Aileen Aroon, A Memoir

eighteen hundred and seventysomething, that Frank stood holding our parlour-door in his hand, whilehe gazed with a pleased smile at the group around the fire. It wasn't alarge group. There were Dot and Ida knitting: and my humble selfsitting, book in hand and pipe in mouth. Then there were theNewfoundland dogs on the hearth, and pussy singing on the footstool,singing a duet with the kettle on the hob. And I must not forget tomention "Poll," the parrot. Nobody knew how old Polly was, but with herextreme wisdom you couldn't help associating age. She didn't speak muchat a time; like many another sage, she went in for being laconic, pithy,and to the point. I think, however, that some day or other Polly willtell us quite a long story, for she often clears her throat and says,"_Now_," in quite an emphatic manner; then she cocks her head, and says"Are you listening?"

  "We are all attention, Polly," we reply. So Polly begins again with herdecided "_Now_;" but up to this date she has not succeeded in advancingone single sentence farther towards the completion of her story.

  Well, upon the winter's evening in question Frank stood there, holdingthe door and smiling to himself, and any one could see at a glance thatFrank was pregnant with an idea.

  "I've been thinking," said Frank, "that there is nothing needed tocomplete the happiness of the delightful evenings we spend here, excepta story-teller."

  "No one better able than yourself, Frank, to fill the post," I remarked.

  "Well, now," said Frank, "for that piece of arrant flattery, I fine youa story."

  "Read us that little sketch about `Dandie,'" my wife said.

  "Yes, do," cried Ida, looking up from her work.

  If a man is asked to do anything like this he ought to do it heartily.

  Dandie, I may premise, is, or rather was, a contemporary of AileenAroon.

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  OUR DANDIE.

  A very long doggie is Dandie, with little short bits of legs, nice closehanging ears, hair as strong and rough as the brush you use for yourhair, and a face--well, some say it is ugly; I myself, and all myfriends, think it is most engaging. To be sure, it is partially hiddenwith bonnie soft locks of an ambery or golden hue; but push those locksaside, and you will see nothing in those beautiful dark hazel eyes butlove and fun. For Dandie is fall of fun. Oh! doesn't she enjoy a runout with the children! On the road she goes feathering, here, there,and everywhere. Her legs are hardly straight, you must understand--thelegs of very few Dandies are, for they are so accustomed to go downdrains, and all sorts of holes, and go scraping here, and scrapingthere, that their feet and fore-legs turn at last something like amole's.

  Dandie wasn't always the gentle loving creature she is now, and this isthe reason I am writing her story. Here, then, is how I came by Dandie.

  I was sitting in my study one morning, writing as usual, when a carriagestopped at the door, and presently a friend was announced.

  "Why, Dawson, my boy!" I cried, getting up to greet him, "what windblew you all the way here?"

  "Not a good one, by any means," said Dawson; "I came to see you."

  "Well, well, sit down, and tell me all about it. I sincerely hope MissHall is well."

  "Well! yes," he replied abstractedly. "I think I've done all for thebest; though that policeman nearly had her. But she left her mark onhim. Ha! ha!"

  I began to think my friend was going out of his mind.

  "Dawson," I said, "what have you done with her?"

  "She's outside in the carriage," replied Dawson.

  I jumped up to ring the bell, saying, "Why, Dawson, pray have the younglady in. It is cruel to leave her by herself."

  Dawson jumped up too, and placing his hand on my arm, prevented me fromtouching the bell-rope.

  "Nay, nay!" he cried, almost wildly, I thought; "pray do not think ofit. She would bite you, tear you, rend you. Oh, she is a _vixen_!"This last word he pronounced with great emphasis, and sinking once moreinto the chair, and gazing abstractedly at the fire, he added, "Andstill I love her, good little thing!"

  I now felt quite sorry for Dawson. A moment ago I merely _thought_ hewas out of his mind, now I felt perfectly sure of it.

  There was a few minutes' silence; and then suddenly my friend rushed tothe window, exclaiming--

  "There, there! She's at it again! She has got the cabby by thecoat-tails, and she'll eat her way through him in five minutes, if Idon't go."

