Pierrot, Dog of Belgium

by Walter A. Dyer

For three days and two nights Pierrot lay in his hiding-place, sleeping much of the time. At noon the warm sun struck through the twigs which by night shielded him from the bitter winds. The Red Cross motors came and there were sounds of human activity in the trench. Soldiers marched by, but there was no rushing attack and no heavily shod phalanx came crashing through his cover. In his dense retreat he lay undiscovered, waiting patiently for life or death.

During the third day he became restless and slept but little. He was feeling somewhat stronger and his mind had become more active. His wounded leg throbbed less severely. Toward nightfall an imperative call came to him to go forth.

Thus far, strangely enough, he had not felt keen pangs of hunger, for it is natural for sick dogs to fast. But now he was painfully aware of a consuming thirst. He had occasionally reached out and lapped at the cool snow outside his covert, but while that had felt good to his fevered nose and mouth, it had not sufficed. Now his throat was parched, his tongue was thick and dry, and his head ached. If you do not believe that dogs have headaches, notice how your terrier thrusts his head against your knee next time he is ailing, and begs for the pressure of your hand.

So Pierrot crawled out of his nest in the gathering dusk and looked about him, stretching his stiffened limbs and lifting his nose to the keen wind. He walked once around his thicket and then started off across the frozen ground toward the dunes, making laborious progress, keeping to the shadows, sniffing for water.

Twice he heard voices, and once footsteps approached and passed by, while he lay still and waited, cowering. At last he came to a hollow where melting snow had formed a little pool. He broke the thin sheet of ice with one forepaw, and then, thrusting his nose into the freezing water, he drank long and gratefully.

With the quenching of his thirst a new life seemed to flow through his veins and courage returned to his stout heart. But he was still weak, and after a moment’s indecision he crept back to his shelter.

On the morning of the fourth day he awoke refreshed. But now a new need had come to torment him. He was hungry. Sharp pangs gnawed at his vitals and all his being cried aloud for food. He thrust his head out of his hiding-place and looked about, sniffing the air. Over the edge of the trench he saw the movements of men and the sun glistening on rifle barrels and German helmets. He drew back stealthily. Experience had taught him caution. He had had enough of soldiers and of war. He must wait.

All day he suffered the agonies of hunger and fought against the impulse to dash out blindly in search of food. And as the day advanced he was conscious of an ever-increasing desire to go home. A great longing filled him for his cozy bed in Medard’s stable, for the home where there was always plenty to eat, for the kind hands that knew how to cure a dog’s hurts, for the human love that had drifted so far into the past that it was like a dream of heaven. The homing instinct became his ruling motive; it obsessed him and drew him as with chains.

Repeatedly he started impulsively out from the thicket, and as often the sight of soldiers drove him fearfully back.

When at last nightfall came and the trenches glowed with little campfires, Pierrot sallied forth, deliberately and cautiously. First, he sought again his drinking-pool and slaked his burning thirst. Then he passed on into an unknown country in the dark. He skirted the dunes, followed a little watercourse for half a mile, and then struck into a shallow ditch beside a rutty road. He trusted little to his eyes, but ears and nostrils were constantly alert to detect danger, and he gave a wide berth to everything that suggested man to his senses. His sore feet had healed, but he was obliged to travel on three legs by reason of his wound, and he was still stiff and far from strong. Always his nose was searching earth and air for the scent of food.