Part 11

A high official in the State found that the treasury was low, and decided that money must be raised in some way. Of course it was generally conceded that the liquor traffic caused so much of the poverty, crime, and sorrow that it would be wise to make it pay for some of its evil results. This was a difficult matter, however, as saloon keepers and their customers had votes. Corporations could be taxed more heavily, but corporations sometimes paid money to help carry elections.

There was at least one class that had no votes, and consequently little influence. Dogs could therefore be taxed. The rich could easily pay the tax, and if the poor could not, their dogs could be killed. Who stopped to think whether money raised through the sorrow of the poor, or the death of helpless animals, might prove a bane rather than a blessing? Who asked whether a dog did not love life as well as his master, and whether, for his devotion and courage and guarding of homes, he was not entitled to the consideration of the city and the State, rather than to be killed because his owner could not or did not pay a tax or a license fee? The dog had done no wrong, and though somebody loved him, as he could not earn the fee himself he must needs be destroyed.

The tax-gatherer, endowed with power by the officials, came to the Conlon home. There was little that could be taken from so poor a place, thought the collector, until he espied the black dog beside the baby’s cradle. “Your dog, madam, must be paid for. The fee is five dollars.”

“I haven’t the money,” said the woman. “Why, I couldn’t raise so much! I can hardly fill these four mouths with food.”

“Well, madam, then you shouldn’t keep a dog.”

“But she guards the children while I work, and she is such a comfort to them!”

“The law doesn’t take sentiment into the account. If you were a man I should arrest you, and shoot the dog. As it is, I will only shoot the dog. Bring the animal out and I will call that policeman over.”

“You wouldn’t shoot her before these crying children?”—for three of them had begun to cry, and were clasping the dog to their hearts, while the baby looked scared, and pressed his lips together, as though he realized that something was wrong.

“As I said before, madam, the law has no regard for sentiment. The State must have money.”

“I wish they would tax the saloons. If my husband hadn’t lost his money in them before he died we should have the money now to pay the tax for our dog. Could you wait a little for the money? I can give you a dollar, and perhaps I can borrow another, but I can’t possibly raise five dollars. Can you come to-morrow?”

“Yes, I’ll give you a trial, but it’s a long walk here. I’m afraid you’ll turn the dog on the street and then say you haven’t any.”

“Oh, no, sir, we are not as mean as that, even if we are poor! Pet would suffer and perhaps starve, and we all love her too much for that.”

After the man was gone Mrs. Conlon put on her faded shawl and bonnet and went to her neighbors, as poor as herself. One loaned her a quarter, another a half, till the whole dollar was secured.

When the assessor came on the following day, being somewhat impressed by the devotion of both family and dog, he took the two dollars and promised to wait a reasonable time for the remaining three.

Various plans were talked over in the Conlon home for the raising of the extra money. There was comparatively little work to be obtained, rent must be met or they would be turned upon the street, and there were five mouths to feed besides that of Pet.

Jimmie declared that a letter to the Governor of the State ought to do good, and Annie should write it. Accordingly a sheet of paper and an envelope were procured that very afternoon, and a letter was penned to that official. It read as follows:

“DEAR MR. GOVERNOR:

“We have a beautiful [this was a stretch of the imagination] black dog that we found sick and hurt, and we love her dearly, but can’t pay the tax of five dollars. Mother works, and I take care of the children, but I can’t earn any money for poor dear Pet. The police have killed lots of dogs on our street. One belonged to Mamie Fisher, my best friend, and we went together and found him in a pile of dogs, all dead. Mamie took him up in her arms and cried dreadfully. I helped her carry him, and we dug a grave in their little yard and buried him, and we took five cents that a lady gave me and bought two roses and laid on his grave. He was a big yellow puppy, and was so kind.

“Now, Mr. Governor, would you be willing to lend us three dollars till we can earn it, and pay you back? She has two dollars already. We wish there wasn’t any tax on dogs, for they make us poor children so happy. Perhaps you can stop the law.

