The matrimonial mishap looked down at me withalmost canine intelligence in his face.
“Why， doggie，” says he， “good doggie. You almost looklike you could speak. What is it， doggie—Cats？”
Cats！ Could speak！
But， of course， he couldn’t understand. Humans weredenied the speech of animals. The only common groundof communication upon which dogs and men can gettogether is in fiction.
In the flat across the hall from us lived a lady with ablack-and-tan terrier. Her husband strung it and took itout every evening， but he always came home cheerful andwhistling. One day I touched noses with the black-and-tanin the hall， and I struck him for an elucidation.
“See， here， Wiggle-and-Skip，” I says， “you know that itain’t the nature of a real man to play dry nurse to a dogin public. I never saw one leashed to a bow-wow yet thatdidn’t look like he’d like to lick every other man thatlooked at him. But your boss comes in every day as perkyand set up as an amateur prestidigitator doing the eggtrick. How does he do it？ Don’t tell me he likes it.”
“Him？” says the black-and-tan. “Why， he uses Nature’sOwn Remedy. He gets spifflicated. At first when we go outhe’s as shy as the man on the steamer who would ratherplay pedro when they make ’em all jackpots. By the timewe’ve been in eight saloons he don’t care whether thething on the end of his line is a dog or a catfish. I’ve losttwo inches of my tail trying to sidestep those swingingdoors.”
The pointer I got from that terrier—vaudeville pleasecopy—set me to thinking.
One evening about 6 o’clock my mistress ordered him toget busy and do the ozone act for Lovey. I have concealedit until now， but that is what she called me. The blackand-tan was called “Tweetness.” I consider that I have thebulge on him as far as you could chase a rabbit. Still “Lovey”
is something of a nomenclatural tin can on the tail of one’sself respect.
At a quiet place on a safe street I tightened the line ofmy custodian in front of an attractive， refined saloon. Imade a dead-ahead scramble for the doors， whining like adog in the press despatches that lets the family know thatlittle Alice is bogged while gathering lilies in the brook.
“Why， darn my eyes，” says the old man， with a grin； “darnmy eyes if the saffron-coloured son of a seltzer lemonadeain’t asking me in to take a drink. Lemme see—how long’sit been since I saved shoe leather by keeping one foot onthe foot-rest？ I believe I’ll—”
I knew I had him. Hot Scotches he took， sitting at atable. For an hour he kept the Campbells coming. I satby his side rapping for the waiter with my tail， and eatingfree lunch such as mamma in her flat never equalled withher homemade truck bought at a delicatessen store eightminutes before papa comes home.
When the products of Scotland were all exhaustedexcept the rye bread the old man unwound me from thetable leg and played me outside like a fisherman plays asalmon. Out there he took off my collar and threw it intothe street.
“Poor doggie，” says he； “good doggie. She shan’t kiss youany more. ’S a darned shame. Good doggie， go away andget run over by a street car and be happy.”
I refused to leave. I leaped and frisked around the oldman’s legs happy as a pug on a rug.
“You old flea-headed woodchuck-chaser，” I said tohim—“you moon-baying， rabbit-pointing， egg-stealing oldbeagle， can’t you see that I don’t want to leave you？ Can’tyou see that we’re both Pups in the Wood and the missis isthe cruel uncle after you with the dish towel and me withthe flea liniment and a pink bow to tie on my tail. Whynot cut that all out and be pards forever more？”
Maybe you’ll say he didn’t understand—maybe he didn’t.
But he kind of got a grip on the Hot Scotches， and stoodstill for a minute， thinking.
“Doggie，” says he， finally， “we don’t live more than adozen lives on this earth， and very few of us live to bemore than 300. If I ever see that flat any more I’m a flat，and if you do you’re flatter； and that’s no flattery. I’moffering 60 to 1 that Westward Ho wins out by the lengthof a dachshund.”
There was no string， but I frolicked along with mymaster to the Twenty-third street ferry. And the cats onthe route saw reason to give thanks that prehensile clawshad been given them.
On the Jersey side my master said to a stranger whostood eating a currant bun：
“Me and my doggie， we are bound for the RockyMountains.”
But what pleased me most was when my old man pulledboth of my ears until I howled， and said： “You common，monkey-headed， rat-tailed， sulphur-coloured son of a doormat， do you know what I’m going to call you？”
I thought of “Lovey，” and I whined dolefully.
“I’m going to call you ‘Pete，’” says my master； and if I’dhad five tails I couldn’t have done enough wagging to dojustice to the occasion.