Lad: A Dog

by Albert Payson Terhune

  This odd little trait that had caused so much ridicule now saved Wolf’s life.

  He carried the lump of beef gingerly up to the veranda, laid it down on his mat, and prepared to revel in his chance banquet after his own deliberate fashion.

  Holding the beef between his forepaws, he proceeded to devour it in mincing little squirrel bites. About a quarter of the meat had disappeared when Wolf became aware that his tongue smarted and that his throat was sore; also that the interior of the meat-ball had a rankly pungent odor, very different from the heavenly fragrance of its outside and not at all appetizing.

  He looked down at the chunk, rolled it over with his nose, surveyed it again, then got up and moved away from it in angry disgust.

  Presently he forgot his disappointment in the knowledge that he was very, very ill. His tongue and throat no longer burned, but his body and brain seemed full of hot lead that weighed a ton. He felt stupid, and too weak to stir. A great drowsiness gripped him.

  With a grunt of discomfort and utter fatigue, he slumped down on the veranda floor to sleep off his sick lassitude. After that, for a time, nothing mattered.

  For perhaps an hour Wolf lay sprawling there, dead to his duty, and to everything else. Then faintly, through the fog of dullness that enwrapped his brain, came a sound—a sound he had long ago learned to listen for. The harshly scraping noise of a boat’s prow drawn up on the pebbly shore at the foot of the lawn.

  Instinct tore through the poison vapors and roused the sick dog. He lifted his head. It was strangely heavy and hard to lift.

  The sound was repeated as the prow was pulled farther up on the bank. Then came the crunch of a human foot on the waterside grass.

  Heredity and training and lifelong fidelity took control of the lethargic dog, dragging him to his feet and down the veranda steps through no volition of his own.

  Every motion tired him. He was dizzy and nauseated. He craved sleep; but as he was just a thoroughbred dog and not a wise human, he did not stop to think up good reasons why he should shirk his duty because he did not feel like performing it.

  To the brow of the hill he trotted—slowly, heavily, shakily. His sharp powers of hearing told him the trespasser had left his boat and had taken one or two stealthy steps up the slope of lawn toward the house.

  And now a puff of west wind brought Wolf’s sense of smell into action. A dog remembers odors as humans remember faces. And the breeze bore to him the scent of the same man who had flung ashore that bit of meat which had caused all his suffering.

  He had caught the man’s scent an hour earlier, as he had stood sniffing at the boat ten feet away from him. The same scent had been on the meat the man had handled.

  And now, having played such a cruel trick on him, the joker was actually daring to intrude on The Place!

  A gust of resentful rage pierced the dullness of Wolf’s brain and sent a thrill of fierce energy through him. For the moment this carried him out of his sick self and brought back all his former zest as a watchdog.

  Down the hill, like a furry whirlwind, flew Wolf, every tooth bared, his back abristle from neck to tail. Now he was well within sight of the intruder. He saw the man pausing to adjust something to one of his hands. Then, before this could be accomplished, Wolf saw him pause and stare through the darkness as the wild onrush of the dog’s feet struck upon his hearing.

  Another instant and Wolf was near enough to spring. Out of the blackness he launched himself, straight for the trespasser’s face. The man saw the dim shape hurtling through the air toward him. He dropped what he was carrying and flung up both hands to guard his neck.

  At that, he was none too soon, for just as the thief’s palm reached his own throat, Wolf’s teeth met in the fleshy part of the hand.

  Silent, in agony, the man beat at the dog with his free hand; but an attacking collie is hard to locate in the darkness. A bulldog will secure a grip and will hang on; a collie is everywhere at once.

  Wolf’s snapping jaws had already deserted the robber’s mangled hand and slashed the man’s left shoulder to the bone. Then the dog made another furious lunge for the face.

  Down crashed the man, losing his balance under the heavy impact, Wolf atop of him. To guard his throat, the man rolled over on his face, kicking madly at the dog, and reaching back for his own hip pocket. Half in the water and half on the bank, the two rolled and thrashed and struggled —the man panting and wheezing in mortal terror; the dog growling in a hideous, snarling fashion as might a wild animal.

