Dog Diaries #13 Read online

  Lucky for me, Lincoln felt about dogs the same way he did about people. He thought we all deserved kindness and respect. Billy’s sad fiddling worked its way deep into my heart. Before I knew it, I had opened my mouth and begun to howl.

  Why, Fido! Jenny Lind said. Who knew you had such a lovely singing voice!

  My tail thumped against the sidewalk. Could it be that the lovely Miss Jenny Lind had taken a shine to homely old me?

  Folks in Springfield loved their parties. They were the getting-togetherest people you ever did see. They got together for weddings, new babies, birthdays, graduations, funerals, holidays, strawberry-picking, you name it. Sometimes, the parties were for the young whippersnappers. Other times, they were for the grown-ups. Whole families went out for squeezes. They were parties thrown for no reason at all but to say howdy-do.

  But tonight’s party wasn’t a squeeze. It was a hoity-toity shindig for grown-ups, the kind of party Little Missy loved. It gave her a chance to doll up and douse herself with Paris perfume.

  Like all dogs, I don’t care for perfume. It got up inside my nose. I couldn’t smell anything but that dad-blamed perfume. A dog sees the world with his nose. A dog with a fuddled sense of smell? Why, he’s no better than a cat that can’t mouse.

  The boys had just come home from a party of their own: a candy pull. At candy pulls, young ’uns stood around a table. On the table was a large blob of boiled molasses called taffy.

  Taffy! Just the word made me drool. The children would reach into the mess. They’d pull the taffy into long strings of sweet, chewy candy and lower it into their open mouths, like baby birds eating worms. Ate themselves sick often as not.

  Lincoln was fixing to bathe his sticky young ’uns and tuck them into their bed. But the little boys wouldn’t hear of it.

  “We want to go to the party, too!” they whined.

  You may have noticed that when whipper-

  snappers get too many sweets, they kick up a fuss.

  Little Missy smoothed her silky skirts and glared at them. “We’re going to the Duboises’ house. It’s a party for grown-ups. You stay home with Robert.”

  “We don’t want to stay home with Robert!” they howled. “We want to go with you!”

  “This will never do,” said Lincoln. “Mother, if you’ll let the boys go, I will take care of them.”

  Little Missy growled. “Why, Father! You know it’s no place for boys to be.”

  “I’ll bring them in the back door and leave them in the kitchen,” Lincoln said.

  With a stomp of her little foot, she said, “Oh, very well. Have it your way. You always do!”

  Lincoln washed the sticky off the lads and dressed them in their Sunday best. Then we all set out for the shindig. The party house was lit up like a riverboat and chock-full of folks dressed in fancy duds gabbing away at the top of their voices. It was enough to make me turn around and run home to my couch. But I knew my duty.

  I kept an eye on the boys. The noise of the party had put me off my feed. But the boys were hungrier than calves in a corncrib. In their greedy little mitts, they grabbed the food off the trays and began to stuff themselves. Willie’s mouth being bigger, he ate more. Not to be outdone by his brother, Tad grabbed himself a whole roasted ham by the string.

  “Yahoo!” He galloped off. Willie and I scrambled after, him yelling, me barking.

  The guests gasped and parted to make way for us. Like a Wild West cowboy with a lasso, Tad swung the ham by the string. Little Missy nearly popped her stays! But Lincoln just laughed.

  “Come, Taddy.” He swept up boy and ham beneath his arm and disappeared into the kitchen. A silence fell over the party. They were waiting to hear the crack of Lincoln’s hand on Tad’s behind. But no such sound came. Not then. Not ever.

  No matter how naughty his boys got, Lincoln was the kindest, gentlest father that ever did live.

  * * *

  —

  Later that same month, my world was blown clean off its hinges. I went with Lincoln to the offices of the Daily Illinois State Journal. Truth to tell, I was hoping to run into Miss Jenny Lind. We had grown kind of sweet on each other. I was hoping to do a little courting and sparking.

