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Page 17
There is no use in thrashing a dog for killing poultry. There is
but one practically sure cure for the habit. And this one cure
the Master applied.
He tied the slain rooster firmly around Bruce's furry throat, and
made the puppy wear it, as a heavy and increasingly malodorous
pendant, for three warm days and nights.
Before the end of this seventy-two-hour period, Bruce had grown
to loathe the sight and scent of chicken. Stupid as he was, he
learned this lesson with absolute thoroughness,--as will almost
any chicken-killing pup,--and it seemed to be the only teaching
that his unawakened young brain had the power to grasp.
In looks, too, Bruce was a failure. His yellowish-and-white body
was all but shapeless. His coat was thick and heavy enough, but
it showed a tendency to curl--almost to kink--instead of waving
crisply, as a collie's ought. The head was coarse and blurred in
line. The body was gaunt, in spite of its incessant feedings. As
for contour or style--
It was when the Master, in disgust, pointed out these diverse
failings of the pup, that the Mistress was wont to draw on
historic precedent for other instances of slow development, and
to take in vain the names of Thackeray, Lincoln, Washington and
Bismarck and the rest.
"Give him time!" she urged once. "He isn't quite six months old
yet; and he has grown so terribly fast. Why, he's over two feet
tall, at the shoulder, even now--much bigger than most full-grown
collies. Champion Howgill Rival is spoken of as a 'big' dog; yet
he is only twenty-four inches at the shoulder, Mr. Leighton says.
Surely it's something to own a dog that is so big."
"It IS 'something,'" gloomily conceded the Master. "In our case
it is a catastrophe. I don't set up to be an expert judge of
collies, so maybe I am all wrong about him. I'm going to get
professional opinion, though. Next week they are going to have
the spring dogshow at Hampton. It's a little hole-in-a-corner
show, of course. But Symonds is to be the all-around judge,
except for the toy breeds. And Symonds knows collies, from the
ground up. I am going to take Bruce over there and enter him for
the puppy class. If he is any good, Symonds will know it. If the
dog is as worthless as I think he is, I'll get rid of him. If
Symonds gives any hope for him, I'll keep him on a while longer."
"But," ventured the Mistress, "if Symonds says 'Thumbs down,'
then--"
"Then I'll buy a pet armadillo or an ornithorhynchus instead,"
threatened the Master. "Either of them will look more like a
collie than Bruce does."
"I--I wonder if Mr. Symonds smokes," mused the Mistress under her
breath.
"Smokes?" echoed the Master. "What's that got to do with it?"
"I was only wondering," she made hesitant answer, "if a box of
very wonderful cigars, sent to him with our cards, mightn't
perhaps--"
"It's a fine sportsmanly proposition!" laughed the Master. "When
women get to ruling the world of sport, there'll be no need of
comic cartoons. Genuine photographs will do as well. If it's just
the same to you, dear girl, we'll let Symonds buy his own cigars,
for the present. The dog-show game is almost the only one I know
of where a judge is practically always on the square. People
doubt his judgment, sometimes, but there is practically never any
doubt of his honesty. Besides, we want to get the exact dope on
Bruce. (Not that I haven't got it, already!) If Symonds 'gates'
him, I'm going to offer him for sale at the show. If nobody buys
him there, I'm going--"
"He hasn't been 'gated' yet," answered the Mistress in calm
confidence.
At the little spring show, at Hampton, a meager eighty dogs were
exhibited, of which only nine were collies. This collie division
contained no specimens to startle the dog-world. Most of the
exhibits were pets. And like nearly all pets, they were
"seconds"--in other words, the less desirable dogs of
thoroughbred litters.
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