Dog Diaries #13 Read online

  Go easy on him, Pussums, said Old Bob. He’s just a pup. And besides, I like the name Fido. It means “faithful.” A fine quality in a dog.

  This horse sounded for all the world like Lincoln himself. How had this happened? The very next moment, a new voice answered my question.

  Don’t m-m-mind Old Bob. He’s spent so much time carrying Lincoln, the man’s wisdom has plumb rubbed off on him. The voice belonged to an old goat. Billie’s the name. Not very original, b-b-but all the same…

  I peered around me. Who else is in here? No bobcats, I hope.

  Old Bob tossed back his head and snickered. There hasn’t been a bobcat in these parts—much less this barn—since my dear old ma was a filly. But there is a milk cow. Daisy, say hello to our new friend.

  Moooooo, said a deep voice near the corncrib.

  Don’t mind her, Old Bob said. She’s a cow of few words. Abe will come to milk her in the morning. Then he’ll stake her out in the neighbor’s field.

  A man who stoops to milking a cow, spat Pussums. It’s a scandal. Milking is women’s work, as everyone knows. The cats behind her meowed in agreement.

  Nay, I say, said Old Bob. Somebody’s got to do it. And Little Missy isn’t going to unless Abe’s away.

  M-m-milking a cow is far b-b-beneath that one, bleated Billie. She was brought up for finer things, like sewing and dancing and p-p-poetry.

  Daisy must have found her voice, because she said: I dooo believe Mr. Lincoln enjoys milking time.

  Old Bob nickered. Fido, it’s a fact that Abe’s not afraid of hard work. Why, when Little Missy gets to nagging him, I’ve seen him come out here and split logs with an ax till he’s made a right mountain of kindling. He might be skinny, but he’s powerful strong.

  Pussums added silkily, His hands are rough…but tender, especially with us four-leggers.

  He’s an animal lover, all right, Old Bob said. There are folks in this town who’d think nothing of whipping a horse or drowning a cat or stoning a dog—

  Or roasting a b-b-billy goat, said Billie with a shudder.

  Yes, it’s a well-known fact, said Old Bob. You won’t find a more tenderhearted man anywhere on God’s green earth.

  Dog’s intuition had already told me that this Lincoln was one fine man. But I was happy to hear my fellow four-leggers sing his praises. If the barn was good enough for them, it was good enough for me. With a snort of relief, I settled down in a pile of straw. I was almost asleep, when I heard Old Bob mutter from his stall.

  Mark my words, Fido. Before the week’s out, you’ll be inside that house. You’ve got the makings of a family dog. And a family dog’s place is in the house.

  * * *

  —

  Lincoln shoved open the door, and morning sunlight lit up the darkest corners of the barn. He carried a bucket on his arm and a smile on his face. “Good morning, my friends!”

  I ran and propped my paws on his knees. I knew you’d come back!

  He leaned down and scrubbed my fur with his knuckles. “Good morning, Fido!”

  He set down a bowl of bread soaked in gravy. I lapped it up while he fed the horse oats, gave the cats milk, and dumped out scraps for the goat.

  After I licked my bowl clean, I poked around. Lincoln was leaning into Daisy’s side with his long body folded onto a low stool. He was pulling on her udders and squirting liquid into a bucket. I drew closer. Grinning, he shot the spray from one udder into my mouth. I licked my chops. Sweet!

  After he finished with the milking, he led Daisy outside to be staked.

  When he came back, he held a basket in one hand and a cane in the other. “Follow me, Fido,” he said. “We’re off to town.”

  See you folks later! I called out as I dashed to catch up with my man.

  Down the street he strode with me at his heels. As he went, he ran the tip of his cane along the pickets of the fences. Rat-tat-tat-tat.

  When they heard the sound, folks poked their heads out of their windows and called out, “Morning, Mr. Lincoln.”

  “Morning, Mrs. Shutt! Morning, Mrs. Sprigg! Morning, Mrs. Arnold!” he called back.

  Not so very far from the heart of town, we entered a large shed. A man with a long apron stood among pelts of fur and sheets of cured leather. “Good day to you, Bart!” Lincoln said.

