Selling

A stranger stood at the garden gate. Young dogs leapt, old dogs stiffened and growled, enquiring noses smelled through the bars of the gate at the head of the garden steps. Fore-paws rested a step higher than hind-paws, making dogs’ slanted bodies, massed upon the steps, look like a grey thatch. Strong snuffing breaths were drawn in silently, expelled loudly.

I came into the middle of the dog pack and asked of the stranger, “You wanted something?”

The man bracketed dogs and me in one disdainful look.

“I want a dog.”

The coarse hand that swept insolently over the dogs’ heads enraged them. They made such bedlam that an upper and a lower tenant’s head protruded from the side of the house, each at the level of his own flat.

“What price the big brute?”–indicating Punk.

“Not for sale.”

“The blue bitch?”–pointing to Loo. “Not for sale.”

“Anything for sale?” he sneered.

“Puppies.”

“More bother’n they’re worth!…G’ar on!” He struck Punk’s nose for sniffing at his sleeve. “D’you want to sell or d’you not?”

“Not.”

The man shrugged–went away.

Money in exchange for Bobbies was dirty from hands like those. 

 Kipling

THE DOGS and I were Sundaying on the garden lawn. Suddenly every dog made a good-natured rush at the garden gate. A man and a woman of middle age were leaning over it. The dogs bunched on the steps below the gate. The woman stretched a kindly hand to them. The man only stared–stared and smiled.

“Were you looking for somebody?” I asked.

“Not exactly–he,” the woman waved a hand towards the man, “has always had a notion for Bobtails.”

I invited them into my garden.

“Would you like to see the pups?” I said, and led the way to the puppy pen. The woman leant across, but the man jumped over the low fence and knelt on the earth among the puppies.

“Your ‘Sunday,’ Father!” reminded the woman.

He gave a flip to his dusty knees, but continued kneeling among scraping, pawing pups. Picking up a sturdy chap, he held it close.

“Kip, Kip,” he kept saying.

“Kipling and Bobtails is his only queerness,” the woman apologized.

“I suppose they are very expensive?” the man said, putting the puppy down on the ground. To the pup he said, “You are not a necessity, little fellow!” and turned away.

“There’s times wants is necessities, Father,” said the woman. “You go ahead and pick. Who’s ate them millions and millions of loaves you’ve baked these thirty years? Not you. Jest time it is that you took some pleasure to yourself. Pick the best, too!”

With shaking hand the baker lifted the pup he had held before, the one he had already named Kip. He hurried the puppy’s price out of his pocket (Ah! He had known he was going to buy!), crooked one arm to prevent the pup from slipping from beneath his coat, crooked the other arm for his wife to take hold. Neither of them noticed the dust on his “Sundays” as they smiled off down the street.

Sales like this were delicious–satisfactory to buyer, seller, dog.