  And out he ran; and I followed, more mystified than ever; and there inthe carriage was no young lady at all, but only the dear little Dandiewhose story I am writing. She was most earnestly engaged in tearing thedriver's blue coat into the narrowest strips, and growling all the whilemost vigorously.

  She quieted down, however, immediately on perceiving her master, jumpedinto his arms, and began to lick his face.

  So the mystery was cleared up; and half an hour afterwards I waspersuaded to become the owner of that savage Dandie, and Dawson hadkissed her, and left lighter in heart than when he had come.

  I set aside one of the best barrel kennels for her, had a quantity ofnice dry straw placed therein, and gave her two dishes, one to be filleddaily with pure clean water--without which, remember, no dog can behealthy--and the other to hold her food.

  Now, I am not afraid of any dog. I have owned many scores in my time,and by treating them gently and firmly, I always managed to subdue eventhe most vicious among them, and get them to love me. But I mustconfess that this Dandie was the most savage animal that I had ever yetmet.

  When I went to take her dish away next morning, to wash and replenishit, only my own celerity in beating a retreat prevented my legs frombeing viciously bitten. I then endeavoured to remove the dish with thestable besom. Alas for the besom! Howling and growling with passion,with scintillating eyes and flashing teeth, she tore that broom toatoms, and then attacked the handle. But I succeeded in feeding her,after which she was quieter.

  Now, dogs, to keep them in health, need daily exercise, and I determinedDandie should not want that, wild though she seemed to be. There wasanother scene when I went to unloose her; and I found the only chance ofdoing so was to treat her as they do wild bulls in some parts of thecountry. I got a hook and attached it to the end of a pole the samelength as the chain. I could then keep her at a safe distance. Andthus for a whole week I had to lead her out for exercise. I lost noopportunity of making friends with her, and in about a fortnight's timeI could both take her dish away without a broom and lead her out withoutthe pole.

  She was still the vixen, however, which her former master had calledher. When she was presented with a biscuit, she wouldn't think ofeating it, before she had had her own peculiar game with it. She wouldlay it first against the back of the barrel, and for a time pretend notto see it, then suddenly she would look round, next fly at it, growlingand yelping with rage, and shake it as she would a rat. Into such aperfect fury and frenzy did she work herself during her battle with thebiscuit, that sometimes on hearing her chain rattle she would turn roundand seize and shake it viciously. I have often, too, at these timesseen her bite her tail because it dared to wag--bite it till the bloodsprang, then with a howl of pain bite and bite it again and again. Atlast I made up my mind to feed her only on soil food, and thatresolution I have since stuck to.

  Poor Dandie had now been with us many months, and upon the whole herlife, being almost constantly on the chain, was by no means a very happyone. Her hair, too, got matted, and she looked altogether morose anddirty, and it was then that the thought occurred to my wife and me thatshe would be much better _dead_. I considered the matter in all itsbearings for fully half an hour, and it was then I suddenly jumped upfrom my chair.

  "What _are_ you going to do?" asked my wife.

  "I'm going to wash Dandie; wash her, comb out all her mats, dry her, andbrush her, for, do you know, I feel quite guilty in having neglectedher."

  My wife, in terror of the consequences of washing so vicious a dog,tried to dissuade me. But my m
ind was made up, and shortly after so wasDandie's bed--of clean dry straw in a warm loft above the stable."Firmly and kindly does it," I had said to myself, as I seized the vixenby the nape of the neck, and in spite of her efforts to rend any part ofmy person she could lay hold of, I popped her into the tub.

  Vixen, did I say? She was popped into the tub a vixen, sure enough, butI soon found out I had "tamed the shrew," and after she was rinsed incold water, well dried, combed, and brushed, the poor little thingjumped on my knee and kissed me. Then I took her for a run--a thing oneought never to neglect after washing a dog. And you wouldn't have knownDandie now, so beautiful did she look.

  Dandie is still alive, and lies at my feet as I write, a living exampleof the power of