  “The same to you, Mr. Lincoln. What brings you to the harness shop today?”

  “I have need of a collar for Fido here.”

  The man stroked his chin. He knelt and put a string around my neck. Then he walked over to his bench. Taking a scrap of leather, he snipped and pounded and whistled. In no time, he had fashioned a collar for me. Lincoln fastened it around my neck.

  I had seen dogs around town wearing collars. Make way for me! they would say with their heads held high. These dogs smelled different—more like people than dogs. Was I now one of them? I was all puffed up with pride as I trotted out of the harness maker’s shop.

  Lincoln suddenly stopped and looked down at me, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “That’s a mighty handsome collar, Fido. But don’t you be putting on airs now. Or should I say hairs!” He slapped his knee and threw his head back and roared with laughter. “I’ll have to remember that one. You don’t mind if I make a quick stop at the drugstore, do you, my friend?”

  I scampered along behind him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Diller,” Mr. Lincoln said to the man who met us at the door of the next shop. “I’m here to pick up some powders for Mama and some worm medicine for my dog.”

  The man peered down at me. I can’t say that I cared for the smell of him or his shop. Soap, medicine, poison.

  “If you have no objection, Mr. Lincoln, I’ll add some spirits of turpentine to your order. Your dog appears to have a case of the mange.”

  “Thank you kindly, Roland. I’ll get the boys to help me dip him this afternoon.”

  I didn’t care for the sound of that. But before I could dwell on it, we were out of there.

  Just as I was sneezing the drugstore out of my nose, something new tweaked my senses. Meat! I wagged my tail and licked my chops. But when I saw where we were heading, I slowed right down.

  Lincoln opened the door of a shop. He turned and looked at me. I sank to my haunches.

  I’m fine and dandy, my eyes told him. How’s about I wait for you out here?

  Lincoln cocked a shaggy brow. “I’m not sure I trust a dog that won’t set foot in a butcher shop. Come on in, Fido.”

  I sighed and followed him inside. And me oh my! Everywhere I looked there was meat! Meat hanging from the ceiling. Meat stacked in big glass cases. Meat piled up on the floor. And there, behind the counter, stood the butcher man. He was holding the biggest, juiciest sausage I’d ever seen.

  The last time I’d seen this feller in the alley behind his shop was a few days earlier. A couple of us tramps had staked out the back door, begging for scraps. The butcher came out hollering and chased us away with a big, sharp carving knife.

  As I watched, he took up the knife. The fur along my spine stood up.

  “Your dog looks hungry,” said the butcher. He used the knife to cut off the end piece of the sausage. Durned if he didn’t toss it right to me! I caught it with a snap of my jaws.

  While Lincoln conducted his business, I chewed and wondered: Did the butcher man really not recognize me? Maybe it was the collar. Or the company I was keeping. Or maybe the man had a forgiving soul. Whatever the reason, I was grateful.

  I was still licking my chops when Lincoln led me out of the butcher’s and into the nearby bakery. It was warm and yeasty-smelling. I licked the crumbs off the floor while Lincoln chatted with the baker man. With a loaf tucked beside the meat, we left there and stopped at the farmer’s wagon. Here Lincoln got eggs and vegetables and not much of any interest to me. Basket now full, we headed back home.

  I w
aited on the mat while Lincoln tiptoed in the front door. “Mary!” he called out. There was no answer. After a few moments, he looked at me and shrugged. “I reckon she’s still asleep. That means you may safely enter the premises, Fido.”

  I crept into the front hall and trotted after him into the kitchen. I watched as he unloaded the items from the basket into the larder. Then he paused and listened. I cocked my ear. From somewhere overhead came the sound of boys giggling and horsing around.

  “I hear mischief!” Lincoln said, a smile lighting up his craggy face.

  I followed him up the steep stairway. We found the younger boys in their father’s bedroom. They were standing on his bed a-smacking each other with pillows. The air was filled with feathers. I sneezed. It looked like a henhouse in a fox raid.

  “Boys! Boys!” Lincoln whispered loudly, pointing to the next room. “You’ll wake Mother.”

