I don’t suppose it will knock any of you people off yourperch to read a contribution from an animal. Mr. Kiplingand a good many others have demonstrated the fact thatanimals can express themselves in remunerative English，and no magazine goes to press nowadays without ananimal story in it， except the old-style monthlies that arestill running pictures of Bryan and the Mont Pélee horror.
But you needn’t look for any stuck-up literature in mypiece， such as Bearoo， the bear， and Snakoo， the snake， andTammanoo， the tiger， talk in the jungle books. A yellowdog that’s spent most of his life in a cheap New Yorkflat， sleeping in a corner on an old sateen underskirt （theone she spilled port wine on at the Lady Longshoremen’sbanquet）， mustn’t be expected to perform any tricks withthe art of speech.
I was born a yellow pup； date， locality， pedigree andweight unknown. The first thing I can recollect， an oldwoman had me in a basket at Broadway and Twenty-thirdtrying to sell me to a fat lady. Old Mother Hubbard wasboosting me to beat the band as a genuine Pomeranian-Hambletonian-Red-Irish-Cochin-China-Stoke-Pogisfox terrier. The fat lady chased a V around among thesamples of gros grain flannelette in her shopping bag tillshe cornered it， and gave up. From that moment I wasa pet—a mamma’s own wootsey squidlums. Say， gentlereader， did you ever have a 200-pound woman breathinga flavour of Camembert cheese and Peau d’Espagne pickyou up and wallop her nose all over you， remarking allthe time in an Emma Eames tone of voice： “Oh， oo’sum oodlum， doodlum， woodlum， toodlum， bitsy-witsyskoodlums？”
From a pedigreed yellow pup I grew up to be ananonymous yellow cur looking like a cross between anAngora cat and a box of lemons. But my mistress nevertumbled. She thought that the two primeval pups thatNoah chased into the ark were but a collateral branchof my ancestors. It took two policemen to keep herfrom entering me at the Madison Square Garden for theSiberian bloodhound prize.
I’ll tell you about that flat. The house was the ordinarything in New York， paved with Parian marble in theentrance hall and cobblestones above the first floor. Ourfiat was three—well， not flights—climbs up. My mistressrented it unfurnished， and put in the regular things—1903antique unholstered parlour set， oil chromo of geishas in aHarlem tea house， rubber plant and husband.
By Sirius！ there was a biped I felt sorry for. He was alittle man with sandy hair and whiskers a good deal likemine. Henpecked？—well， toucans and flamingoes andpelicans all had their bills in him. He wiped the dishes andlistened to my mistress tell about the cheap， ragged thingsthe lady with the squirrel-skin coat on the second floorhung out on her line to dry. And every evening while shewas getting supper she made him take me out on the endof a string for a walk.
If men knew how women pass the time when theyare alone they’d never marry. Laura Lean Jibbey， peanutbrittle， a little almond cream on the neck muscles， dishesunwashed， half an hour’s talk with the iceman， reading apackage of old letters， a couple of pickles and two bottlesof malt extract， one hour peeking through a hole in thewindow shade into the flat across the air-shaft—that’sabout all there is to it. Twenty minutes before time forhim to come home from work she straightens up thehouse， fixes her rat so it won’t show， and gets out a lot ofsewing for a ten-minute bluff.
I led a dog’s life in that flat. ’Most all day I lay therein my corner watching that fat woman kill time. I sleptsometimes and had pipe dreams about being out chasingcats into basements and growling at old ladies with blackmittens， as a dog was intended to do. Then she wouldpounce upon me with a lot of that drivelling poodlepalaver and kiss me on the nose—but what could I do？ Adog can’t chew cloves.
I began to feel sorry for Hubby， dog my cats if I didn’t.
We looked so much alike that people noticed it when wewent out； so we shook the streets that Morgan’s cab drivesdown， and took to climbing the piles of last December’ssnow on the streets where cheap people live.
One evening when we were thus promenading， and Iwas trying to look like a prize St. Bernard， and the oldman was trying to look like he wouldn’t have murdered thefirst organ-grinder he heard play Mendelssohn’s weddingmarch，I looked up at him and said， in my way：
“What are you looking so sour about， you oakumtrimmed lobster？ She don’t kiss you. You don’t have to siton her lap and listen to talk that would make the book ofa musical comedy sound like the maxims of Epictetus. Youought to be thankful you’re not a dog. Brace up， Benedick，and bid the blues begone.”