My mother never seemed the same after this. She was weak and miserable. And though she was only four years old, she seemed like an old dog. She could not run after the master, and she lay on our heap of straw, only turning over with her nose the scraps of food I brought her to eat. One day she licked me gently, wagged her tail, and died.
As I sat by her, feeling lonely and miserable, my master came into the stable. I could not bear to look at him. He had killed my mother. There she lay, a little gaunt, scarred creature, starved and worried to death by him. She would never again look kindly at me, or curl up to me at night to keep me warm. Oh, how I hated her murderer! Still I kept quiet till he walked up to me and kicked at me. My heart was nearly broken, and I could stand no more. I flew at him and gave him a savage bite on the ankle.
“Oho!” he said. “So you are going to be a fighter, are you? I’ll fix you for that.” He seized me by the back of the neck and carried me out to the yard where a log lay on the ground. “Tom,” he called to one of his children, “bring me the hatchet!”
He laid my head on the log and pressed one hand on my struggling body. There was a quick, dreadful pain, and he had cut off my ear close to my head. Then he cut off the other ear, and turning me swiftly round, cut off my tail. Then he let me go, and stood looking at me as I rolled on the ground and yelped in agony. He was in such a passion that he did not think that people passing on the street might hear me.
There was a young man going by. He heard my screams, and hurrying up the path stood among us before the master caught sight of him.
In the midst of my pain, I heard the young man say, fiercely, “What have you been doing to that dog?”
“I’ve been cutting his ears, for fighting, my young gentleman,” said my master; “there is no law to prevent that, is there?”
“And there is no law to prevent me from taking a dog away from such a cruel owner, either,” cried the young man; and giving the master an angry look, he snatched me up in his arms, and walked down the path and out of the gate.
I was moaning with pain, but still I looked up occasionally to see which way we were going. We took the road to the town and stopped in front of a pleasant-looking home. Carrying me gently in his arms, the young man went up a walk leading to the back of the house. There was a small stable there. He went into it and put me down on the floor. Some boys were playing about the stable, and I heard them say, in horrified tones, “Oh, Cousin Harry, what is the matter with that dog?”
“Hush,” he said. “Don’t say anything. You, Jack, go down to the kitchen and ask Mary for a basin of warm water and a sponge, and don’t let your mother or Laura hear you.”