Album of Dogs Read online

  Album of Dogs

  THANKS

  FOR DOWNLOADING THIS EBOOK!

  We have SO many more books for kids in the in-beTWEEN age that we’d love to share with you! Sign up for our IN THE MIDDLE books newsletter and you’ll receive news about other great books, exclusive excerpts, games, author interviews, and more!

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com/middle

  CONTENTS

  THE SCOT’S COLLIE DOG

  THE MERRY BEAGLE

  THE GENTLEMAN BOXER

  THE MISUNDERSTOOD POODLE

  OLD SOUR MUG, THE BULLDOG

  THE COCKING SPANIEL

  THE GERMAN SHEPHERD

  LITTLE LION OF PEKING

  THE SPOTTED DOG OF DALMATIA

  FOX TERRIER—DOG WITH A PAST

  THE POINTING DOGS

  THE POINTER

  THE ENGLISH SETTER

  THE IRISH SETTER

  THE GORDON SETTER

  SPEAKING AS A SPRINGER

  THE LABRADOR, KING OF RETRIEVERS

  BOSTON TERRIER—ALL AMERICAN

  THE SAINT BERNARD, DOG OF MERCY

  MUSTARD SEED, THE PET POMERANIAN

  THE GREAT DANE

  THE TINY PUP FROM CHIHUAHUA

  HERR DOBERMANN’S PINSCHER

  LITTLE DIE-HARD, THE SCOT’S TERRIER

  THE ARCTIC SLED DOGS

  THE DACHSHUND—BIG ENOUGH

  MANY PUREBREDS MAKE THE MONGREL

  ABOUT MARGUERITE HENRY AND WESLEY DENNIS

  TO ALEX

  whose tail wags like a metronome

  AND TO DICE

  who is clean but not spotless

  THE SCOT’S COLLIE DOG

  BONNIE WAS HER NAME, AND lovely as it is it did not begin to describe the golden glory of her coat or the snow-white ruff that framed her gentle face.

  Bonnie’s master was a Scotch Highlander, a Mister Peebles, burly and gnarled as the walking staff he carried.

  In all of Scotland there was no better man with a Collie. He had trained Bonnie not only to sort and cull sheep but to guide and drive them home alone. All alone.

  So well did Bonnie understand her master and his ways that her mind seemed to dart ahead of his. Why, whenever he fastened his purse to his belt and she heard the money jingle, her whole being quivered in expectancy. “Another new flock to drive home?” her eyes asked.

  One such day the two of them set off in great glee for a neighboring township. There Mister Peebles found a flock that suited him well. Even as he parted with his silver, his face never lost its glow of pleasure.

  “Now, gurrl.” He turned to Bonnie with a wave of his hand. “Awa’ ye go—acrost the moor and home—with the finest flock in the kingdom!”

  Bonnie galvanized into action. She rounded up and bunched the flock. She headed them toward the moor, and toward the little fenced-in place high in the hills behind Mister Peebles’s cottage.

  Mister Peebles, meanwhile, remained comfortably behind, enjoying a glass of grog in the village and boasting that his Collie excelled all others, even as the moon excels the stars.

  But late that afternoon, when he returned home expecting to find Bonnie keeping watch over the new flock, he was baffled. Bonnie was not there. Nor were the sheep!

  “Hoots, woman!” he exclaimed to his wife. “This be verra, verra strange! Three mile is nae distance for the likes of her. But I’ll take me a wee bit of a nap, and first thing ye ken, Bonnie’ll be here! And the sheep, too—wagging their stubby tails behind ’em!”

  With a grunt of weariness, he lay down on a couch in the kitchen and gave himself up to sleep.

  An hour slid by, and another. The moon bulged up over the hills and the sky was dusted with stars when his wife finally shook him awake.

  Mister Peebles rubbed his eyes, trying to think back, but his mind was strangely confused. Had he been dreaming? Had he really seen sheep with wool so long? And where was his Bonnie?

  Leaping from the couch he ran out into the night, crying, “Bonnie, Bonnie, where are you?” He ran past the empty penfold and, old as he was, he ran on down the hillside, peering this way and that into the darkness. He spied a tatter of mist. Or was it a tumbled cloud? Or moonshadow washing the earth? He squinted into it; he thought he saw it move. Then a lamb blatted, and a ewe baa-aa-ed in reply. Now he knew!

