World Man Dog came up the cabin grade. His head was down—thinking. His tail was straight out behind him, as a dog's tail is when very much engaged with his own thoughts. You could see that he was going to keep an appointment; it was evident that he was afraid he might be late. He did not see me, so completely was he engrossed in his own affairs. He went right on up to John's door, entered, gave a look round the shack, first eagerly, then to make sure. His face fell, his body sagged—down he slumped in the middle of the floor—utterly dejected. As plain as day:
"Hell,—he ain't here!"
A real dog trainer is a wise man. I used to raise collies and was around the benches some—watching the champions come and go. One old trainer talked to me:
"Styles change in dogs," he said, "but a good dog doesn't change. He goes on and on. You don't get the good collies here on the benches any more. This year they want the collie so fine that we have to pinch the brain out of his head and break his lung-room in two. Last year we bred for hair, not for body and brain. Look at that one——"
He pointed to an old sire that had three seasons of the bench and blue, a sweeper of prizes. I remember the time when such a head would have started a stealer anywhere. The old collie had not lost form, but styles had changed. A most stupid dog with a straight, narrow head had won—not the shepherd type at all, but the head of a Russian wolf-hound—a bit of the monster left in it, a drugged look in the small black eyes; hysteria there, and not fealty—madness and not soul.
"We breed them for the cities now—for porches and parlours," the trainer added. "Yes, those great collie strains that we have been nurturing for centuries to all that is brave and hard and useful—we are putting the hair of the lap-dog on them now—long silky stuff, not for snow and sleet. The collie walks by himself these days. No, we won't altogether ruin the strain. Many individuals are spoiled, but the race had come too far and too long to be broken down by a few years of fancyfying."
Of course, I was thinking of the children at every stage of the talk—of city people and children. As a race, the city-bred have become too fine. Life has worn them thin—given them the drugged look about the eyes. The race will never get far in the art of living until it comes home to the land and the restful distances and free flowing airs. This is so true that it seems to risk wearing the eye and the mind—to say it again....
It's good to see them—a boy and a dog together in the hills or down by the edges of the land. There was a piece of decent collie in a dog named Jack back on the lake shore. He was long in strength and courage, but a bit shy in obedience. As a work-dog, he was ruined by a man who knew less than he did, frequently the case in bringing up dogs and men—whipped at the wrong time, every forming endeavour in the pup-brain broken by that. He is seven or eight years old now ... a clean dog, a very wise and kind dog, with a sly and quiet humour that seldom is cruel and never falls into horse play—a lover of many children and confident of an open door in many homes.
I remember the dignity and beauty of his first appearance over the bank from the shore, almost timed to our arrival. We were tender to the collie in general, having passed years with them. Jack moved from one to another accepting embraces with a kindliness that mellowed that cloudy day. There was joy about it all. I stood back waiting my turn with much self-control. He submitted to the welcome—to the last detail, and a little later refused refreshments with perfect courtesy.