Life — December 2, 1915 — page 34: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Christmas Life Bogs and Their Beroes ‘ OST dogs, though they are prompt to investigate new acquaintances and like an excursion with their kind now and then, are happiest with their masters; and this, I am sure, is not cupboard love either. It is pleasure in the human relation. What they understand of our language is little, but what they understand of our tones is much. They instantly respond, so sensitive are they, to vocal inflections, and can be affected by murmurs better than by words. This sensi- tiveness, especially to sounds of reproach or disapproval, sometimes tempts people to take liberties with a dog’s feelings. That is a mistake and one for which, since all dogs must die and most of our dogs die before we do, we can be very sorry. Indeed, the brevity of a dog's life is not the least sad anomaly in a world where sadness is no curiosity. I have been thinking of this brevity of late with re- newed seriousness; for as I approached my home the other day, after an absence of three weeks, I saw my dog in the distance, across a meadow, and whistled to him. He heard me whistle and, to my surprise, after standing still for a moment or so, wonderingly, he came toward me not with his usual swift directness, but uncertainly. He was still doubtful and strange until within 2 yard or so, when the recognition was complete and he began those whole- souled expressions of delight and satisfaction which so few of us deserve. And then, stooping down, I realized what his hesitations had meant: for, to my great grief, | saw that a purple mist covered the middle of each eye He was losing his sight. The beginning of the end, I thought sadly, This dog is a black spaniel, seven years old, and I have had him since he was a puppy; and not till now had the knowledge that he was aging come upon me. But now I know that, like all his kind, he has By E. V. Lucas favorites, especially spaniels—and in these days of motor- cars one cannot, of course, count on anything at all. As for Shadow, my black spaniel now under sentence, he has never been anything but blunderingly devoted. As a dog he is not clever. To be pursued by him means, for a rabbit, everlasting life, and, for a cat, a joke of enormous dimensions. In the wake of a hare, fast diminishing to a speck on the horizon, he is pathetic indeed; for it is hours before he will give up the chase, Yet as a com- panion he has been close, and constant, and untroubled by complexities of temperament, and I shall miss him intensely. He lies beside me as I write these words. When I get up he will get up, too. When I go to London he will spend the time listening for my returning footstep. Is there any harm in that? It is doing me too much honor, no doubt; but is there any harm in it? I never thought so until in an article in one of the half-crown reviews, I found recently Mr. W. H. Hudson saying of dogs that he cannot bring himself to keep one, because he dislikes to see “so intelligent and serviceable a beast degraded to the position of a mere pet or plaything.” With much respect and admiration for Mr. Hudson, I am bound to say that I think he ought to know better. When I recall certain of his beautiful writings—his Purple Land, for example, and his Shepherd's Life, and all their sympathy with nature and understanding of man and pity for hin— I am bewildered to find him thus depriving himself of what would be to him so congenial a companion. For even if we grant his point, which I do not, that the dog “has lost, or been robbed of, its true place in the scheme of things, y reason why a new place as the happy associate of man should not be found for him? There is the dog’s point of view to be considered, too. A dog can find even in the most worth- had his day, He will grow blinder and blinder, and that will make him snappy and unsafe, and one morning I shall have to send for the vet to administer a merciful lethal drug. In any properly organized world the span of man and dog would coincide; and particularly so in this world, where loyalty among human creatures is not too easy to find, and moods among men and women are so common and em- barrassing, and where so much mis- chief is done by talk, The dog, being always faithful and the same and dumb, is the perfect companion; and a dog’s life is so short. One cannot less of us—Bill Sikes jumps to mind— something to love and believe in. Life is not such a triumphant progress for any of us that (on our side) hero-wor- shippers are to be discouraged; while on the other side, the hero-worship- pers, especially those who have no dis- crimination, nothing but ecstasy, are among the happiest of creatures. His Dilemma IMMIE: What's the matter with you? Got a grouch? Cuiaue: Yeh. I dunno what to do Christmas Eve. If I plug de hole in de winder wid me sock I won't have count on more than five or six years of a dog at his hest—or I would rather say at her best, for bitches are my Bride: MeRcirUL HEAVENS! THAT PIE 13 BURNING ANDO I CAN'T TAKE IT OUT FOR TEN MINUTES YET! nothing to hang up for Santa Claus to put things into, and if I don’t plug it I'll freeze before he comes. comicbooks.com