Joe
Cone
Cambridge,
Mass.
C H E W I T T K N E W
A G O O D D O G .
By Joe
Cone, Author of “The Waybackers.”
“I say we are not
going to have a strange dog in our kitchen. Just look at the dirt he has
tracked in! When will you ever have any common sense about animals?” and Mrs.
Chewitt gathered up her skirts and made for the back door for the purpose of
opening it. The dog, by natural instinct, shrank closer to his defender.
“But he’s all right,”
protested Mr. Chewitt; “he’s a good dog. He followed me all the way from the
car track; stuck to me like a brother, as it were, and I’m not going to send
him away hungry. Good doggie, good doggie, ain’t you, old fellow?” and Chewitt
stroked the head of his new-found friend sympathetically.
“He’s a great, nasty,
ugly-looking brute, and I don’t want him in the house, and what’s more I’m not
going to have him. I have the cleaning up to do,” persisted Mrs. Chewitt,
decidedly.
“Just a moment, dear,
and I’ll let him out; poor old fellow, he’s hungry and I shall give him a bite
to eat, won’t I, old chap? Course I will, good doggie,” and Chewitt started for
the pantry, the dog following closely.
“Don’t let him in
there!” shrieked Mrs. Chewitt, and the dog, frightened by her shrill voice,
darted ahead of Chewitt through the door.
“Well,” said Mrs.
Chewitt, sweeping majestically into the dining room, “when you have done with
feeding stray curs and have gotten the kitchen hoed out I will proceed to put
your dinner on the table.”
“But he’s not a cur,
Julia,” protested Chewitt, turning in the door and calling after her. “If you
knew anything about dogs you could easily see that. He’s blooded stock; simon
pure Irish setter, handsome and intelligent. O, I know dogs from A. to Z. I
tell you he’s all right.”
Chewitt was about to
say something additional when a crash came from behind him, and as he turned to
see what the matter was the blooded stock shot past him with a pound of
porterhouse steak grasped firmly between his jars. Seeing no other outlet from
the kitchen the dog headed for the dining room. Mrs. Chewitt caught a glimpse
of dangling, red meat, backed by two fierce looking eyes, and letting out a
shriek she fled to her bedroom and slammed the door.
The dog circled the
dining room several times, then met Chewitt who was coming with an uplifted
broom, face to face at the threshold.
“Charge! Charge!” he
commanded.
The blooded stock
failed to obey orders, but sailed between his benefactor’s legs into the
kitchen.
“Charge I tell you!”
roared Chewitt, striking at the dog and hitting the gas range between the eyes.
Towser again took to
the dining room, upsetting Mrs. Chewitt’s pet fern. A loud crash resounded
throughout the flat, followed by shrieks from the bedroom, growls from the
bloodied stock and curses from the one who had taken him in.
“Let him out! Let him
out!” screamed Mrs. Chewitt from behind her locked door.
“Not until he gives
up that piece of meat, dod gast him!” shouted her husband, now armed with a
rolling pin in one hand and a stove poker in the other.
Stealthily he entered
the dining room. Towser was crouched under the table. Chewitt tiptoed around
behind him with uplifted pin. It was close quarters in which to make a
bulls-eye. The pan descended, but not on the blooded stock. It simply took a
chunk out of the gingerbread work that decorated the middle leg of the table.
With a growl and a mad scramble the dog once more sought to kitchen.
“Let him out, I say!”
Again commanded Mrs. Chewitt. “Let him have the meat! He’s a good dog, and you
wanted to feed him!” this sarcastically.
It seemed the only
wise course to pursue and after a moment’s debate with himself Chewitt sidled
through the kitchen and opened the back door. He didn’t have to tell Towser
that the door was ajar. He was an intelligent dog and knew what to do when the
opportunity offered. A streak of blooded stock shot into the night, followed by
a half-filled coal scuttle.
A moment later Mrs.
Chewitt appeared. After coldly surveying the wreckage she surveyed her husband.
“He was a stranger
and I took him in,” said Chewitt, meekly.
“Yes, and he took
your dinner; that’s the only satisfactory thing to me about it,” snapped his
wife. “Now you can eat vegetables and pie for dinner. It serves you just
right.”
“I didn’t care for
meat tonight, anyway,” returned Chewitt, sulkily.
“O, no, of course
not; but if I had had none something would have dropped. I suppose you would
have given it to Fido, anyway, wouldn’t you?”
Chewitt didn’t deem a
reply necessary and went out after the coal scuttle.
(undated)
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