I hoped that he would soon get entirely well, so that I might give him his liberty, but he suddenly became very ill and died, regretted on account of his gentle disposition.
We photographed him before losing him, and found him a good bird to pose. Some of our birds were most aggravating when they saw a camera. They were not afraid of it, but they acted like naughty children, getting behind it and under it, and everywhere but in front of it. Many an hysterical laugh have we had when, time after time, just as a successful group of birds, dogs, cats, or hens had been placed in good position, half our pets would get up and saunter away.
At last the sight of the camera produced such a state of merriment in the family that my sister, who had infinite patience with our pets, would send us all away, and manage the four and two-footed creatures alone.
In speaking of unmanageable pets, I must make honorable mention of our fox terrier Billy, who was with the birds so much that he might almost be called an inhabitant of the aviary. He did not love the birds—he was jealous of them—but he never harmed them and, moreover, they knew he would not harm them, and had no fear of him. He never played with them, but he would wallow with Sukey in the accumulation of scraps, seeds, grass, and other rubbish on sweeping days in the aviary, until I have seen the maid gently push them both aside with her broom.
Billy would cheerfully pose when he saw a camera, and follow us whenever we went to the photographers in the town. One day when my mother was having her picture taken, Billy placed himself at her feet. The photographer took him up and lifted him to what he considered a more attractive position.
I shall never forget the look of doggish reproach that Billy gave him as he walked back to his original position, and held it. It seemed to say, “Don’t you know, sir, that I am a dog that is used to posing? I know how to show off my good points better than you do.”
Strangers sometimes remarked that no member of our family was photographed without this pet dog.
“We cannot help it,” we used to reply, “Billy follows us and gets into the picture. We can’t keep him out.”
Dear little dog! He was the last of the real animals in “Beautiful Joe,” to leave us, and a year ago, at the age of sixteen years and a half, lay down one day to die, as calmly and peacefully as he had lived.
