Peter makes good, and stories of other dogs

It was a beautiful street where the dogs all lived, lined on one side by stately palms. The lawns were smooth as velvet, and always green, in spite of the fact that it seldom rained in this country. Flowers and clinging vines helped to enhance the beauty. The owners of the homes on this well kept street were rich and could afford every luxury for themselves, as well as everything appropriate to their respective positions.

That anyone or anything could be unhappy in such environment seemed unbelievable. However, one little heart was aching there. It was that of a poor little rich Pomeranian, so tiny that the amount which had been paid for her would cover her nicely, were it in bills.

Notwithstanding the fact that Pixie, for that was her name, was fondled and petted, wore beautiful clothes, slept on a silk pillow at the foot of her mistress’s bed, and won all the prizes at the fancy dog shows, indeed, had every wish gratified, she was very unhappy to-day.

Pixie’s owners, who had bought her in London, were proud of her long pedigree, which they never failed to mention, and also that she was registered along with dogs belonging to the King and Queen. This was exceedingly gratifying to everyone concerned, and the awe with which people expressed their admiration for a mite like her that had hobnobbed with royalty, was astonishing.

She was in this lovely home, and had nothing to do but go through a few silly tricks, such as sneezing when she was told to, whether she felt like it or not. To be sure she would be rewarded with some little bit of sweet for performing. But the worst was to have to sit up on her haunches, close her eyes, and say her prayers, in order that her admirers might have a hearty laugh.

Pixie never felt like laughing herself, as something in her made her feel cross at such times. Besides, where did her mistress get that idea of saying prayers in that way? Pixie never saw her mistress say prayers in that or any other way. If she had, would she have liked to be laughed at?

These were only a few of the things this mite of a dog, who was worth her weight in gold, had to trouble her, for she was possessed as we have seen of a small organ necessary to her existence, called a heart. This, we like to think, was susceptible to emotions similar to those of others of God’s creatures.

That this “angel dog,” as her mistress sometimes called her, could have a heartache never occurred to that lady, yet just now Pixie truly was troubled. Every morning Celeste, the French maid, whose ancestors came from the same country that was the home of Pixie’s, would take her out for exercise and fresh air. Pixie loved going to the park nearby. At the entrance, the maid would take the leash from her collar and allow her her liberty.

Celeste would stop to visit with other maids who had brought either children or dogs with them. The one with whom she was holding conversation to-day was the Judge’s maid, who had a young Airedale pup in tow. This young dog was also allowed to run at large. He was so homely and awkward that Pixie was ashamed to be seen with him, although he, like herself, was supposed to be of blue blood. Yet since he belonged to their set, she felt that she must be polite to him.

He became familiar and this put Pixie on her dignity. They started out together, but the Pom was haughty and disdainful.

“He is so common and ugly,” she thought.

Pixie was not wise in her reasoning, or she would have wanted just such a background to show off her own beauty. How her lovely, golden-brown coat glistened in the sun, and how stiff, bristly and fuzzy the Airedale’s coat looked in comparison. And such ears! And was there anything more ridiculous than that stub of a tail? Why, that must be why he was called Bob. Such were the observations that Pixie was making to herself.

Still Pixie was trying to be polite, as one in her position in dogdom should be, but she resented the Airedale’s friendly advances, and when Bob challenged her to a race, she became very cool indeed. She felt that sometimes one’s standing required the toleration of “impossible” dogs, but one did not have to lower her dignity in doing so.

Bob must have sensed something of what was in this haughty lady dog’s mind, for he began bragging. “She wasn’t so much after all.” His master lived in a larger, finer house than hers. Besides, his master was a Judge, who knew about everything and owned two dogs, real dogs—himself and his father—both with pedigrees and family trees planted in the north of England. They were grafted onto an Irish terrier branch, and noted for a lot of things. He failed to say that one of the traits for which they were noted was their quick tempers when they were young and undisciplined.

Bob had some things of which to be proud, too, so he began strutting before Pixie, which only made matters worse, as far as their ever being friends was concerned.

Then Bob, who, you must remember, was young and thoughtless, began making insulting growls, which meant that he knew a few things. “Hadn’t Celeste told their maid that Pixie’s great-great-grandmother was a wolf-dog, and that she had one of the largest families? She was known to have had twenty puppies, and she had to leave them to look after themselves while she helped Pixie’s great-great-grandfather shoo off the wolves.” He wound up by saying, “And my master says it is true. He looked it up in the book.”

Now Pixie was a “perfect lady,” yet there remained in her blood a taint of the fighting propensity that had enabled her great-great-grandparents to shoo off those hungry wolves, and she was not going to stand for any such unkind remarks from a mere Irish Airedale terrier pup.

She flew at him, snapping and biting his awkward legs, and barking her loudest, which only made Bob smile, though it is hard to believe that Airedales do smile, so solemn are their countenances. He decided to show her what real barking was like, and the big bass bow-bow that he let out so frightened Pixie that she scampered off to the French maid.

