Master Frisky/Chapter 18
It was a glorious Christmas morning, the sun was warm and bright, and the new snow lay white and sparkling upon the ground.
The chickadee and the snow-bird were singing away with might and main, children were drawing their sleds in the street, and all was joy and gladness.
I stood at my study window looking out, and enjoying the beauty of the old earth.
But presently I turned from the fair scene before me, and began looking at a painting on the wall. It was that marvelous picture of the sleeping shepherds of Bethany. There was the bright ladder of light upon which angels were descending to earth, and the child in the manger, and over its strange crib the wonderful star.
My heart grew warm as I looked, and thought of all that the birth of that child meant to us.
I was wondering how that young mother felt as she held the Saviour of the world to her breast, when I was conscious of a pathetic little wail, half whine and half bark, beneath the window. "Is that you, Frisky?" I cried, springing to the window, with some misgiving as to the outcry. But my worst fears were not as bad as what met my eyes.
There beneath the window, limp upon the snow, with his fore paws on the banking, as though imploring help of me, and with blood streaming from a dozen wounds, was Master Frisky. His eyes were so blinded with tears, that he did not see me, and he was breathing with quick sobs, each like a last breath.
"Oh, Frisky!" I cried, "they have killed you." In a minute I was by his side, lifting him tenderly in my arms, heedless of the blood that freely stained my best suit.
I carried him into the house, closely followed by big Mike Maloney, who had come running up, gun in hand.
"Oh mister," cried tender-hearted Mike, with tears in his eyes, "I did it, but I wouldn't for the world if I had known. The sun blinded me, and I thought he was a fox."
"You great simpleton," I cried, "run for the dog doctor at once;" and poor Mike started at the top of his speed.
I got some warm water and a sponge, and washed the blood from Frisky's eyes and nose that he might see and breathe better; but he could only gasp and sob like a sick child. You may think it queer that a dog should sob, but they do when in great pain.
Poor Frisky lay panting and sobbing while I sponged and soothed him until the doctor came. Together we gave him whisky and milk, with a big spoon; and he revived enough to lick my hand, and bump the floor once with his tail; but he was very weak, and hardly noticed us. After looking him over carefully, the doctor shook his head. "He will die," he said. "He has lost so much blood that he cannot rally."
"He shall not die," I cried in great wrath; "he is my only pet, and I will save him."
The doctor smiled. "Well, perhaps you may," he said, "but I doubt it. If he were mine I would kill him and put him out of misery."
I got a box and put it in the kitchen, close to my bedroom door, and day and night I tended Master Frisky. All that loving hands could do, I did for him; but he was so weak that I often despaired, and thought that the doctor was right after all.
I fed him whisky and milk, and sponged his burning nose and lips with cold water, and made him as comfortable as possible. When I had been fussing over him, I always felt well repaid when he licked my hand, and gave the edge of the box one thump with his tail.
He was often out of his head; for he would start up and growl savagely, or bark excitedly when there was nothing about.
That afternoon I was standing by the window, when Ned, Master Frisky's particular friend, came trotting into the yard. He noticed the track in the snow, and the blood, and became very much excited. When he found the place where Frisky had lain upon the snow under my window, he threw up his head and gave a pitiful howl, and then started out of the yard, running like a mad dog.
Down the street he went until he reached the first house where there was a dog, then into the yard he dashed, and repeated his howl. Out again, and so on until he made the entire round of the village.
I do not know just what Ned told the dogs, but in less than five minutes there were at least a dozen of them in the yard. Each new comer went up and snuffed the blood spots on the snow, and then with a sorrowful air joined the sober looking group by the woodshed.
They were not frolicking or barking, but were silent and expectant; and when a pup among them started to bark at a passerby, Old Spot shook him roughly.
