''A Dog's Tale'' Short Story by Mark Twain

• Story Name : A Dog's Tale
• Author Name : Mark Twain (1835–1910)
• Author Country : United States
• Published Year : 1903
• Story Type : Short Story

My father was a St. Bernard; my mother was a collie; but I am a Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me. I do not know these nice distinctions myself. To me, they are only big, fine words meaning nothing. My mother had a fondness for such things; she liked to say them and see other dogs look surprised and envious, as if wondering how she got so much education. But it was only show: she learned the words by listening in the dining-room and drawing-room when there was company, and by going to Sunday-school with the children and listening there; and whenever she heard a large word, she repeated it to herself many times, and so was able to keep it until there was a dogmatic gathering in the neighborhood, at which point she would get it off and surprise and distress everyone, from pocket-pup to mastiff.If there was a stranger, he was nearly sure to be suspicious, and when he got his breath again, he would ask her what it meant. and she always told him. He was never expecting this but thought he would catch her; so when she told him, he was the one who looked ashamed, whereas he had thought it was going to be she. The others were always waiting for this and were glad of it and proud of her, for they knew what was going to happen because they had had experience. When she told the meaning of a big word, they were all so taken up with admiration that it never occurred to any dog to doubt if it was the right one; and that was natural, because, for one thing, she answered up so promptly that it seemed like a dictionary speaking, and for another thing, where could they find out whether it was right or not? because she was the only cultivated dog there.By and by, when I was older, she brought home the word "unintellectual" one time and worked it pretty hard all the week at different gatherings, causing much unhappiness and despondency; and it was at this time that I noticed that during that week she was asked for the meaning at eight different assemblages and flashed out a fresh definition every time, which showed me that she had more presence of mind than culture, though I said nothing, of course. She had one word that she always kept on hand and ready, like a life preserver, a kind of emergency word to strap on when she was likely to get washed overboard in a sudden way—that was the word "synonymous." When she happened to pull out a long word that had had its day weeks before and its prepared meanings gone to her dump-pile, if there was a stranger there, of course it knocked him groggy for a couple of minutes, then he'd come to, and by that time she'd be away down wind on another tack, and not expecting anything; so when he'd hail and ask her to cash in, I (the only dog on the inside of her game) could

And it was the same with phrases. She would drag home a whole phrase if it had a grand sound, play it six nights and two matinees, and explain it in a new way every time—which she had to, for all she cared for was the phrase; she wasn't interested in what it meant, and she knew those dogs hadn't wit enough to catch her anyway. Yes, she was a Daisy! She got so she wasn't afraid of anything; she had such confidence in the ignorance of those creatures. She even brought anecdotes that she had heard the family and the dinner guests laugh and shout over, and as a rule she got the nub of one chestnut hitched onto another, where, of course, it didn't fit and hadn't any point, and when she delivered the nub she fell over and rolled on the floor and laughed and barked in the most insane way, while I could see that she was wondering to herself why it didn't seem as funny as it did when she first heard it. But no harm was done; the others rolled and barked too, privately ashamed of themselves for not seeing the point and never suspecting that the fault was not with them and there wasn't any to see.

These things show that she had a vain and frivolous personality; however, she had virtues that, I believe, compensated for it.She had a kind heart and gentle ways, and never harboured resentments for injuries done to her, but easily put them out of her mind and forgot them; and she taught her children her kindly way, and from her we learned to be brave and prompt in time of danger, and not to run away, but to face the peril that threatened a friend or stranger, and help him the best we could without thinking what the cost might be to us.And she taught us not only with words but also by example, which is the best, safest, and longest-lasting method.What brave and magnificent things she did!She was just a soldier, and she was so modest about it that, well, you couldn't help admiring her, and you couldn't help imitating her; not even a King Charles spaniel could remain entirely despicable in her society. So, as you see, there was more to her than her education.

