Saturday, January 2, 2021

New Story added: 'Chewitt Knew a Good Dog'

 

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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