  When they saw me, they squealed and dropped their pillows. I hopped up on the bed, and we cele-brated our happy reunion.

  Lincoln said, “Time to get dressed, fellers.”

  He wrestled them out of their bedclothes and into their daytime duds. Then we all bounded downstairs. We raced past Master Robert, who was sitting at the dining table next to the kitchen.

  He looked up from his book. “Mother won’t be very happy,” he said.

  I walked over and sniffed him. Where the boys smelled like Lincoln, this one smelled like brimstone and medicine. Just like his maw.

  The boys and I frolicked while Lincoln cooked a mess of eggs and bacon. When it was all served up, I propped my paws on Willie’s knees.

  “You’ll get your chance, Fido,” said Willie. He removed my paws and set me back on the floor. I moaned.

  “That dog needs some training,” Bob said.

  “That’ll come,” Lincoln said.

  At the end of the meal, they set their plates down on the floor.

  “Have at it, Fido,” Lincoln said.

  This was more like it. Turned out that Tad was a fussy eater and left me nigh onto a whole plateful of bacon and eggs.

  After Lincoln washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen, he took up his tall hat. “All right, fellers! I’m off to the office, and Bob’s going to school! Try not to rouse your maw until she’s ready. When I get home this evening, I’ll worm Fido and dip him in turpentine.”

  “Can we help?” asked Willie.

  “I expect nothing less,” Lincoln said.

  No sooner were Lincoln and Bob gone than Willie’s eyes lit up. He rubbed his mitts together. “I’ve got a grand idea, Taddy! We’ll use the water in the washing pan to give Fido a bath. Won’t Father be surprised when he comes home?”

  The two boys climbed up on a stool. Between them, they managed to lift the washing pan out and set it on the floor. This was my cue to exit.

  “Stay, Fido,” said Willie.

  I sank to my haunches and watched uneasily while they ran around and fetched bottles and vials. These they opened and dumped into the water. I should have skedaddled when I had the chance. The next thing I knew, Willie grabbed me up and dumped me into the washing pan.

  Help! No, no, no, no, no! I whimpered. There were bubbles in my ears and eyes and up my nose! I sneezed and shook myself, soaking the boys. Then bless him if Willie didn’t climb right in the tub with me, clothes and all. He took a rough brush and commenced to scrub me. “Isn’t this fun, Fido?”

  Tad jumped up and down. “Let Taddy in, too!”

  “You can’t come in,” Willie told him. “You’ll drown and Father will blame me. Make yourself useful and hand me the turpentine. We’ll take care of Fido’s mange.”

  The stuff in that there uncorked bottle smelled powerful bad. Willie dumped it all over me. It stung my skin and burned my nose and eyes. I tried clawing my way out of the tub, but Willie held me tight. Water flooded the kitchen floor. Tad slipped and slid on it, having himself a fine old time.

  Just as I was fixing to jump out of my skin, a voice screeched: “WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE ALMIGHTY IS GOING ON HERE?”

  Little Missy stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips and a deep frown on her face. The boys froze, wide-eyed and guilty as the day is long.

  In the sweetest little voice you ever did hear, Willie said, “Good morning, Mother dear. We were just giving Fido a bath so he won’t get your fine carpets and furniture all muddy. He smells sweet now on account of we borrowed some of your bath salts from Paris. You don’t mind, do you, Mother?”

  Her eyes roamed the room. The empty bottles. Her soaking-wet sons. My sopping-wet self. She swelled up like a storm cloud ready to burst. Then, suddenly, all the anger drained out of her. She shook her weary head.

  “You wicked, wicked little imps! You would make a mess like this on the maid’s day off. It’ll take me the rest of the day to clean it up.”

  “We’re sorry, Mother,” said Willie. “We’ll help.”

  “Some help you’ll be,” she said with a snort. “Oh, wipe the pitiful looks off your faces. I give up. You may keep your dog in the house. Far be it from me to come between you and your tramp. Just remember,” she added sternly, “no muddy paws.”

  And that is how, even sooner than old Bob had foretold, I came to be the Lincoln Family Dog.