In this way the morning was spoiled for the little Pom, who shed tears when she thought of her poor great-great-grandmother having to leave those dear little puppies to help shoo off those terrible wolves. Looking around at her surroundings, she thought how different was her condition. She had everything to make her happy. She could sit in her mistress’s lap and eat off her plate if she wanted to. She would never have a large family of puppies to bother with; and of course there would never be any wolves to disturb her.

As this brought her thoughts back to the happenings of the morning and that dreadful Airedale pup, a shudder went through her small body. “Will I always have to encounter that dog when I go to the park?” she wondered.

There were many dogs at the park, but with most of them Pixie must not play. She could associate with only the dogs in her particular circle, and give these others only a haughty stare when she met them.

The Airedale pup, not used to being snubbed, was taking this slight seriously. After Pixie left him, he felt he was in need of sympathy. That Pixie was a lady and had very sharp teeth prevented him from demanding an apology. Had she been one of his own kind, and of his own size, Bob would have fought it out. He would have had the apology, too; but as it was he must have advice.

Looking across the park, he saw the gleam of a brass-studded collar which looked like the regulation collar for dogs in their neighborhood. Going over there, he found three dogs, all belonging in his set. They were taking the air while their attendants sat on the benches and read the morning papers.

Bob, who was still smarting from Pixie’s snub, told them his tale of woe.

“I have been mistreated by a pert little flapper of a Pom, with a ribbon around her neck—and such superior airs she was assuming, when she is only the great-great-granddaughter of a wolf-dog, who, away back there in the old country, raised dozens of puppies and shooed wolves!”

His hearers sat around on their haunches, with their tongues lolling out, and listened intently. Being unable to get an expression from them collectively, Bob questioned them one by one as to what they thought of Pixie, and what he should do about her behavior to him.

All except one expressed opinions. The exception was a young police dog, whose family tree was flourishing over there. If he was not mistaken, there were traditions in his family which bore some relation to the story about the little Pomeranian dogs being able to frighten his own ancestors, when they were hungry and weak, and wanted only a good meal from the poultry pens. Yet he hoped there was some mistake about the story. It did not seem possible that a mere Pom could frighten a noble wolf. Yet he admired Pixie.

The next dog consulted was a little pug, named Ruby. She was quite well acquainted with Pixie, had met her abroad, and had come home on the same ship with her. Both of them had been prize-winners at a dog show in England. Their respective mistresses had bought them from the same kennels. There had been considerable discussion as to the merits of the two dogs. Both had wanted the Pom, and quite a bit of feeling arose between the two ladies on the subject. In fact, the pug’s mistress, in a polite way, claimed the other lady had used questionable methods to procure the coveted dog. However, nothing could be done about it now, as Pixie’s mistress was better able to pay the purchase price.

So the pug was taken; but Ruby always felt there was a lack of sincerity in her owner’s voice when she declared to Pixie’s owner, “No amount of money would induce me to part with my dear little pug. She is the smartest, brightest dog I ever knew.” Then too, Ruby had overheard Pixie’s mistress telling some one that pugs were stupid dogs who did nothing but eat and snore.

Considering these facts, it was not difficult for Bob to enlist Ruby’s sympathy. Aside from this, Ruby was envious of Pixie’s beautiful fur coat. It was so soft and warm. Pixie had no need to wear an overcoat that made her look like a stuffed sausage when she went riding. And she didn’t snore when she slept. The pug at once became Bob’s ally.

The other one in the group was a little French poodle who was fond of Pixie, because, notwithstanding that one was of German descent and the other of French, they got along nicely together. Though unlike in color, they had many traits in common. Both had ancestors who were valiant and courageous. Having this beautiful French poodle, whose name was Petite, to champion her cause was favorable for Pixie, had she known about it; but Pixie was blissfully unaware of the controversy.

Petite’s and Pixie’s mistresses were old friends, and both dogs had heard complimentary remarks about each other, so Bob could not count on the French poodle’s sympathy. She was decidedly for Pixie. Nothing could be settled with the weight of opinion so unequally balanced.

Bob’s pride had had a jolt, and the matter must be adjusted. He would take the case to his father to decide. The elder Airedale was one of those large boned, solemn looking dogs that always look as if they were thinking deeply on some subject of importance. At the same time, there is a comical twist to their countenances that harks back to some trait in their Irish ancestry. Because of these characteristics, and the fact that his owner was on the bench, this old Airedale was called Judge.

Besides being Bob’s father, Judge was also a sort of father confessor to all the dogs in the neighborhood. He was always being called upon to decide the rights of the case in the squabbles of the dogs. Was there a scrap over a bone, or had some of the dogs mistreated a cat that was unable to defend itself, Judge would administer a cuffing to the offenders. Even his own son was granted no mercy when he was brought into court for some disturbance he had caused, but was given a good cuffing if Judge found him guilty.