Читать книгу The Story My Doggie Told to Me - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 8

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Next door to us was a dog named Jack. There was a wide field between our house and Jack’s and so he lived quite a way from us. But he used to come over to our place pretty often and after we got big we went over to see him. Jack and Father were great friends and used to go hunting together. Jack was a pointer and the first time I saw him I asked Mother what sort of an animal he was, because as he was so different from us I didn’t think of his being a dog too. He had very long legs and was white with brown spots, one on each side of his head and one on each side of his body and a little one where his tail began. He was dreadfully big, ten times as big as Father, and I was afraid of him at first. But I need not have been, for he was a very nice, kind dog.

He was what the Family called a “bird dog.” When his Master went out with a gun to hunt partridges or grouse Jack would go ahead and scent the birds in the grass or bushes, and then he would stand very still, with his tail pointing straight out behind him and his nose pointing straight out in front of him, and his Master would know that there were partridges ahead and say “Hie on!” Then Jack would creep on very quietly and all of a sudden the birds would fly up in the air and his Master’s gun would go bang-bang! and then there would be partridges for dinner. I thought it was very clever of Jack and wondered why Father didn’t hunt birds too. I asked Mother about it once and she said:

He was what the Family called a “bird dog”

“Every dog to his trade, my dear. Jack is a pointer and pointers were made to hunt birds. Your father is a dachshund and dachshunds were made to hunt badgers and rabbits and animals that live underground. Jack is a very fine dog, but he couldn’t dig out a badger or a fox or even a rabbit.”

“Oh,” I said, “could Father do that?”

“Of course, and so can I; and so can you when you grow up. That’s why you are made as you are. Badgers and foxes live in holes that they make far under the ground. The holes are small and they turn and twist, and that’s why your body is made so long and your legs so short; so that you can follow a fox or a badger into his hole.”

“What is a badger?” I asked.

“A badger,” said Mother, “is a very savage animal, much larger than your father. He lives underground and comes out at night to hunt. He has short legs and very long claws and a long nose. He catches smaller animals and eats them and sometimes he steals the farmer’s chickens. He has a very loose skin, just like yours, that is covered with fine grey hairs. Folks make brushes out of the hairs. The brush the Master lathers his face with in the morning when he shaves is made of badger hair and the brush that William used the other day to paint the old wagon with is made of it too.”

“I wish I could catch a badger,” I said. Mother smiled.

“The first time you found one at the end of his tunnel you might wish differently,” she said. “Badgers fight hard, with tooth and claw, my dear.”

“Are they more savage than foxes?” I asked.

“Yes, but no braver. A fox has only his teeth to fight with but he makes good use of them.”

“I wouldn’t be afraid,” I boasted. “Are there any badgers or foxes about here?”

“Foxes, yes, but no badgers that I have ever heard of.”

“There are rabbits, though,” I said. “Some day I shall catch me a rabbit.”

“I hope not, my dear. Rabbits are harmless and they can’t fight underground. We have no quarrel with rabbits, we dachshunds.”

“Then,” I said, “I’ll have to find a fox.”

“It will be a good while before you are big enough to bring a fox out of his hole,” said Mother. “Some day, though, you shall try it, perhaps. You have good digging paws, Fritz.”

“They—they’re awfully big,” I said.

“As they should be, my dear. They’re made for digging. Each one is a little shovel, or, rather, a hoe. When you go into a hole that isn’t big enough you begin to dig. And that is why your front legs are made so crooked. If they were straight you would throw the dirt right under you. As they are, with your feet turning out, they throw the dirt on each side of you, out of your way.”

“I’m glad you told me that,” I said, “because I’ve always wondered about my legs and feet and been a little ashamed of them. They seemed so funny and crooked and big. Now I see that they are just as they should be.” I looked at my feet quite proudly. “I guess,” I said, “I’ll go and dig a hole somewhere.”

“Very well,” said Mother, stretching herself out to go to sleep, “but keep away from the flower beds, Fritz.”

So I found a field-mouse hole at the root of an apple tree in the orchard and dug and dug and had got down so far that only my tail was sticking out when Freya came along.

“What are you doing?” she asked. She might have seen for herself that I was digging a hole, but she is always asking silly questions like that.

“I’m digging for a badger,” I said. “Want to help?”

“Oh, yes, indeed!” cried Freya. “Is there really a badger down there?”

“Never you mind,” I said. “You don’t suppose I’d be digging a hole as deep as this one if there wasn’t something there, do you?” So I crawled out and Freya got in and went to work. I looked on a minute and then I said:

“You don’t dig very well, do you? I suppose your feet aren’t big enough.”

“They’re as big as yours,” said Freya, stopping to rest.

“Then you don’t know how to use them,” I said. “Digging is an art, and not every dachshund knows how.”

“Humph!” said Freya. “Let me see you do it, then.”

So I got back in the hole and dug as hard as ever I could, and the dirt just flew out, I tell you! “There,” I said at last, much out of breath, “that’s the way to do it!”

But when I looked around, would you believe it, that silly dog had gone! And there was William hurrying up with a stick in his hand.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he cried, real crossly. “Trying to dig up that apple tree? Get out o’ that, you pesky critter!”

So I got out in a big hurry and ran off around the house and down to the stable and crept behind the flower-pots. For once William didn’t find me and, as I was very tired, I went to sleep and dreamed that I had crawled down a long, long hole in the ground and that in front of me was a horrible grey badger with long teeth and glaring yellow eyes and great sharp claws. And when I tried to turn around and run out I couldn’t because the hole was too small, and when I tried to back out I couldn’t because the dirt had fallen in around me. And the badger said: “Hah, you’re the smart young dog who said he wanted to catch a badger, aren’t you?” And I said: “N-no, sir, that—that was my brother.” “You’re fibbing,” said the badger, “and for that I shall eat you all up. Raow!” Then he crept toward me and just as he reached out one great big paw with dozens and dozens of ugly, sharp claws I woke up with a howl, shivering and shaking! And, oh, my, wasn’t I glad to see those flower-pots and know that I was in the stable and not in a long, deep hole with a badger coming at me! I ran out and found Mother and cuddled up very close to her and told her my dream. She just smiled and licked my eyes and pretty soon I went to sleep again in the sunlight.