“Yours most respectful, “ANNIE CONLON.”

All pronounced this a proper letter, and Jimmie dropped it into the mail-box. All the family waited prayerfully for the answer.

The Governor was touched as he read this letter from a child. “I will give her the three dollars,” he said to his wife. “I didn’t suppose the enforcement of a dog tax would bring so much sorrow to little hearts and large ones too. I really wish there were no tax on dogs, for they are helpless creatures and most faithful friends to man. But the State needs money.”

“Try to get the tax law repealed,” said the wife. “There are plenty of ways to raise money to pay the expenses of a great State without killing dogs. The tax law is directly responsible for thousands of dogs being turned upon the street to starve: they become ill from hunger and thirst, are supposed to be mad, and then suffer untold misery and even death from thoughtless and excited crowds. I would have no part in enforcing such a law, and would help to wipe it from the statute books.”

“But some of the farmers have their sheep killed by dogs, and they must have their losses made up to them,” said the Governor.

“Let the town pay for the sheep which are killed, and not cause the death of thousands of innocent dogs because a few have done wrong,” replied the wife.

The money was sent to Annie Conlon, and there was thanksgiving in the plain home. Pet wagged her short tail, and looked up into Annie’s eyes, as though she understood that her life had been spared by those three dollars.

THE STORY OF DOUGLAS.

DOUGLAS was a shaggy black puppy, one of a family of eleven, all of them yellow and white but himself. His fur, when you pushed it apart, showed its yellow color near the skin, revealing what he really was,—a St. Bernard.

He was the most gentle of all the puppies, and would not fight his way at the dish when the others clamored for their bread and milk, but stood apart and looked up to his mistress with a beseeching and sometimes aggrieved air. From the first he seemed to hunger for human affection, and would cry to be held in one’s lap, or follow one about the house or the grounds like a petted kitten.

When quarrels took place between some members of the large family Douglas never joined, but hastened to tell it by his bark, that the disturbance might be quelled. When finally the puppies went to various homes Douglas became the property of a lady who, not having children, loved him almost as a child.

He followed her up and down stairs and lay at her feet if she read. The house was well furnished, but not too good to be used and enjoyed. Douglas was not put out of doors at night to whine in the rain or sleet, or even into a barn, and wisely, for he saved the house once from very unwelcome intruders.

He gambolled beside his mistress if she walked in the woods, and when she was ill he was constantly at her bedside, refusing to eat, and seeming to suffer in her suffering. When she was unavoidably absent Douglas cried and walked the floor, and if allowed to go out of doors howled and waited on the hillside for her return.

Once when at the seashore he followed her without her knowledge, and plunged into the bay after her steamer. He swam till well-nigh exhausted, his agonized owner fearing every minute that he would sink, while she besought the men to stop the boat. Finally he was rescued, and though he could scarcely move the glad look in his eyes and the wag of his tail told as plainly as words the joy of the reunion.

No amount of money could buy the companionable creature. He never wearied one by talk; he never showed anger, perhaps because no one spoke angrily to him. Some persons like to show authority, even over a dog, and talk loud and harsh, but Douglas’s owner was too wise and too good for this. Kindness begot kindness, and the puppy who longed for love appreciated it none the less when he was grown, and could protect the woman who loved him.

One autumn day, just before leaving her country home for the city, Miss Benson was obliged to return to town for a half day. “Good-by, dear Douglas,” she said in her usual way. “I shall come home soon,” and the unwilling creature followed her with his brown eyes, and whined that he could not go also. Later in the afternoon he was let out of doors, and soon disappeared.

When Miss Benson returned her first word was, “Douglas! Douglas!” but there was no response to her call. He had followed her, had lost the trail, and had gone too far to find his way back to his home. In vain she called for her pet. She left the door ajar, hoping at nightfall she should hear the patter of his feet, or his eager bark to come in, but he did not come. She wondered where he slept, if he slept at all; thought a dozen times in the night that she heard him crying at the door; imagined him moaning for her, or, supperless and exhausted, lying down by the roadside, to wait for the sunrise to begin his fruitless journey.

