Hark! Hark! The Dogs Do Bark! (Emanuel)

by Walter Emanuel

For works with similar titles, see Hark, Hark! The Dogs Do Bark.

"HARK!
HARK!
THE DOGS
DO BARK!"
WITH NOTE
BY WALTER EMANUEL

 

 

 

The Dogs of War are loose in Europe, and a nice noise they are making! It was started by a Dachshund that is thought to have gone mad—though there was so much method in his madness that this is doubtful. [Note for the ignorant: The German for Dog is Hund. The English for German in Hun. Dachshunds means badger-dog—and he is sometimes more badgered than he likes.] Mated with the Dachshund, for better or for worse, was an Austrian Mongrel. By the fine unwritten law of Dogdom big dogs never attack little ones. There are, however, scallywags in every community, and, egged on by the Dachshund for private ends, the Mongrel started bullying a little Servian. And then the fat was in the fire, for the little Servian had a great big friend in the form of a Russian Bear, and he stood up for his pal. And that was what the Dachshund wanted. He hoped that a big row would ensue, and in the confusion he intended to steal a bone or two that he had had his eye on for some time. he got what he wanted—and a little more. For the Russian Bear had friends, too. There was a very game little Belgian Griffon, and there was a great big French Poodle, a smart dandified fellow, and there was a Bulldog. Rather a sleepy chap this last one, and the Dachshund despised him because he was not always yapping and snarling. But the Bulldog has a habit of sleeping with one eye open, and, when he is roused, he grips and won’t let go.

The Dachshund started by attacking the Belgian Griffon, as being the smallest, and mauled the poor creature cruelly, but was quite unable to kill her. And he was mistaken as to the others. He found that the dandified poodle could fight, and that the Bulldog had not lost the knack of not letting go, and that Russia, after all, was a Rusher, and soon the Bear idea made the Dachshund tremble. And even the little Servian gave the Austrian Mongrel some nasty bites, and so did a neighbour of his named Monty.

The Dachshund now began to look round for friends, but they seemed strangely scarce. He had relied on an Italian Greyhound, a thoroughbred, named Italia, but Italia dissembled her love in the strangest way, and asserted that War was a luxury which she could not afford just now. All the same Italia loaded her gun, and who knows but what it may go off and whom it may hit—for accidents will happen in the best regulated families. The Dachshund, to his annoyance, found only one friend, and that was a dog of Constantinople. The dogs of Constantinople are quite well known for being fond of offal.

Meanwhile the rest of the European Happy Family looked on, and who shall say how the row will spread? There's the Greek with his knife ready to take a slice of Turkey; there are the Balkans determined not to be baulked of their own little ambitions; there's the Spaniard fond of Bull fighting so long as he is not a John Bull; there's the Portugee just spoiling for a scrap; there's the Swiss suffering from cold feet; there's the Dutchman, who keeps smiling with difficulty—still some nice meaty bones may come his way, and in any event he may be relied upon to play the game and not to be a Double Dutchman. [Another note for the ignorant:—Holland used to be known as a low lying country, but this title has now been filched by Germany.] And up north, the Norwegian, the Swede and the great Dane all have their eyes well skinned.

All this, and more, may be seen depicted above. Search well and you may find many things. But not Peace. Peace has gone to the Dogs for the present—until a satisfactory muzzle has been found for that Dachshund. Meanwhile the Dachshund's heart bleeds for Belgium—and his nose for Great Britain.