  The thief’s torn left hand found a grip on Wolf’s fur-armored throat. He shoved the fiercely writhing dog backward, jammed a pistol against Wolf’s head, and pulled the trigger!

  The dog relaxed his grip and tumbled in a huddled heap on the brink. The man staggered, gasping, to his feet; bleeding, disheveled, his clothes torn and mud-coated.

  The echoes of the shot were still reverberating among the lakeside hills. Several of the house’s dark windows leaped into sudden light—then more windows in another room—and in another.

  The thief swore roundly. His night’s work was ruined. He bent to his skiff and shoved it into the water; then he turned to grope for what he had dropped on the lawn when Wolf’s unexpected attack had interfered with his plans.

  As he did so, something seized him by the ankle. In panic terror, the man screamed aloud and jumped into the water, then, peering back, he saw what had happened.

  Wolf, sprawling and unable to stand, had reached forward from where he lay and had driven his teeth for the last time into his foe.

  The thief raised his pistol again and fired at the prostrate dog, then he clambered into his boat and rowed off with frantic speed, just as a salvo of barks told that Lad and Bruce had been released from the house; they came charging down the lawn, the Master at their heels.

  But already the quick oar beats were growing distant; and the gloom had blotted out any chance of seeing or following the boat.

  Wolf lay on his side, half in and half out of the water. He could not rise, as was his custom, to meet the Boy, who came running up, close behind the Master and valorously grasping a target rifle; but the dog wagged his tail in feeble greeting, and then he looked out over the black lake, and snarled.

  The bullet had grazed Wolf’s scalp and then had passed along the foreleg, scarring and numbing it. No damage had been done that a week’s good nursing would not set right.

  The marks in the grass and the poisoned meat on the porch told their own tale; so did the neat kit of burglar tools and a rubber glove found near the foot of the lawn; and then the telephone was put to work.

  At dawn, a man in torn and muddy clothes called at the office of a doctor three miles away to be treated for a half-dozen dog bites received, he said, from a pack of stray curs he had met on the turnpike. By the time his wounds were dressed, the sheriff and two deputies had arrived to take him in charge. In his pockets were a revolver, with two cartridges fired, and the mate of the rubber glove he had left on The Place’s lawn.

  “You—you wouldn’t let Wolfie go to any show and win a cup for himself,” half-sobbed the Boy, as the Master worked over the injured dog’s wound, “but he’s saved you from losing all the cups the other dogs ever won!”

  Three days later the Master came home from a trip to the city. He went directly to the Boy’s room. There on a rug lounged the convalescent Wolf, the Boy sitting beside him, stroking the dog’s bandaged head.

  “Wolf,” said the Master, solemnly, “I’ve been talking about you to some people I know. And we all agree—”

  “Agree what?” asked the Boy, looking up in mild curiosity.

  The Master cleared his throat and continued:

  “We agree that the trophy shelf in my study hasn’t enough cups on it. So I’ve decided to add still another to the collection. Want to see it, son?”

  From behind his back the Master produced a gleaming silver cup—one of the largest and most ornate the Boy had ever seen—larger even than Bruce’s “Be
st Dog” cup.

  The Boy took it from his father’s outstretched hand. “Who won this?” he asked. “And what for? Didn’t we get all the cups that were coming to us at the shows? Is it—”

  The Boy’s voice trailed away into a gurgle of bewildered rapture. He had caught sight of the lettering on the big cup. And now, his arm around Wolf, he read the inscription aloud, stammering with delight as he blurted out the words:

  “HERO CUP. WON BY WOLF, AGAINST ALL COMERS.”

  12

  IN THE DAY OF BATTLE

  NOW, THIS IS THE TRUE TALE OF LAD’S LAST GREAT ADVENTURE.

  For more years than he could remember, Lad had been king. He had ruled at The Place, from boundary fence to boundary fence, from highway to Lake. He had had, as subjects, many a thoroughbred collie; and many a lesser animal and bird among the Little Folk of The Place. His rule of them all had been lofty and beneficent.