When I was well grown, at last, I was sold and taken away, and I never saw her again. She was brokenhearted, and so was I, and we cried; but she comforted me as well as she could and said we were sent into this world for a wise and good purpose and must do our duties without repenting, take our life as we might find it, live it for the best good of others, and never mind about the results; they were not our affair. She said men who did this would have a noble and beautiful reward by and by in another world, and although we animals would not go there, to do well and right without reward would give to our brief lives a worthiness and dignity, which in itself would be a reward. She had gathered these things from time to time when she had gone to Sunday school with the children and had laid them up in her memory more carefully than she had done with those other words and phrases, and she had studied them deeply, for her good and ours. One may see by this that she had a wise and thoughtful head, for all the lightness and vanity in it.

So we said our goodbyes and looked our last upon each other through our tears, and the last thing she said—keeping it for the last to make me remember it the better, I think—was, "In memory of me, when there is a time of danger to another, do not think of yourself, think of your mother, and do as she would do."

Do you think I could forget that? No.

It was such a charming home!—my new one; a fine great house, with pictures and delicate decorations and rich furniture, and no gloom anywhere, but all the wilderness of dainty colours lit up with flooding sunshine; and the spacious grounds around it and the great garden—oh, greensward, and noble trees, and flowers, no end! And I was treated as if I were a member of the family; they loved me, petted me, and didn't give me a new name; instead, they called me by my old one, which was special to me because my mother had given it to me—Aileen Mavourneen.She got it out of a song, and the Grays knew that song and said it was a beautiful name.

Mrs. Gray was thirty, and so sweet and lovely that you couldn't imagine it; and Sadie was ten, and just like her mother, a darling slender little copy of her, with auburn tails down her back and short frocks; and the baby was a year old, and plump and dimpled, and fond of me, and couldn't get enough of hauling on my tail, hugging me, and laughing out its innocent happiness; and Mr. Gray was thirty-He was a renowned scientist. I'm not sure what the word means, but my mother would know how to use it and get the desired results.She'd know how to make a rat terrier sad and a lap dog look sorry he came.But that is not the best one; the best one was Laboratory. My mother could organise a trust on that one that would skin the tax collars off the whole herd. The laboratory was not a book, or a picture, or a place to wash your hands in, as the college president's dog said—no, that is the lavatory; the laboratory is quite different and is filled with jars and bottles and electrics and wires and strange machines; and every week other scientists came there and sat in the place and used the machines and discussed and made what they called experiments and discoveries; and often I came, too, and stood around and listened and tried to learn, for the sake of my mother, and in loving memory of my mother, although it was a pain to me, realising what she was losing and I was gaining, for the sake of my mother, and in the place, and

Other times I slept on the floor in the mistress's work-room, she gently using me as a footstool, knowing it pleased me because it was a caress; other times I spent an hour in the nursery, and got well tousled and made happy; other times I watched by the crib there, when the baby was asleep and the nurse out for a few minutes on the baby's affairs; other times I romped and raced through the grounds and the garden with Sadie until we were tired

The servants in our house were all kind to me and fond of me, so, as you see, mine was a pleasant life. There could not be a happier dog than I was, nor a gratefulder one. I will say this for myself, for it is only the truth: I tried in all ways to do well and right, to honour my mother's memory and her teachings, and to earn the happiness that had come to me as best I could.

By and by came my little puppy, and then my cup was full and my happiness was perfect. It was the dearest little waddling thing, and so smooth and soft and velvety, and had such cunning little awkward paws, and such affectionate eyes, and such a sweet and innocent face; and it made me so proud to see how the children and their mother adored it, fondled it, and exclaimed over every little wonderful thing it did. It did seem to me that life was just too lovely to

Then came the winter. One day I was standing watch in the nursery. That is to say, I was asleep on the bed. The baby was asleep in the crib, which was beside the bed on the side next to the fireplace. It was the kind of crib that has a lofty tent over it made of gauzy stuff that you can see through. The nurse was out, and the two of us were alone. A spark from the woodfire was shot out, and it lit on the slope of the tent. I suppose a quiet interval followed, then a scream from the baby woke me, and there was that tent flaming up toward the ceiling! In my terror, I sprang to the floor, and in a split second, I was half-way to the door; but in the next half-second, my mother's farewell rang in my ears, and I was back on the bed.I snatched a new hold and dragged the screaming little creature along and out at the door and around the bend of the hall, still tugging away, all excited, happy, and proud, when the master's voice shouted:

"Begone, you cursed beast!" and I jumped to save myself; but he was furiously quick, and chased me up, striking furiously at me with his cane. I dodged this way and that in terror, and at last a strong blow fell upon my left foreleg, which made me shriek and fall, for the moment, helpless; the cane went up for another blow, but never descended, for the nurse's voice rang wildly out, "The nursery's on fire!" and the master rushed away in that direction, and my other bones were saved.