  But the moment we walked into the room, all thoughts of courtship were plumb wiped away. Half of Springfield had crowded into that stuffy little office. Men greeted Lincoln in loud voices:

  “If it isn’t Old Abe!”

  “The Rail-Splitter himself!”

  “Are you prepared to accept the nomination, Honest Abe?”

  The crowd swallowed him up. Just as I was fixing to run home, Jenny came sashaying up to me.

  Hello, Fido, she said. I’ve been waiting for you.

  She led me beneath a table, where the two of us settled down cheek by jowl.

  Isn’t this exciting? she asked.

  I grunted. If you like loud noise. My idea of excitement was playing Town Ball with the gang. This—men laughing and booming and smoking cigars—was not for me.

  You’d better get used to it, she said. The Republican National Convention is happening right now in Chicago. They’re about to choose who will run for the office of president of the United States.

  Not that president business again! Don’t tell me, I moaned, they’re going to choose Lincoln.

  She nodded. Any minute now, that telegraph key over there is going to start clicking and clacking. And when it does, this entire room is going to explode.

  I leapt to my feet. Explode? You mean, blow up? Like a big old firecracker?

  She laughed. Sit down, silly boy. I mean explode with excitement.

  That was plenty bad as far as I was concerned. I headed for the door. Thanks for the warning!

  Fido! Where are you going? she called after me.

  Not even for this pretty little lady was I going to stick around. Home, I called back to her, where it’s safe!

  I scratched at the door, and some kindly gent let me out. As I trotted down the stairs, I heard him say, “Who owns the yaller dog?”

  “Don’t you know?” someone else said. “That’s the Lincoln Dog. Soon, he’ll be as famous as his master.”

  That night, it became official. Lincoln was nominated to run for president of the United States. An artist named Thomas Hicks came in June to paint the candidate’s picture. Little Missy was busy shopping, so the boys and I went with him. Lincoln sat posing at his desk, holding a pen over a sheet of paper. He had his head in the clouds. The artist, his beady eyes moving from Lincoln to the easel, dabbed away with a paintbrush.

  As usual, Lincoln had no idea what his boys were up to. But Mr. Hicks saw all too well. The little fellers had gotten into his box of paints. They grabbed the fat tubes, unscrewed the caps, and began to squirt out great globs of paint.

  In no time, paint covered their hands and arms. The imps smeared their fingers on the walls and made big messy swirls. Soon, their faces and hair and clothing were as paint-smeared as the walls.

  Finally, Lincoln came down from the clouds. “Boys! Boys!” he said. “You mustn’t meddle with Mr. Hicks’s paints. Now run home and have your faces and hands washed.”

  Lincoln may have been ready to rule the republic. But his little sons still ruled his heart.

  In the portrait by Hicks, you’ll note that Lincoln had no fur on his face. His face was still shaved clean. This was yet one more thing that was about to change. Some months after sitting for Hicks, Lincoln got a letter from a little girl. The day I carried it home from the post office, he slit it open and read it aloud.

  “Listen to this, boys. This letter is from Grace Bedell of Westfield, New York. It seems she’s worried about my looks. ‘If you let your whiskers grow…you would look a great deal better, for your face is so thin. All the ladies like whiskers and they would tease their husbands to vote for you and then you would be president.’


  “What do you say, boys? Should I grow a beard?” Lincoln asked, his eyes dancing with mischief.

  Willie stroked his chin as if he himself had whiskers. “It might make you look wiser.”

  But Tad made a face. “Too scratchy,” he said.

  Lincoln had always longed for a daughter. It was a disappointment to him that he and Mary had only had boys. Maybe that’s how he came to heed Grace Bedell’s advice. One day in early November, he and I went down to the barbershop.

  “Billy,” he told his friend, “let’s give my whiskers a chance to grow.”

  From that day on, Lincoln sported a face full of fur. They held the flavor of the food he ate. This was one change I liked.