  Breathing high and quick, he scrambled back up the hill to the penfold and threw wide the gate. “Gude gur-r-r-l!” He panted out the words as Bonnie herded the flock into the fold. “Gude . . .” His voice suddenly broke in his throat. For there, dangling awkwardly from Bonnie’s mouth, was a newborn pup. “Och, Bonnie!” he cried, as a wave of shame rushed over him. “Och, shure I knew ye were going to have little ones. But, Bonnie, m’lass, how could I guess ’twould be this day?”

  He took the pup with great gentleness and tucked it into his waistcoat for warmth. Then he stooped down again to praise the mother dog, but she was off, streaking out of sight as he watched.

  Three times that night Bonnie returned, carrying another pup and another and another, until all were gathered safe and sound. When at last she settled down to nurse them, Mister Peebles knelt beside her, and brawny as he was, he let the hot tears fall. “Bonnie, gurrrl,” he said very gently, “canst ye ever forgive me?” His voice quavered as he stroked the dirt-matted coat. “It aches me to think I made ye drive the sheep whilst ye had little ones to whelp.”

  Bonnie wriggled into position and looked up at her master with a deep sigh. Why, there was nothing at all to forgive! “It is ye,” her honest eyes seemed to say, “that made me a good sheepdog. I durst not for my life leave the flock.” Then she licked each of her puppies in turn and, satisfied at last, dropped off to sleep.

  • • •

  The story of Bonnie and Mister Peebles is a true one. And it will probably happen again and again, wherever there are flocks of sheep and Scot’s Collie dogs to tend them.

  Whence the name “Scot’s Collie,” you ask? “A moot question,” say the Scottish shepherds. They will tell you that for hundreds of years they raised black-faced sheep known as “colley sheep,” and the faithful dogs who tended them were called “Scot’s colley dogs.”

  The English, on the other hand, also lay claim to the name. In old England the word colley meant “the black soot off the kettle.” And since the original Collies were black as soot, the name may have sprung from this very old meaning.

  But whatever and wherever the source, the Collie is known the world over as a steadfast shepherd. In all weather—in snow’s blinding fury, in sun’s burning rays—he goes about his business, policing the sheep, rounding up the strays, guarding the flock. He will even fight his own relative, the wolf, to protect the sheep. Not that he loves the sheep so much, but that he loves his master more.

  THE MERRY BEAGLE

  HE’S SMALL ENOUGH FOR THE house, and big enough to be the best rabbit hound that ever lived. Rabbits are his dish. Not that he’s a killer at heart. He’s a sportsman! It’s the thrill of the chase that gives zest and purpose to his life. Whenever he’s hot on the trail, his happiness grows so big within him that he sings out in a melody that ripples and rings across the fields. “Music Maker of the Meadows”—that’s what he’s called!

  He hunts pheasant and squirrel, too, but rabbits are his specialty. Their scent is delicate, their ways cunning, but he can unravel the trickiest trails and can make turns and doublings as quick as any one of them.

  Way back in the time of King Arthur this small flop-eared fellow was already a work hound, tracking hares for the King and his knights. Years later, when Elizabeth I was Queen of England, she tried to improve the Beagle. She had him bred littler an
d littler until she could carry one around in a glove. The squires of her day would fill their saddlebags with these miniature hounds and then turn them loose on the heath to go a-hunting.

  What a ridiculous failure it was! The work of the Beagle became miniature too, and his bell-toned voice smalled down to a quaver.

  Fortunately this fad of the glove Beagle wore itself out. Today’s hound measures a full thirteen to fifteen inches. He’s still a smallish fellow compared to Setters and Pointers, but he’s so brawny and well-muscled that he is a lot of hound for his inches.

  The name “Beagle” comes from the French beigle, meaning “small.” While the French thus named him, it was the English who made him popular. Beagling was, and is, one of their favorite sports, and we in America are fast adopting it.

  What is beagling? Is it hiking to hounds? Of course it is. But, oh, how much more!