  The other dogs at The Place recognized Lad’s rulership —recognized it without demur. It would no more have occurred to any of them, for example, to pass in or out through a doorway ahead of Lad than it would occur to a courtier to shoulder his way into the throne room ahead of his sovereign. Nor would one of them intrude on the “cave” under the living-room piano which for more than a decade had been Lad’s favorite resting place.

  Great was Lad. And now he was old—very old.

  He was thirteen—which is equivalent to the human age of seventy. His long, clean lines had become blurred with flesh. He was undeniably stout. When he ran fast, he rolled slightly in his stride. Nor could he run as rapidly or as long as of yore. While he was not wheezy or asthmatic, yet a brisk five-mile walk would make him strangely anxious for an hour’s rest.

  He would not confess, even to himself, that age was beginning to hamper him so cruelly. And he sought to do all the things he had once done—if the Mistress or the Master were looking. But when he was alone, or with the other dogs, he spared himself every needless step. And he slept a great deal.

  Withal, Lad’s was a hale old age. His spirit and his almost uncanny intelligence had not faltered. Save for the silvered muzzle—first outward sign of age in a dog—his face and head were as classically young as ever. So were the absurdly small forepaws—his one gross vanity—on which he spent hours of care each day, to keep them clean and snowy.

  He would still dash out of the house as of old—with the wild trumpeting bark which he reserved as greeting to his two deities alone—when the Mistress or the Master returned home after an absence. He would still frisk excitedly around either of them at hint of a romp. But the exertion was an exertion. And despite Lad’s valiant efforts at youthfulness, everyone could see it was.

  No longer did he lead the other dogs in their headlong rushes through the forest in quest of rabbits. Since he could not now keep the pace, he let the others go on these breath-and-strength-taking excursions without him; and he contented himself with an occasional lone and stately walk through the woods where once he had led the run—strolling along in leisurely fashion, with the benign dignity of some plump and ruddy old squire inspecting his estate.

  There had been many dogs at The Place during the thirteen years of Lad’s reign—dogs of all sorts and conditions, including Lad’s worshiped collie mate, the dainty gold-and-white Lady. But in this later day there were but three dogs besides himself.

  One of them was Wolf, the only surviving son of Lad and Lady—a slender, powerful young collie, with some of his sire’s brain and much of his mother’s appealing grace—an ideal play dog. Between Lad and Wolf there had always been a bond of warmest affection. Lad had trained this son of his and had taught him all he knew. He unbent from his lofty dignity, with Wolf, as with none of the others.

  The second of the remaining dogs was Bruce (“Sunnybank Goldsmith”), tawny as Lad himself, descendant of eleven international champions and winner of many a ribbon and medal and cup. Bruce was—and is—flawless in physical perfection and in obedience and intelligence.

  The third was Rex—a giant, a freak, a dog oddly out of place among a group of thoroughbreds. On his father’s side Rex was pure collie; on his mother’s, pure bull terrier. That is an accidental blending of two breeds which cannot blend. He looked more like a fawn-colored Great Dane than anything else. He was short-haired, full two inches taller and ten pounds heavier than Lad, and had the bunch-muscled jaws of a killer.

  There was not an outlander dog for two miles in either direction that Rex had not at one time or another met and vanquished. The bull terrier strain, which blended so ill with collie blood, made its possessor a terrific fighter. He was swift as a deer, strong as a puma.

  In many ways he was a lovable and affectionate pet, slavishly devoted to the Master and grievously jealous of the latter’s love for Lad. Rex was five years old—in his fullest prime—and, like the rest, he had ever taken Lad’s rulership for granted.

  I have written at perhaps prosy length, introducing these characters of my war story. The rest is action.

  March, that last year, was a month of drearily recurrent snows. In the forests beyond The Place, the snow lay light and fluffy at a depth of sixteen inches.

  On a snowy, blowy, bitter cold Sunday—one of those days nobody wants—Rex and Wolf elected to go rabbit-hunting.