Douglas had become that sad thing, a lost dog. He belonged to nobody now, and both owner and dog were desolate. Miss Benson could scarcely go about her work. She spent days in searching, and hired others to search, but all was useless. For weeks she thought Douglas might possibly come back. If she could know that he was dead, that even would be a consolation; but to fear he was cold and hungry, to realize that the world is all too indifferent to animals, unless perchance they are our own, to imagine he might be in some medical college, the victim of the surgeon’s knife,—all this was bitter in the extreme. Weeping and searching did no good, and finally the inevitable had to be accepted, though the sadness in Miss Benson’s heart did not fade out.

As is ever the case, those of us who have lost something precious become more tender and helpful in a world full of losses. Miss Benson welcomed and cared for every stray animal that she found, perhaps never quite giving up the hope that she would see gentle, great-hearted Douglas again.

And what of Douglas? He ran fast at first, eager to overtake the one to whom he was passionately devoted. She had been gone so long that he soon lost track of her footsteps, and then with a dazed look he began to howl, hoping that she would hear his voice. He lay down to rest, but it was growing dark and he was hungry.

He stopped at a large house and the servants drove him away. He was unused to this, but he dragged himself along to the next place. Here a kind woman gave him something to eat, and would have made him welcome for the night, but he would not stay after he had eaten. He must needs wander on, hoping to find his home and his beloved mistress. All night long he tramped, lying down now and then by the side of the road to rest a few minutes.

The next day was a hard one. He was beginning to realize that he was lost. He ran more slowly, looked eagerly at every passer-by, and seemed half demented. At night he stopped at a home where the lights had just been lighted, and some pretty children seemed flitting from room to room. He whined at the back door.

A flaxen-haired little girl opened it. “Oh, mamma,” said the child, “here is a big black dog, and I know he is hungry! May I feed him?”

“No,” replied the woman, “take a whip and send him off. I will have no lean stray dogs about this house.”

“But he looks hungry, mother,” pleaded little Emma Bascomb, “and I know he won’t bite.”

Mrs. Bascomb, pity it is to tell it, was a very pious person, never failing to be present at prayer-meetings, always deeply interested in the heathen, and most helpful at sewing societies of the church. She never fed stray cats or dogs, as she did not wish them to stay at her house. She did not remember that God made them, and that He lets not a sparrow fall to the ground without His notice, and she forgot that she was to emulate Him.

Mrs. Bascomb varied her treatment of stray dogs and cats. Sometimes she used a long black whip, sometimes pails of water. On this occasion she threw on Douglas, already weak and hungry, a pail of cold water, and sent him frightened and hurt away from her door. Emma protested. “When I have a home of my own, mamma,” she said, “I will never turn away a dog or a cat hungry.” The child knew that it was useless to say more, as a stray cat had stayed about the house for a week, and Mrs. Bascomb had refused to feed it, burning up the scraps from the table lest some starving animal might be tempted to remain. And yet the Bascombs had family prayers, and asked God to provide clothes for the needy and food for the hungry!

Douglas was beginning to learn the sorrows of the poor and homeless. He longed to see some familiar face, to hear some familiar voice. He went on and on, and it began to rain. It was almost sleet, and the dog, used to a warm fire, shivered and longed for shelter. Approaching a large rambling house with a shed attached, Douglas ran under it for cover, and crouched down at the side under a bench. A man came out with a lamp. Evidently he had been drinking, for his step was unsteady. He had come out to close the shed door, and espying the dog gave him a kick with his hard boot.

“Get out, you scoundrel! What are you doing here?” he said gruffly, and poor Douglas ran as though a gun had been fired at him.

“Oh, if there were only a home for such lost ones!” he must have thought; but there was none, and again the hungry and wet dog travelled on. A wagon soon passed with two men in it, and Douglas followed, hoping it would lead to a home for him. “Whip him off,” said one of the men to the other. “We’ve got two dogs already, and my wife would never allow a third,” and they brandished the whip in the rear and drove on. Douglas crawled under a tree, and rolling himself as nearly as he could into a round ball for warmth finally fell asleep.