  Just before Election Day that same year, people lined up outside the house to shake Lincoln’s

  hand. The new scents they brought with them fuddled and vexed me. Lincoln had his own problems. The man shook so many hands that his shaking hand swelled and cracked like a dried-up gourd.

  Strangers came inside without even knocking. They walked through our rooms like they owned the place. They tried to coax me out from beneath the couch and called to each other, “Come pet the Lincoln Dog!”

  For the love of dog, couldn’t they just leave the Lincoln Dog in peace?

  One day, I was sitting with Willie and Tad on the front step. Suddenly, a group of strange gents came through the gate and up the walk. They smelled of meat, liquor, tobacco.

  Willie whispered to his brother, “I think these are the men from Washington who nominated Pa.”

  “Are you Mr. Lincoln’s son?” one of them asked Willie.

  “Yes, sir,” said the eager nine-year-old.

  “Then let’s shake hands.” The man thrust out his big hand and Willie shook it.

  Then Tad piped up. “I’m a Lincoln, too!”

  After Tad got his shaking, the man turned to me. “And this must be the famous Lincoln Dog.” He reached out a hand.

  Did he expect me to shake his hand, too? That was one slick trick the boys had never taught me. And even if they had, I would not have done it for him, smelling the way he did. I did not want to entertain these strangers. I wanted them off my property and out of my life. I growled. But they walked right past me and into the house.

  I followed them in and glared as they made themselves at home on my horsehair couch. Why, those low-down varmints! I growled a little louder in case they hadn’t heard me.

  Little Missy swept in. “Mr. Lincoln will be back soon. We weren’t expecting you this early.”

  “Your dog seems upset,” one of the men said. “Is it something we’ve done?”

  “Of course not,” she said, then turned to me. “You can share your couch for one day.” She said to the gents, “Don’t mind Fido. He thinks he’s a fierce watchdog, but he’s really a bit of a coward.”

  Ouch.

  I came awake with a start late on the day of the election. Lincoln, who had been out watching the voting, banged open the front door. He strode to the foot of the stairs. He called up, “Mother! We won!”

  Little Missy rushed downstairs.

  “Well, hello, Mr. President,” she cooed.

  He caught her up in his arms and swung her around. Willie and Tad joined them and hung on his coattails. I was just about to jump in, when I heard a thundering BOOM!

  Cannon fire! We were under attack!

  Back beneath the couch I dived.

  My family burst out laughing. That cut me to the quick.

  “Fido, you’d better get used to the noise,” Lincoln said. “Come out and join us.”

  But I wouldn’t. It waren’t safe. I heard cheers, drums, music, all growing louder as it moved closer

  to the house. I shrank back into the shadows, trying to make myself as small as possible.

  “It seems our friends and neighbors are in a mood to celebrate,” chirped Little Missy.

  The family went outside.

  Then someone started shooting guns.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  The noise was so loud I thought my brain would explode. I’m no stranger to gunfire. But Willie or Tad usually came to comfort me. Now they had abandoned me.

  * * *

  —

  After the election, the house was in an uproar. Little Missy was busy with her maid, stitching up gowns fit for a president’s mate. Newspapermen from out of town came to talk to Lincoln. Friends and neighbors walked through the house, poking around and looking over the furniture.

  “We’re selling it all,” Little Missy told them. “We’re getting all new furniture for the White House.”

  Lincoln cleared his throat. “We’re not selling all of it, Mother,” he said.

  She flicked a sour glance at me. “Of course not, Father,” she said sweetly. “Not that hideous couch of yours. It’s not fit for anyone but a dog.”

  Lincoln smiled. “That’s exactly who it is fit for, Mary. And why we dare not sell it.”

  The boys bragged to the gang about their pa’s new job. Bob came home from school back east. I barely recognized him in his fancy suit and stiff collar. He smelled different, too—of faraway places.

  There was so much going on in the house that my head spun. Every time I looked, another piece of furniture was missing. No more cozy rooms. Only empty rooms that echoed loudly.

