Dead! It seemed
strange--the constant companion of ten years. I had had him from his
first earliest days.
Even before his eyes had opened I was struck by the intelligent way
he had lain at his mother's side, and surnamed him Nous on the spot,
after my favourite quality. I admit, like all good intelligences,
because they have always their own particular views on everything,
he had given a great deal of trouble. He had gnawed up my important
business letters when cutting his teeth; he had made beds on my new
light spring suits; he had sucked his favourite, most greasy mutton
bone on the couch where my best manuscript lay drying; and out of
doors he strongly objected to follow.
It is extremely annoying on a hot August afternoon, when you have
just time to catch the Richmond train, and a friend is with you, to
have your collie suddenly start off at a gallop in the opposite
direction to the station, and pay absolutely no attention to the
most distracted whistling and calling. Nothing for it but to start
in pursuit, to run yourself into a fever, and after lapse of time to
return with the fugitive to find your train missed and your friend
as savage as a bear.
"If that dog were mine I'd thrash him within an inch of his life!"
was the usual remark when I got back.
"Then I am extremely glad he is not yours," I used to answer,
fastening on the dog's collar, and making him walk at the end of a
foot of chain as a punishment.
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