POLICE DOG STORIES
All were eager to hear what the German police dog would have to tell, as they knew he must have been able to gather from his grandparents some thrilling tales, because they went through the war and were at the very center of activities. However, he was unable to get many of the facts from them, as their experiences had been so painful that they had come to America to recover and to forget about them.
One member of the family, however, had been cited for bravery, and they loved to sing the praises of poor old “Marne,” of whom they told the story. All of the dogs wept upon hearing about this war hero. After their eyes were dry, they asked for another story from the police dog. This time it was a detective story, with old Tip as the hero.
The police dog was a born story-teller, and his contact with so many different kinds of dogs and men had given him a store of knowledge far beyond his years. So he was applauded until he responded with a narrative about one of his own country’s species, Fritz, who was German through and through.
After this story, the police dog, who had consumed all of the time at this session, was excused and relieved of any more punishment. The Judge was pleased with his conduct through it all.
Marne, the War Hero
It is a long reach from the battlefields of France to the fashionable dog show at a notable hotel in southern California, but one of the veterans of the World War made it. With sad and solemn eyes, he viewed the scene around him, reminding one of those old men who turn up from retirement to march or to be driven in the parades at the reunions of the Grand Army of the Republic, aged and worn, so far as looks go, but with dear old souls washed white with deeds of bravery.
Thus it was with our war hero, who, surrounded by yelping, barking blue-bloods, was “sitting in” at the dog exhibit, not “listening in,” for he was almost deaf from his injuries received on the battlefield.
Marne was an ambulance dog who served with gallantry throughout the recent war. He came through, and was accepted and decorated by the French government for bravery, but for his glory he paid a dear price. He had been gassed. This, as many who served in the war can testify, takes something out of the very soul of a man. It had the same effect on Marne, who at ten years of age was an old dog.
He was lying silent and dignified among the other entries, but with an accumulation of wisdom impossible to any of the pedigreed dogs about him.
When he was only three months old, this heroic dog was given to the French government. After six months’ training, he was sent to the battlefields to find the dead and wounded. From these trips into “No Man’s Land,” he would come back with either a button or a stone on his stretcher. A button meant a wounded man, and a stone bore mute testimony of one having “gone west.”
Both the British and the French are under obligations to faithful dogs for service on the fields of battle. If these dear, brave dogs could talk, what stories they would tell!
Thanks to the gentle heart of a dear lady who appreciates real worth and brave deeds above mere good breeding in a dog, Marne has been given a pleasant home, and his wounds that have never healed are given proper care. Though there is a far-away look in his eyes, and he has the appearance of one who has known sorrow which he cannot forget, this dear old comrade seems contented.
Old Tip
Tip was not much of a dog, so far as looks go—never had been, even in his young doghood days. There was too much of just ordinary dog in his ancestry. He was part hound, which gave him those floppy, big ears and that long, lean body. His tail, which was not long enough for a real, honest-to-goodness hound to have, was somewhat like that of his grandmother, who was a mongrel with some shepherd blood. From this tail Tip acquired his name, for on the end of it was a white tip. The rest of his body was brown, shading into yellow, which, had he been of more aristocratic lineage, would have been golden brown.
Fate often picks just ordinary men in the lowly walks of life for the laurels. Such was the case with Tip, who was no longer young, and moreover was afflicted with rheumatism, caused by his having no suitable place to sleep on cold, dark nights. He was chosen in his old days to perform the crowning act of his life and to become a hero.
The old corncrib with the leaky roof was Tip’s bedroom. He had only one old grain sack to lie upon. On one of those cold, rainy nights in November, it happened. It was just the time of year when every farmer’s wife is counting on returns for her summer’s work, through the marketing of her nice, fat poultry; and it was also the season when poultry thieves thrive and are busy plying their unlawful business.
Tip had only that evening helped his mistress round up every stray fowl on the place, and she had shut them securely in the chicken house, to be ready for the buyer who was due in the morning to purchase the fat hens and turkeys. Tip had inspected the premises for the last time. Then, considering it safe to do so, he had turned around twice, as is the habit of all dogs, and laid down to sleep.
After his first nap, he awoke. Did he hear or scent something? Not yet really wide awake, he sat up, flapping back his big ears in order to hear more clearly. Surely that sound was something worth giving attention to. He would investigate. Stretching his long body to awaken it fully, he looked out, and what he saw was a small light on the end of something that looked, to him, like a stick. It was up against the poultry house door.
Now, as I told you, Tip was old and had gained wisdom with years. A younger dog would have been more rash; but not Tip. He was cautious. Slipping around the corner, he waited to see what would happen. Soon he saw the door open and two men enter the poultry house. Now was his chance for action. Bounding behind the door, he slammed it shut. As he did so, the bolt slipped into place and, as the key, which had been left in the keyhole, fell out at the same time, he had his prisoners secure. Then he did some lusty barking. Such whoops of “bow-wow!” such howls did he set up, that in a short time he had the family aroused.
This action of his was the means of breaking up an organized band of poultry thieves in that neighborhood; and this feat also earned poor old Tip his laurels.