ‘Jim, take the dog into the bathroom.’
“A bathroom for dogs! I nearly fainted as I thought of the pump the Italians went to. But was this right for me to have a bathroom, and the poor human beings to have none? My education, or lack of it, had early taught me that a dog is much lower in the scale of beings than men and women. In fact, we Bronx dogs were not taught to think half enough of ourselves.
“For the second time in my life, and within one week, I, three-year-old dog, was given a bath, and this time it was almost a pleasure, for though the colored boy had great, heavy hands like sledge hammers, he had been taught to use them carefully.
“While he was passing his soapy hands carefully over me, a number of dogs in near-by stalls screamed and jumped and barked jealously.
“‘You boardah dogs hush up,’ he said, ‘or Jim will lick de stuffin’ outen you.’