The pain was cruel, but, no matter, I must not lose any time; he might come back at any moment, so I limped on three legs to the other end of the hall, where there was a dark little stairway leading up into a garret where old boxes and such things were kept, as I had heard say, and where people seldom went. I managed to climb up there, then I searched my way through the darkness among the piles of things and hid in the secretest place I could find. It was foolish to be afraid there, yet still I was; I was so afraid that I held in and hardly even whimpered, though it would have been such a comfort to whimper because that eases the pain, you know. But I could lick my leg, and that did some good.

For half an hour there was a commotion downstairs, shouting and rushing footsteps, and then it was quiet again. For a few minutes, I was grateful to my spirit, because my fears began to fade, and fears are far worse than pains—much worse.Then came a sound that froze me. They were calling my name and looking for me!

It was muffled by distance, but that could not take the terror out of it, and it was the most dreadful sound to me that I had ever heard. It went all about, everywhere, down there: along the halls, through all the rooms, in both stories, and in the basement and the cellar; then outside, and farther and farther away—then back, and all about the house again, and I thought it would never, never stop. But at last it did, hours and hours after the vague twilight of the garret had long ago been blotted out by black darkness.

Then, in that blessed stillness, my terrors fell little by little away, and I was at peace and slept. It was a good rest I had, but I woke before the twilight had come again. I was feeling fairly comfortable, and I could think out a plan now. I made a very good one, which was to creep down, all the way down the back stairs, and hide behind the cellar door, and slip out and escape when the iceman came at dawn, while he was inside filling the refrigerator; then I would hide all day and start on my journey when night came—my journey to—well, anywhere where they would not know me and betray me to the master. I was feeling almost cheerful now; then suddenly I thought, "Why, what would life be without my puppy?"

That was despair. There was no plan for me; I saw that; I had to stay where I was; stay, and wait, and take whatever came—it was not my business; that is what life is, my mother had said.Then—well, then the calling began again! All my sorrows came back. I said to myself, "The master will never forgive." I did not know what I had done to make him so bitter and unforgiving, yet I judged that it was something a dog could not understand but that was clear to a man and dreadful.

They called and called—days and nights, it seemed to me. so long that the hunger and thirst near me drove me mad, and I recognised that I was getting very weak. When you are this way, you sleep a great deal, and I did. Once I woke in an awful fright—it seemed to me that the calling was right there in the garret! And it was Sadie's voice, and she was crying; my name was falling from her lips, all broken, poor thing, and I couldn't believe my ears for the joy of it when she said:

"Come back to us—oh, come back to us and forgive—it is all so sad without our—"

I broke in with such a grateful little yelp, and the next moment Sadie was plunging and stumbling through the darkness and the lumber and shouting for the family to hear, "She's found, she's found!"

The days that followed—well, they were wonderful. The mother and Sadie and the servants—why, they just seemed to worship me. They couldn't seem to make me a bed that was fine enough, and as for food, they couldn't be satisfied with anything but game and delicacies that were out of season, and every day the friends and neighbours flocked in to hear about my heroism—that was the name they gave it, and it means agriculture. I remember my mother explaining it to me once by pulling it on a kennel, but she didn't say what agriculture was except that it was synonymous with intramural incandescence; and a dozen times a day, Mrs. Gray and Sadie would tell the tale to newcomers and say I risked my life to save the baby's, and both of us had burns to prove it, and then the company would pass me around and pet me and exclaim about me, and you could see

And this was not all the glory; no, the master's friends came, a whole twenty of the most distinguished people, and had me in the laboratory and discussed me as if I were a kind of discovery; and some of them said it was wonderful in a dumb beast, the finest exhibition of instinct they could call to mind; but the master said, with vehemence, "It's far above instinct; it's REASON, and many a man, privileged to be saved and go with you and me to a better world by right of its possession, has less of it than this poor silly quadruped that's foreordained to perish;" and then he laughed and said, "Why, look at me—I'm a sarcasm!" "Bless you, with all my grand intelligence, the only thing I inferred was that the dog had gone mad and was destroying the child, whereas but for the beast's intelligence—its reason, I tell you!—the child would have perished."

