Jeems is anything but a dream!—except of course in looks, for he is very handsome and his tail is all right,—though Mistress would rather I did not mention tails. Funnily enough, mine never bothers me the way it does her. Well, Jeems is a bouncing barking breathless brother. But he’s being trained to be awful particular, more’s the pity, for he’s a true democrat at heart.
This in-breeding training of his makes him a bit slow. When we both sit up and beg for those good sweet crackers at afternoon-tea, I always get his share too, for he’s slow at finding. Of course his Mistress always sees that he gets enough, but he’s never had to fend for himself and I have, and it makes a dog or a man mighty sharp, doesn’t it? Jeems has had milk and chicken in painted saucers ever since he was born. I’ve told him how especially good very old chicken bones out of a garbage pail are, but his tastes remain simple. I can’t get up his enthusiasm!
Jeems never goes out alone as I do. And he is always cleaned and combed so that The Lovely Lady doesn’t like him to get muddy in water-rat holes or stuck up with burrs. But with The Lovely Lady as companion and guide, Me and Jeems have elegant walks! Of course occasionally I have to break through and lie in a mud-puddle just to get the Nature-feel, but I know that Jeems and The Lovely Lady are both helpful to me, as they are refined and particular. It is not good for even a dog always to lead a dog’s life.
Best of all, Jeems speaks my language—doggerel, does one call it? Even when humans are dear and good and kind, one’s native tongue is sweet in the ears. So when Jeems and I dash down the hall together and he shouts, “Hurrah, here goes for a run!” I shout back as sharp and loud as I can, “Hi, Jeems, off we are!” The Lovely Lady laughs, even while she holds on to her ears, for she almost knows the doggerel language herself since we, Me and Jeems, took up her education doggedly.
“Hi, Jeems Pitbladdo, there’s a squirrel on that oak! See who’ll get there first!” And off we go.
What The Lovely Lady Says
It was quite by accident that years ago I met a warm devoted bit of life called Raggety. He has since become a near neighbor and an intimate and devoted friend.
First in my memory, I see a bundle of wet yellow fur carried up a stairway in a northern city by the sea, and when I interestedly inquired who it was, received the reply, “Don’t you know Raggety?”
But the really truly introduction came in a railroad station one fine June morning, how long after our first meeting I do not know. I was unhappy. I had said good-bye for a whole Summer to my precious pet Balribbie, and left my bit of Blue Skye happiness behind me. It was no use, the tears would come when I thought of that little bunch of affection with its soft yellow head sitting in the farmhouse window,—waiting, watching for her truant mistress.
Raggety’s little paw touched me and his cold wet black nose nuzzled into my hand with the wonderful sympathy of discovering a friend. Raggety’s lovely brown eyes were also filled with tears. He was in trouble and pining for the Mistress who had just left him. Every one was going away and he gasped at the loneliness of life.