  Picture in your mind’s eye a meadow wide open—the earth wet, the breeze gentle. Suddenly a cyclone of Beagles bursts onto the field. Noses busy, tails merry, ears flying, they are puzzling out a rabbit trail. And puffing in pursuit come the beaglers themselves—men afoot, wearing green coats and white breeches. One among them sights Molly Cottontail and lifts his horn to blow, “Tally-ho! Tally-ho!”

  Almost at the same instant the whole pack of hounds catches the scent. In full cry they are on the line, circling the rabbit, driving her ever inward to the beaglers. But by some miracle of speed and timing she slithers her way out of the pack to the meadow’s end, and there in a tangle of brake and bramble she dives into her hole.

  Does it matter to hounds and men that Molly Cottontail has escaped? Not really. Sporting beaglers are secretly glad when she is driven safe into her nest to run again another day.

  In beagling it is teamwork that is all important. But, aside from this highly organized sport, there is always the lone Beagle and the lone boy who were made one for the other. They hunt or hike, just the two of them, sharing the good smells of the woods and fields, in tune with the whole wide world.

  THE GENTLEMAN BOXER

  RUDY DOCKY, A FAST-TUMBLING CLOWN from Austria, knows Boxers as well as he knows the sawdust ring. He believes that Boxers and circuses, and boys and girls belong together. He trained a whole troupe of Boxers to play a rough-and-tumble game of basketball. Always the game was such fun for the dogs that the children in the audience jumped up and down in glee.

  First, Rudy clumps on stage, his big shoes flapping like a beaver’s tail. Then he blows a shrill note on his whistle, and from both wings the dogs come racing out, five to a side.

  As Rudy tosses a balloon into the air, bedlam breaks loose. They all jump for it, and the game is on! Playing with head, forepaws, and snub noses, they bunt and bat and shoot.

  But wait! There’s a foul! One fellow, hugging the balloon tight, pricks it with his toenails. And pffssst—it bursts!

  Quick, Rudy, a new balloon!

  Again the players get set. Again the whistle. Again the game is in full swing—players blocking, passing, dribbling, until the whole stage is churning with dogs. Rudy shouts: “Stick to him, Rex! Don’t double-dribble! Pass, Buster, pass!”

  At last one leaping fellow shoots a basket, and whether it was his own basket or not, the game is won. Any leftover balloons are now tossed onstage to be kicked and pricked for the sheer fun of it.

  And so, with children shrilling in delight and dogs dancing on their hind legs, the act is over.

  Boxers are born ball players, says Rudy. In fact, they use their front paws the way a human fighter uses his fists. Some say that’s how the Boxer got his name.

  He is a fighter, too—a lusty, gusty, hard-biting battler—but only when there is a real need to fight. He seems to know when to fight and when not to. In his native Germany this reasoning power won him the title of “The Gentleman Boxer.”

  His ancestors were the mighty Mastiffs who grappled lions and leopards, bears and bulls, and held on with teeth locked until the hunters arrived. From these Mastiffs, crossed with large Bulldogs, came the Boxer we know.

  Big and strong as he is, there’s a gentle side to his nature, too. Youngsters can pull his ears and poke his ribs, and he takes it all with gay good humor. As pet and protector, he is full of love and faithfulness for everyone in the household.

  To look at, he is a square sort of fellow, square of muzzle and square of stance, with a glossy coat of fawn or brindle. The black mask on his face is his trademark, and the blacker it is, the better. The deep furrows between his eyes make him look sad because he can’t look anything else.

  But, remember, he is not really sad. On the contrary, Rudy says, he is full of pranks. Often a rascally fellow will bite the balloon just to see Rudy run for another. And if the basketball game is not exciting enough, one player jumps into the audience, upsets the hot-dog vendor, and shares the loot with his pals.

  THE MISUNDERSTOOD POODLE

  HE IS IN LOVE WITH life, but the most misunderstood dog in the world. He is strong enough to fight through bulrushes with a flapping duck in his mouth, or to take hurdles that would do credit to a horse. In intelligence he ranks as one of the smartest. Yet the world thinks of him as a dude and a dandy, a bauble of curls and wool.