Presently Ned came in; and after stopping a minute with the dogs in the woodshed, he went to the kitchen door, and began whining and scratching. Thinking that he might disturb Master Frisky, I let him in. He went to the box, and lapped Frisky's face. He seemed to be saying by his laps, "Oh Frisky, Frisky, don't you know me; it is Ned, your friend Ned, please speak to me." At last Ned began to jump about and whine, and then Frisky thumped the box once with his tail, and a look of joy and relief came into Ned's face. He gave his friend a good kiss, and went out to tell the other dogs that Master Frisky was not dead, but terribly wounded. Then they all trotted off home, a sorrowful looking lot.
There was very little going on in dogtown for the next week. The old dogs gathered at their accustomed places and talked in deep growls or whispers, and even the pups seemed to understand the grief that lay heavy upon dogtown.
But Ned did not go when the others did; he came back and scratched at the door. I let him in again; and he took up his station by Frisky's box, and did not leave it until I sent him home in the evening. In the morning when I got up I found him lying on the mat by the kitchen door, and on hearing me he scratched to be let in. And so it was every day. No matter how early I arose I would always find Ned at the door, waiting.
When once in the house he would lie down by Frisky, where he would remain all day, only moving when I came to attend to his friend.
For about a week poor Frisky seemed to have a high fever. He would moan and toss about in his box, and sometimes bark and growl as though he was having a bad dream.
Ned had a worried, anxious look, and he grew poor every day.
At last Frisky fell into a deep sleep; and when I felt his nose it was moist and cool, and I was more hopeful.
For two days he slept; and on the morning of the third, when I began to think that he would never wake, I heard a funny little bark, and then a joyous loud bark from Ned. I went to see what was up; and there was Master Frisky raised upon his fore paws in the box, and Ned was lapping his face vigorously, and looking as delighted as a dog could.
I went up to Master Frisky, and sat down upon the floor; and he laid his head upon my knee, and put his paw confidentially in my hand just as he had done the day when I bought him. I patted and hugged him gently, for he was still very weak.
There was a lump in my throat, and several tears ran down my cheek in spite of me.
You may say, "How foolish! He was only a dog, and not worth crying over." Well, perhaps so; but some dogs are very human, and this one had somehow gotten into a very snug corner of my heart. How many a time when I had been feeling lonely and discouraged, he had come and snuggled under my arm, and put his nose into my hand, and with his soft tongue caressed away my care, or diverted me with his foolish pranks.
Ned was as much overjoyed as I was. I patted his head, and told him that he was a faithful dog; and he bumped the floor with his tail again and again. But he soon went away to tell the others the good news.
It was an eventful day in dogtown when I carried Master Frisky's box upon the piazza, and several of his friends came to see him. Ned was very jealous of their attention, and would not let them stay long lest they should tire Frisky; and he took it upon himself to lie close to the box, and receive the company.
After that, when it was warm, I carried the box every day upon the piazza, and Master Frisky got well very fast.
When he was quite well, except for a slight limp in one of his hind legs, which I think he will always have, a great meeting of the dogs was held in his honor; and he received many bones from his dog friends as marks of their esteem.
Then they had games and sports, and ended by giving three cheers for Master Frisky, the cheers being a chorus of glad barks.
But all of these things happened some time ago; and Frisky is now five years old, and more grave and dignified than he used to be. He has been about so much with me that he has learned many of the ways of folks; and all of the new things that he finds out, he tells the other dogs. Whenever there is anything strange that the other dogs do not understand, they bring it to Master Frisky; and he can usually explain it, although his explanations are not always like those his master would give.
He is my friend and constant companion, following me about like a shadow, and many pleasant walks we have together.
Even now as I write, he is lying upon the floor beside me, with his paw confidentially across my foot. And occasionally he will lick my boot to express the love in his warm dog heart.
If my reader has any doubt as to the truth of these stories, let him visit Master Frisky and me in the dreamy old town of Elmwood. You will know the place by the broad street and the big elms; and once here I will tell you many more stories of dogtown, even more wonderful than these, and best of all I will show you the real Master Frisky.