Poison

The butcher lifted half a pig’s head to his nose, sent it flying with a disgusted hurl into the bundle of scrap that Bobtail Meg was waiting to carry home in her saddle-bags for the kennel. Meg loved to lug the butcher-scraps home for me. When her saddle-bags were filled Meg rose, shook butcher-floor sawdust from her coat and waddled the bones away with pompous pride. Meg never was so happy as when she was busy.

There was something sinister in that pig’s one eye when I stuck his half-head into the dog-pot. It made the soup into a rich, thick jelly and smelled good.

Flirt, Loo’s daughter, had a litter two weeks old. Flirt was ravenous and gobbled a generous portion of soup and meat, The next day a pup was sick, others were ailing. The veterinary ran a stubby finger around the sick pup’s gums. “Teething,” he said, and, taking a pocket knife, slashed the pup’s gums, wiped the knife on his pants and rammed it into his pocket along with my two dollars.

That night the pup died. I was furious-puppies never bothered over teething! I called another veterinary. “Poison,” said the old man, and I remembered the butcher’s nose and the pig’s eye. This vet shook his head and killed the sickest pup to prove his diagnosis by post mortem. He said, “This is a matter for nursing not doctoring. I think all of them will die.”

Every pup was bespoken. I did not want them to die and the pups wanted to live–they put up a good fight and won.

I took them away from Flirt. They were too listless to suck a bottle. I spooned brandy and milk down their throats, and to the amazement of the veterinary reared the entire litter. The runt was the grittiest pup of all; for days he writhed out of one convulsion into the next–calmed from one only to go through it all over again. One morning before dawn I found him stiff, tongue lolling, eyes glazed.

I had for several days almost decided to put an end to his misery. From force of habit I trickled brandy over the lolling tongue–no response. A grave to dig in the morning! Dazed with tiredness I put the pup into his basket and went back to the garden room where I was sleeping during the poison trouble so that I might watch over the puppies. Sticking basket and feeding-bottle into a far corner of the room I tumbled into bed.

The sun and a queer noise woke me. I peeped overboard to see the runt seated on the floor in a patch of sunshine, the feeding-bottle braced between his paws, sucking with feeble fury.

I cried, “You gritty little beast!”, warmed his milk and a hot-water bottle, tucked him into his basket and named him “Grits.”

Grits turned into a fine and most intelligent dog. He was sold and sent as a love-gift to a man’s sweetheart in Bermuda. Another of that poisoned litter went to France, pet of a wealthy man’s children; another to Hollywood, where he saved two children from drowning while sea bathing. He was filmed. But mostly my Bobbies homed themselves in Canada.

They won in the local dog shows. I did not show them further afield. To raise prize-winners was not the objective of my kennel. I aimed at producing healthy, intelligent working stock and selling puppies at a price the man of moderate means could afford, yet keeping the price high enough to insure the buyer feeling that his money’s worth must be given due care and consideration.