  How can we show you that he is a vigorous fellow in spite of the rosettes on his hips, the bracelets on his legs, and the bangles and bows in his pompadour?

  First, let’s skip across the centuries to the days when he was used as a bird dog. He was such an enthusiastic retriever that he would swim about for hours to find a maimed duck. To speed his progress through the water, the hunters sheared the heavy wool from his hindquarters. He did swim faster as a result, but the owners now began to worry. Were not dogs subject to rheumatism just like people? Should not their joints be kept warm? And so they devised the Poodle cut—leaving a pompom of wool on hips and hocks. As for the tuft on the tip of the tail, this became a direction flag, signaling the dog’s whereabouts.

  For two reasons this custom of clipping has come down the centuries. At dog shows it is easier for judges to study bone structure if the body is not hidden by blankets of wool. Secondly, unlike other dogs, a Poodle does not shed his hair. It grows long, like human hair. But instead of growing lank and loose, it twists into heavy, ropelike curls. The weight of such a coat would be enough to change a blithe spirit into a rag rug!

  The joy of living is in the blood of the Poodle. Whatever role he plays, he throws his whole heart into it. Acting is pie to him. At age two months he is ready to follow his mother onstage as a tumbler. And before he is a year old, he can manage more serious roles. You may have seen the Poodle Coco in the circus. Dressed in starched cap and apron, she pushes a carriage full of pups into the spotlight as deftly as any nursemaid. Or have you seen Mimi high-dive into a swimming pool and then float around on a rubber raft like any bathing beauty?

  Other Poodle performers turn somersaults, both front and back, jump over kegs on their hind feet, skip rope, trundle toy wheelbarrows, and even spell out words with children’s blocks.

  The Poodle is, and always has been, actor and friend to royalty. When Queen Anne of England grew weary of her duties, she called for a troupe of Poodles known as “The Little Ball of Dogs.” Forgetting her cares, she would laugh and clap her jeweled fingers as they danced prettily to music. And when they put on a spirited battle, firing guns with their forepaws, the Queen rose to her feet and cried, “Huzzah!”

  Today, Poodles come in three sizes—standard, miniature, and toy. And they come in solid colors—black, white, silver gray, apricot, and brown. Their uses are many, for their quickness to learn fits them for the circus ring, the hunting field, or the drawing room. Poodles are people, one owner insists, enchanting people! Their sparkling eyes look out upon life with wisdom and gaiety.

  OLD SOUR MUG, THE BULLDOG

  AS IS TRUE WITH PEOPLE, the ugliest dogs are often the most gentle. Old Sour Mug is a loving soul. He likes nothing better than to lumber up on his master’s lap—all sixt
y pounds of him—nuzzle his massive head under a protective arm, and snuff and snort in a kind of ecstasy.

  Yet this overgrown lap dog will fight to the death if necessary. He seems almost insensible to pain.

  Why is this? How can it be? Perhaps because once upon a time he was a fierce and fearless bull fighter. He knew only one life, and it was fraught with danger and with pain.

  In Old England, for seven hundred years, his ancestors provided a strange kind of sport known as bull-baiting. At a marketplace or some so-called garden, men roped off an arena. And within it they neck-chained a maddened bull to a stake. The chain was long enough to give the bull complete freedom of the pit, but short enough to protect the milling mob that packed itself about the ring.

  At the appointed hour the fight begins. Into the pit men toss a quivering dog. He is drawn to the bull, the way a piece of steel is drawn to a magnet. His low-slung body shuffles along, a small shape inching forward to death or victory.

  A moment of stillness. Then with a bellow the big bull comes charging across the pit, head down, sharp horns ready to gore.

  The dog stands his ground. Then suddenly, with a quick upthrust of his jaw, he reaches for the bull’s nose. He has it and he holds it!

  In a mad frenzy the bull wheels and runs, jerking his head violently, shaking the dog’s body like a whip. But he cannot shake free. He tries slapping the dog against the stake, then buffeting him around and around the arena, but the pinning hold on his nose only tightens.

  Minutes drag. The pit is a swirl of dust and fury. At last the bull can stand the pain no longer. With the crowd roaring and howling at him, he sinks exhausted to the earth.