  What with all them tasty vittles, I was fully growed in no time. At two years of age, I was also smart enough to know what was what.

  “That dog is bright as a penny,” Lincoln said.

  But Little Missy hadn’t changed her mind about me one iota. Far as she was concerned, I was still dirty and dangerous.

  I was dirty because I tracked in mud. She’d screech when she saw my paw prints and go running for her washrags. She had Aunt Mariah, the maid, to help her clean. But I think she liked doing it herself. Little Missy was the cleaningest lady I ever did see, always dropping to her knees, scrubbing and scowling. But it waren’t my fault. The streets of Springfield were a right pigsty.

  I was dangerous, too, the way she saw it. My way of saying howdy was to jump up on the boys and prop my big paws on their chests. When I was a pup, it was cute and harmless. But now I was big enough to bowl them clean over. Not that the boys cared. They just laughed and picked themselves up.

  “One day you’ll crack your silly skulls and then you’ll be laughing out of the other side of your faces,” she told them. “You’d best cure your dog of that bad habit or else.”

  They never did cure me. I think they liked me the way I was.

  But my ways waren’t all bad.

  I was good about answering nature’s calls. I scratched at the back door until someone let me out. Having done my duty, I scratched to get in. Little Missy was not happy with the scratch marks on her door. Still, I believe she preferred them to dog doo on the divan.

  I was good about keeping off the furniture. There was only one piece in the house I was allowed on. It was a great long couch covered in horsehair cloth. I slept on it and napped on it. When I was afeared, I hid beneath it. Lincoln had had it made to fit his great long body.

  “Ugly old piece of furniture isn’t fit for anything but a dog,” Little Missy said.

  Mostly, I had the couch to myself because Lincoln was away. He was traveling the circuit. Being a dog, I did not rightly know the meaning of this. But Old Bob set me straight.

  It has to do with lawyering, Old Bob said.

  What’s lawyering? I asked.

  It’s the job Lincoln does. He stands up for people’s rights.

  Hmmm, I said. I stand up on my hind legs when I say howdy. Is that the same thing?

  Not exactly, the horse said. It’s more like what he did when he first met you. He stood up for you against those nasty boys. On the circuit, he stands up for folks when someone damages their property or steals their livestock or is accused of wrongdoing.

  How’d you get to be so learned on the
subject? I asked.

  Once, I was the one who carried him from town to town on the circuit. But now the railroad does it.

  While Lincoln was away on the circuit, Little Missy took on the marketing, the cooking, the washing, and sometimes even the milking. She had energy and grit. But come nighttime, she turned into a shivering pile of petticoats. She was afeared some good-for-nuthin’ thief would steal into the house and rob her blind. She ordered me to stand at the foot of her bed and guard her all the night.

  “Earn your keep, dog,” she told me, “and be a proper watchdog.”

  One night a storm blew up. A bolt of lightning hit the tree outside the window. Next moment, thunder rumbled so loud, it shook the house.

  RUN FOR COVER! I howled as I dived under Little Missy’s wardrobe. All night long, that storm raged. When it blew over in the early hours, I figured it was safe to come out. But I’d wedged myself in there so deep I was well and truly stuck! That’s where she found me come morning.

  Little Missy screeched for the boys, who came running. Did they ever laugh at the sight of me!

  “Stuck,” said Willie, “like a pig between the pickets. What do you think, Tad? Do we grease him up to pull him out?”

  I gazed out from under the wardrobe with sad eyes. Have pity!

  “Silly old dog,” he said.

  He and Tad each grabbed a leg and tugged me loose. I didn’t even stop to say thank you. I slinked away to my couch, my dog dignity badly bent. Some watchdog I’d turned out to be!

  But I didn’t feel bad for long. After all, I had me a gang to call my own. A whole slew of us ran together in a pack. There was Isaac, the druggist’s son, and little Johnny Kaine. There were the three DuBois boys—Fred, Jess, and Link—and Josie Remann and her brother, Henry. All five of Dr. and Mrs. Melvin’s boys. And then there were the Rolls—Johnny and Frankie. The Roll boys being younger than the rest, I’d follow them home evenings and make sure they got there safe.