In the morning he started again on his toilsome journey. He was lame now and half sick. Soon the houses were nearer together, and Douglas realized that he was coming into a city. He did not know there was little room for dogs in an overcrowded, fashionable city. There was little green grass to roam over, and the rushing world did not want the bother of animals. Perhaps, however, where there were so many people there would be some kind hearts, he thought.

He crept along and looked into the window of a restaurant. There was a boiled ham in the window, cake, pies, and other attractive things. He wagged his tail a little, and looked into a man’s face as he went in, but the man paid no attention. Then a young lady passed, and she said, “Poor dog!” but went on.

Douglas walked away and lay down in front of a store, but a man came and said, “Get out! The ladies will be afraid of you.”

Douglas looked no longer the petted, handsome creature of several days before. The dust had settled in his black hair, which looked rough and coarse. He was thin and dejected. An unthinking boy chased him, and threw something at him, and as he was too peaceable to resent it he hurried along an alley and tried to hide up a stairway. A big red-faced man came out of a room at the head of the stairs and kicked him down the steps.

Douglas ran into a shoe-store. Three men cornered him with a broom and a pole, and one man, braver than the others, put a cloth over his head, and then seized him by the hind legs and threw him into the street. Then somebody on the sidewalk said, “That dog acts strangely. He must be mad!”

That was enough to excite the passers-by, who had read in the papers various accounts of supposed cases of rabies. “He is weak,” said one person, “and he totters.” “He is frothing at the mouth,” said another. A boot-black ran after him and threw his box at the thoroughly frightened animal. A crowd gathered, and ran and shouted. “Shoot him! Shoot him!” was the eager cry.

Douglas did indeed froth at the mouth from excessive running. A lady hurried along and said, “Let me have the dog. He is not mad, but has lost his owner. Frothing at the mouth is not a sign of hydrophobia, as the best physicians will tell you.”

“No, madam,” said a looker-on. “Don’t touch the dog. We men will not allow you to be bitten.”

A policeman fired his pistol, and the ball entered Douglas’s shoulder. Half dead with pain as well as fright, the dog rushed on and finally escaped.

He lay in his hiding-place till midnight, and then when no human eye could see him he crept away from the city. If only Miss Benson could see him now, and dress his wounds, and say the petting words of old that he had so loved to hear!

Towards morning, exhausted, he lay down by the fence in the front yard of a house in the outskirts of the city. The owner of the home was a lawyer, a kind-hearted man, in part because he had a noble mother and wife.

“There’s a poor wounded dog on our lawn, Jeannette,” Mr. Goodman said to his wife. “Call him in at the back door, and we’ll see if we can’t help him.”

Mrs. Goodman took a basin of warm water and castile soap and carefully washed the wound, the children standing about and anxiously watching the operation. “Nice dog,” said Teddy, a boy of five. “He no bite.”

“No,” said his mother, as Douglas looked pitifully up into her face. “He is a kind dog, and must belong to a good home somewhere.”

After she had finished washing the sore and tender place Douglas licked her hand in appreciation. “Have Dr. Thayer come in,”—he was the veterinary surgeon,—said Mrs. Goodman to her husband. “We might as well make the care of animals a part of our missionary work in the world. The doctor will find the ball, if it is still there, and save the dog, I hope.”

“All right, wife,” said Mr. Goodman, as he started for the office.

“I suppose you want some breakfast, doggie,” said Mrs. Goodman, and she placed before Douglas a dish of meat and of milk. Douglas was too tired and too full of pain to eat much, but he felt as though a new world had opened to him. After all, there were some good people in the land, and at last he had reached them.

Dr. Thayer came, found the ball in the patient, abused animal, and the wounded shoulder soon began to heal.

When night came Mrs. Goodman made Douglas a warm bed of blankets by the kitchen stove, for she knew that a cold kennel was not a suitable place for him. Later he was washed and dried, by rubbing with cloths, till his coat was silky and black.

