The Mistress, thinking some guest might be arriving whose scent or tread displeased the collie, called to the Master to shut Bruce in the study, lest he insult the supposed visitor by barking. Reluctantly—very reluctantly—Bruce obeyed the order. The Master shut the study door behind him and came into the living room, still carrying the half-cleaned knife.
As no summons at bell or knocker followed Bruce’s announcement, the Mistress opened the front door and looked out. The dusk was falling, but it was not too dark for her to have seen the approach of anyone, nor was it too dark for the Mistress to see two dogs tearing at something that lay hidden from her view in the deep snow a hundred yards away. She recognized Rex and Wolf at once and amusedly wondered with what they were playing.
Then from the depth of snow beneath them she saw a feeble head rear itself—a glorious head, though torn and bleeding—a head that waveringly lunged toward Rex’s throat.
“They’re—they’re killing—Lad!” she cried in stark, unbelieving horror. Forgetful of thin dress and thinner slippers, she ran toward the trio. Halfway to the battlefield the Master passed by her, running and lurching through the knee-high snow at something like record speed.
She heard his shout. And at sound of it she saw Wolf slink away from the slaughter like a scared schoolboy. But Rex was too far gone in murder-lust to heed the shout. The Master seized him by the studded collar and tossed him ten feet or more to one side. Rage-blind, Rex came flying back to the kill. The Master stood astride his prey, and in his blind mania the crossbreed sprang at the man.
The Master’s hunting knife caught him squarely behind the left foreleg. And with a grunt like the sound of an exhausted soda siphon, the huge dog passed out of this story and out of life as well.
There would be ample time, later, for the Master to mourn his enforced slaying of the pet dog that had loved and served him so long. At present he had eyes only for the torn and senseless body of Lad lying huddled in the redblotched snow.
In his arms he lifted Lad and carried him tenderly into the house. There the Mistress’ light fingers dressed his hideous injuries. Not less than thirty-six deep wounds scored the worn-out old body. Several of these were past the skill of home treatment.
A grumbling veterinary was summoned on the telephone and was lured by pledge of a triple fee to chug through ten miles of storm in a balky car to the rescue.
Lad was lying with his head in the Mistress’ lap. The vet looked the unconscious dog over and then said tersely:
“I wish I’d stayed at home. He’s as good as dead.”
“He’s a million times better than dead,” denied the Master. “I know Lad. You don’t. He’s got into the habit of living, and he’s not going to break that habit, not if the best nursing and surgery in the state can keep him from doing it. Get busy!”
“There’s nothing to keep me here,” objected the vet. “He’s-”
“There’s everything to keep you here,” gently contradicted the Master. “You’ll stay here till Lad’s out of danger —if I have to steal your trousers and your car. You’re going to cure him. And if you do, you can write your bill on a Liberty Bond.”
Two hours later Lad opened his eyes. He was swathed in smelly bandages and he was soaked in liniments. Patches of hair had been shaved away from his worst wounds. Digitalis was reinforcing his faint heart action.
He looked up at the Mistress with his only available eye. By a herculean struggle he wagged his tail—just once. And he essayed the trumpeting bark wherewith he always welcomed her return after an absence. The bark was a total failure.
After which Lad tried to tell the Mistress the story of the battle. Very weakly, but very persistently he “talked.” His tones dropped now and then to the shadow of a ferocious growl as he related his exploits and then scaled again to a puppylike whimper.
He had done a grand day’s work, had Lad, and he wanted applause. He had suffered much and he was still in racking pain, and he wanted sympathy and petting. Presently he fell asleep.
It was two weeks before Lad could stand upright, and two more before he could go out of doors unhelped. Then on a warm, early spring morning, the vet declared him out of all danger.
Very thin was the invalid, very shaky, snow-white of muzzle and with the air of an old, old man whose too-fragile body is sustained only by a regal dignity. But he was alive.
Slowly he marched from his piano cave toward the open front door. Wolf—in black disgrace for the past month-chanced to be crossing the living room toward the veranda at the same time. The two dogs reached the doorway simultaneously.
Very respectfully, almost cringingly, Wolf stood aside for Lad to pass out.
His sire walked by with never a look. But his step was all at once stronger and springier, and he held his splendid head high.
For Lad knew he was still king!
AFTERWORD
THE STORIES OF LAD, IN VARIOUS MAGAZINES, FOUND UNEXPECTEDLY kind welcome. Letters came to me from soldiers and sailors in Europe, from hosts of children; from men and women, everywhere.
Few of the letter-writers bothered to praise the stories, themselves. But all of them praised Lad, which pleased me far better. And more than a hundred of them wanted to know if he were a real dog: and if the tales of his exploits were true.
Perhaps those of you who have followed Lad’s adventures, through these pages, may also be a little interested to know more about him.
Yes, Lad was a “real” dog—the greatest dog by far, I have known or shall know. And the chief happenings in nearly all of my Lad stories are absolutely true. This accounts for such measure of success as the stories may have won.
After his “Day of Battle,” Lad lived for more than two years—still gallant of spirit, loyally mighty of heart, uncanny of wisdom—still the undisputed king of The Place’s “Little People.”
Then, on a warm September morning in 1918, he stretched himself to sleep in the coolest and shadiest corner of the veranda. And, while he slept, his great heart very quietly stopped beating. He had no pain, no illness, none of the distressing features of extreme age. He had lived out a full span of sixteen years—years rich in life and happiness and love.
Surely, there was nothing in such a death to warrant the silly grief that was ours, nor the heartsick gloom that overhung The Place! It was wholly illogical, not to say maudlin. I admit that without argument. The cleric-author of “The Mansion Yard” must have known the same miserable sense of loss, I think, when he wrote:Stretched on the hearthrug in a deep content,
Fond of the fire as I.
Oh, there was something with the old dog went
I had not thought could die!
We buried Lad in a sunlit nook that had been his favorite lounging place, close to the house he had guarded so long and so gallantly. With him we buried his honorary Red Cross and Blue Cross—awards for money raised in his name. Above his head we set a low granite block, with a carven line or two thereon.
The Mistress wanted the block inscribed: “The Dearest Dog!” I suggested: “The Dog God Made.” But we decided against both epitaphs. We did not care to risk making our dear old friend’s memory ridiculous by words at which saner folk might one day sneer. So on the granite is engraved:LAD
THOROUGHBRED IN BODY AND SOUL
Some people are wise enough to know that a dog has no soul. These will find ample theme for mirth in our foolish inscription. But no one who knew Lad will laugh at it.
ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE.
“Sunnybank”
Pompton Lakes,
New Jersey.
FINIS
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Lad: A Dog Page 25