  And then came that dreadful day. While I was out and about, someone had come and swiped my horsehair couch!

  When I got home, I ran around the parlor barking. Where is it? Who took our couch?

  I jumped up on Lincoln. Find the low-down dirty varmint who made off with our couch!

  “Calm down, now, Fido.” Lincoln knelt down and gave me a hug. Then he pulled away and said in a choked-up voice, “You best go with the boys. They’ll show you where your couch is. Boys?”

  The boys huddled in the doorway. When I saw they were sniffling and tearful, I ran over and jumped up on them. I licked their salty faces. Don’t cry! Who needs a couch when I have you!

  Willie looked to his father, his eyes streaming. “Father! Please, please, don’t make us do this,” he begged. “Fido is part of the family. He needs to come with us to Washington.”

  “Please, please, please, Papa?” Tad begged. He wiped his runny nose on his sleeve.

  Lincoln shook his head sorrowfully. “How are we to get him there? Trains are a noisy means of transportation. Every town we pass through will likely fire off its cannon. And even if, by however miracle, we could get him to Washington, he’d hate it,” he said. “You saw how he reacted to the election celebrations, cowering under the couch, howling at the ruckus. In Washington, there will be no end of ruckus. The bells of a dozen churches will ring countless times every day. There’ll be cannons and gunfire and brass bands and mobs larger—and angrier—than any we’ve seen in Springfield. Think of how miserable the poor creature will be.

  “We mustn’t be selfish, boys. Fido is a simple dog. He belongs in Springfield, living a simple life. We’ll be moving into the Chenery House for our last few days in town before we leave. Dogs aren’t allowed. You boys show Fido to his new home.”

  I didn’t understand what was happening. But I knew my boys were sad and I had to fix that. I ran ahead of them down the front walk and wagged my tail, cheering them on. That’s when I happened to see Old Bob being led away down the street. Where are you going? I said.

  To Flynn’s barn. Lincoln is leaving Springfield, and he can’t take me with him. What about you?

  I don’t know, I said. I don’t know anything anymore.

  I hurried to rejoin the boys. I was happy when they turned in at the Roll house. I followed them up the familiar walkway and through the open front door. It was like they’d been expecting us.

  And there, in a corner of their parlor, was my horsehair couch!

  My heart leap
t. I ran and jumped onto it. I rolled on my back with such joy you’d have thought it was a field of sweet clover.

  The Roll boys, Johnny and Frankie, climbed up onto the couch with me.

  “Hello, boy!” Johnny said.

  “You’re gonna be living with us from now on,” said Frankie.

  The boys wrapped their arms around me, and I licked their faces.

  The next time I looked up, Willie and Tad were gone.

  In the next few days, I stayed at the Rolls’ house and seldom left the horsehair couch. This was Lincoln’s couch, too. I figured that anytime now he’d walk in the door and lie down next to me. And where Lincoln went, the boys weren’t far behind.

  I’d get up now and then. I’d lost my appetite, but that didn’t mean Mother Nature stopped calling. When she did, I’d slip off the couch and scratch at the back door.

  “Boys, go out with him,” Mr. Roll said the first time I did this. “I promised I wouldn’t tie him up. I also promised we’d keep a sharp eye on him.”

  “Yes, Pa,” said Johnny and Frankie.

  Once we were outside, Johnny said to his brother, “Is Fido more important to Pa than we are? We ain’t allowed to track mud into the house, but Fido is. How come that is?”

  “I reckon it’s cause Pa made a promise to Mr. Lincoln. Fido can track in mud and run around free and come and go as he pleases. Pa aims to keep his promise. He says it ain’t every day you get to keep a promise to the president of the United States.”

  They waited as I answered nature’s call. Then I cut and ran down the street to the old house on the corner. The boys tore after me.

  I went to the back door and scratched to get in. I scratched and scratched until the claw marks were even deeper. But no one came to the door. I did this day after day, every time I went out.

  “Ain’t nobody home, Fido,” Johnny said to me.