Teddy and the dog became inseparable companions. Wherever the child went Douglas was always close behind him, now licking his extended hand, now lying down for the child to clamber over him, or to lay his dark curls against the darker curls of the dog. They shared their food, and they frequently went to sleep together, if it could be called sleep on the part of the dog, whose eyes were usually open that his little charge might be guarded. Douglas never showed an inclination to bite unless some one touched the boy, and then he growled and looked concerned.

One summer day Teddy and a playmate wandered off with the dog during Mrs. Goodman’s absence. They sat down under a tree and all three lunched together. Then they played along the meadow till the banks of a river were reached. Two men were working near by and occasionally watched the children at their play, as they dabbled their hands in the water. Finally they heard a child scream, and before they could reach the place Douglas was dragging Teddy, dripping and frightened, from the river. The men carried the boy home to his awe-struck but overjoyed parents, and Douglas, wet and excited, was praised for his heroic conduct.

A year later, when Teddy went to school, Douglas missed his comrade, and for days whined piteously. He never failed to go, at the regular hour for closing school, to meet his little friend, and always brought home in his teeth the dinner basket of the lad. Sometimes Douglas whined in his sleep, as though he were dreaming of other days, but love for Teddy made him, on the whole, very happy.

When Teddy was seven years old diphtheria raged in the school, and marked him for one of its victims. No love or care could save him.

When conscious, he could not bear Douglas out of his sight or reach. As in the case with his former mistress, Douglas neither ate nor slept. When all was over he disappeared. Where he went nobody knew. Probably he lay upon the grave of the child, and later wandered off, thinking perchance to find again his first love.

The Goodmans had intended to leave their home in the suburbs and move to the city before their boy died, and now Mrs. Goodman was anxious to go away from the place as quickly as possible. A home was soon obtained, and the family moved thither. They deeply regretted that Douglas could not be found to go with them, because they were much attached to him for his own sake, and because he was so dear to their child.

Douglas meantime had hunted far and wide for his lost ones. He had the same bitter experience of neglect and hunger, but a dog’s love is his strongest quality, and despite suffering he was seeking his own. Miss Benson he could not find; that was past hope, but Teddy, perhaps, he might see again. Probably Douglas did not know that death has no awakening in this world, and that Teddy could never come to his home, but the dog finally stole back to the porch and yard where they had played together and waited, hoping that the boy would come. The house was vacant. Some neighbors saw him on the steps, but he went away again. Finally a policeman saw him and heard him howl.

“Whose dog is that?” he said to a neighbor.

“It’s a dog that came to the Goodmans and disappeared when their little boy died. I suppose he has come back to find the child,” was the reply.

“Ah!” said the man, “and he hasn’t any collar on his neck. He is unlicensed. I will send the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals after him.”

“I’ll see that he doesn’t starve,” said the woman. “Will the Society find a home for him?”

“Oh, no, they can’t find homes for so many as they take off the streets! They’ll kill him.”

“He isn’t to blame for not being licensed. I don’t see the use of the license law, because it means the death of so many thousands of animals.”

“Neither do I,” said the kind-hearted policeman. “Poor folks can’t always pay the fee. I love my dog, and he’s a great comfort to my children. But I don’t make the law. I only help to enforce it.”

“What is done with the license money? It makes so much heartache it ought to do great good.”

“I’ve heard that it is given sometimes to public schools and to libraries to buy books on kindness to animals, and sometimes to the Humane Society so that they can pay men to catch and kill unlicensed dogs. You see, the licensed dogs help to kill the unlicensed and homeless,” said the man.

“I should think a better way would be to provide homes for the really homeless instead of killing them. I think that we have a duty to animals, seeing that they are under our protection.”

The policeman told the S. P. C. A. that a black unlicensed dog was howling on the steps of a vacant house because his little friend had died. Two officers in a big wagon hastened to the spot, caught him, and threw him in with a score of other animals which they had seized on the street.