Pierrot, Dog of Belgium

by Walter A. Dyer

People in houses and peasants in the fields he learned not to fear, and twice he was invited into cottages and fed. But always he managed to get away after he was rested and never knew that he was guilty of ingratitude. Sometimes men on the road or in the fields called to him, but he would not stop. Once a boy gave chase, but Pierrot put all the speed he could muster into his three legs and contrived to escape, though he was obliged to lie panting for a long time after this race before he could recover. It was hard for him to understand this loss of his old-time power.

He kept no account of the days and only knew that the way seemed endless. But one afternoon the conviction seized him that he was nearing his journey’s end. There was nothing familiar in the objects in the landscape; he had never been there before. But something inside him told him it was so. He pressed on eagerly, whining a little to himself as a terrier whines when he scents a mole. Surely, over the next hill, or around the next bend, he would come upon the old, familiar scenes—cottage and byre and the blessed fields of home. Over there, just beyond, were the well-remembered faces, the happy voices of the children, the capable, kind hands of Mère Marie.

In his zestful haste he overtaxed his strength again, and, trembling with excitement and fatigue, he was obliged to seek rest before sunset.

He slept fitfully that night. Frequently his dreams awoke him and he stood peering into the darkness, listening for he knew not what, before he remembered and lay down again. But though he rested ill, he was abroad before daybreak, padding laboriously on.

All that day he travelled without food or rest, stopping only for an occasional drink when opportunity offered. There was never a doubt in his mind that to-day he would be home again. No sound or scent or unaccustomed sight lured him from his straight course. Then at length he came out upon the road he knew, with its rows of poplar trees, and his heart began to hammer at his ribs. Heedless of pain and weariness, he dashed blindly on, around the bend in the road, up the little lane, to the place where home had been.

Pierrot stopped in a panic of bewilderment. The tile-roofed house was gone and only blackened timbers remained. He sniffed about among the ruins for a time, greatly troubled, and then circled around toward the outbuildings. They, too, were gone, but nearby was a little shack that he did not remember.

Night was coming on again, and Pierrot was feeling very weary and forlorn and hopeless. Was this, then, the empty end of his long, painful quest? Where was the pretty little home and the comfortable cow barn and the people he used to love? Had all vanished into thin air?

Pierrot dragged himself disconsolately over to the strange little shack and sniffed at the crack under the door. Something in the scent drove him into a sudden frenzy of excitement. He began to scratch vigorously and gave voice to one short, sharp bark.