  Bruce was not in the hunt, sensibly preferring to lie in front of the living-room fire on so vile a day rather than to flounder through dust-fine drifts in search of game that was not worth chasing under such conditions. Wolf, too, was monstrous comfortable on the old fur rug by the fire, at the Mistress’ feet.

  But Rex, who had waxed oddly restless of late, was bored by the indoor afternoon. The Mistress was reading; the Master was asleep. There seemed no chance that either would go for a walk or otherwise amuse their four-footed friends. The winter forests were calling. The powerful crossbred dog would find the snow a scant obstacle to his hunting. And the warmly quivering body of a new-caught rabbit was a tremendous lure.

  Rex got to his feet, slouched across the living room to Bruce and touched his nose. The drowsing collie paid no heed. Next Rex moved over to where Wolf lay. The two dogs’ noses touched.

  Now, this is no Mowgli tale, but a true narrative. I do not pretend to say whether or not dogs have a language of their own. Personally, I think they have, and a very comprehensive one, too. But I cannot prove it. No dog student, however, will deny that two dogs communicate their wishes to each other in some way by (or during) the swift contact of noses.

  By that touch Wolf understood Rex’s hint to join in the foray. Wolf was not yet four years old—at an age when excitement still outweighs lazy comfort. Moreover, he admired and aped Rex, as much as ever the school’s littlest boy models himself on the class bully. He was up at once and ready to start.

  A maid was bringing in an armful of wood from the veranda. The two dogs slipped out through the half-open door. As they went, Wolf cast a sidelong glance at Lad, who was snoozing under the piano. Lad noted the careless invitation. He also noted that Wolf did not hesitate when his father refused to join the outing but trotted gaily off in Rex’s wake.

  Perhaps this defection hurt Lad’s abnormally sensitive feelings. For of old he had always led such forest runnings. Perhaps the two dogs’ departure merely woke in him the memory of the chase’s joys and stirred a longing for the snow-clogged woods.

  For a minute or two the big living room was quiet, except for the scratch of dry snow against the panes, the slow breathing of Bruce and the turning of a page in the book the Mistress was reading. Then Lad got up heavily and walked forth from his piano-cave. He stretched himself and crossed to the Mistress’ chair. There he sat down on the rug very close beside her and laid one of his ridiculously tiny white forepaws in her lap. Absent-mindedly, still absorbed in her book, she put out a hand and patted the soft fur of his ruff and ears.

  Often, Lad came to her or to the Master for some such caress; and, receiving it, would return to his resting place. But today he was seeking to attr
act her notice for something much more important. It had occurred to him that it would be jolly to go with her for a tramp in the snow. And his mere presence failing to convey the hint, he began to “talk.”

  To the Mistress and the Master alone did Lad condescend to “talk”—and then only in moments of stress or appeal. No one, hearing him at such a time, could doubt the dog was trying to frame human speech. His vocal efforts ran the gamut of the entire scale. Wordless, but decidedly eloquent, this “talking” would continue sometimes for several minutes without ceasing; its tones carried whatever emotion the old dog sought to convey—whether of joy, of grief, of request or of complaint.

  Today there was merely playful entreaty in the speechless “speech.” The Mistress looked up.

  “What is it, Laddie?” she asked. “What do you want?”

  For answer Lad glanced at the door, then at the Mistress; then he solemnly went out into the hall—whence presently he returned with one of her fur gloves in his mouth.

  “No, no,” she laughed. “Not today, Lad. Not in this storm. We’ll take a good, long walk tomorrow.”

  The dog sighed and returned sadly to his lair beneath the piano. But the vision of the forests was evidently hard to erase from his mind. And a little later, when the front door was opened again by one of the servants, he stalked out.

  The snow was driving hard, and there was a sting in it. The thermometer was little above zero; but the snow had been a familiar bedfellow, for centuries, to Lad’s Scottish forefathers; and the cold was harmless against the woven thickness of his tawny coat. Picking his way in stately fashion along the ill-broken track of the driveway, he strolled toward the woods. To humans there was nothing in the outdoor day but snow and chill and bluster and bitter loneliness. To the trained eye and the miraculous scent power ot a collie it contained a million things of dramatic interest.