If the boy slept too long after dinner, the dog went and rooted around him
as much as to say, "Look a here, Mr. Roy, you can't play this on your
partner any longer. You get up here and we will have a high old time, and
don't you forget it." And pretty soon the sound of baby feet and dog's toe
nails would be heard on the stairs, and the circus would commence.
If the dog slept too long of an afternoon, the boy would hunt him
out, take hold of his tail with one hand and an ear with the other, and
lug him into the parlor, saying, "Gip, too much sleep is what is ruining
the dogs in this country. Now, brace up and play horse with me." And then
there was fun.
Well, it is all over; but while we write there is a little fellow sleeping
on a tear-stained pillow, dreaming, perhaps of a heaven where the woods
are full of King Charles' spaniel dogs, and a door-keeper stands with a
club to keep out policemen. And still we cannot blame policemen--it is the
law that is to blame--the wise men who go to the legislature, and make
months with one day too much, pass laws that a dog shall be muzzled and
wear a brass check, or he is liable to go mad. Statistics show that not
one dog in a million ever goes mad and that they are more liable to go mad
in winter than in summer; but several hundred years ago somebody said that
summer was "dog days," and the law makers of this enlightened nineteenth
century still insist on a wire muzzle at a season of the year when a dog
wants air and water, and wants his tongue out.
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