They disputed and disputed, and I was the very centre of it all, and I wished my mother could know that this grand honour had come to me; it would have made her proud.

Then they discussed optics, as they called it, and whether a certain injury to the brain would produce blindness or not, but they could not agree about it and said they must test it by experiment by and by; and next they discussed plants, and that interested me, because in the summer Sadie and I had planted seeds—I helped her dig the holes, you know—and after days and days a little shrub or a flower came up there, and it was a wonder how that could happen; but it did, and I wished I could talk—I would have told those people about it and shown them how much I knew, and been all alive with the subject; but I didn't care for the optics; it was dull, and when they came back to it again, it bore me, and I went to sleep—but I didn't care for the optics, because I wished I had, and I would have

Pretty soon it was spring, and sunny and pleasant and lovely, and the sweet mother and the children patted me and the puppy good-by and went away on a journey and a visit to their kin, and the master wasn't any company for us, but we played together and had good times, and the servants were kind and friendly, so we got along quite happily and counted the days and waited for the family.

And one day those men came again and said, "Now for the test," and they took the puppy to the laboratory, and I limped along three-leggedly, too, feeling proud, for any attention shown to the puppy was a pleasure to me, of course. They discussed and experimented, and then suddenly the puppy shrieked, and they set him on the floor, and he went staggering around with his head all bloody, and the master clapped his hands and shouted:

"There, I've won—confess it! "He's as blind as a bat!"

And they all said:

"It's so—you've proved your theory, and suffering humanity owes you a great debt from now on," and they crowded around him and wrung his hand cordially and thankfully and praised him.

But I hardly saw or heard these things, for I ran at once to my little darling and snuggled close to it where it lay and licked the blood, and it put its head against mine, whimpering softly, and I knew in my heart that it was a comfort to it in its pain and trouble to feel its mother's touch, though it could not see me. Then it dropped down, and its little velvet nose rested upon the floor; it was still and did not move any more.

Soon the master stopped discussing for a moment and rang in the footman and said, "Bury it in the far corner of the garden," and then went on with the discussion. I trotted after the footman, very happy and grateful, for I knew the puppy was out of its pain now because it was asleep. We went far down the garden to the farthest end, where the children and the nurse and the puppy and I used to play in the summer in the shade of a great elm, and there the footman dug a hole, and I saw he was going to plant the puppy, and I was glad, because it would grow and come up a fine, handsome dog, like Robin Adair, and be a beautiful surprise for the family when they came home; so I tried to help him dig, but my lame leg was no good, being stiff, and you have to have two, or it is no use. When the footman had finished and covered little Robin up, he patted my head, and there were tears in his eyes, and he said, "Poor little doggie, you saved HIS child!"

I have watched two whole weeks, and he doesn't come up! This last week, a fright has been stealing upon me. I think there is something terrible about this. I do not know what it is, but the fear makes me sick, and I cannot eat, though the servants bring me the best of food; and they pet me so, and even come in the night and cry and say, "Poor doggie—do give it up and come home; don't break our hearts!" And all this terrifies me the more and makes me sure something has happened. And I am so weak; since yesterday, I cannot stand on my feet anymore. And within this hour the servants, looking toward the sun where it was sinking out of sight and the night chill coming on, said things I could not understand, but they carried something cold to my heart.

"Those poor creatures! They do not suspect. They will come home in the morning and eagerly ask for the little doggie that did the brave deed, and who of us will be strong enough to say the truth to them: "The humble little friend is gone; where go the beasts that perish?"