Renni the Rescuer (5 page)

“What do you mean, without learning anything useful?”

“Didn't you just now promise you'd never strike him? And if there's no training without punishment . . . ”

“Training, Mother? If that's training, I don't think much of it.”

“Perhaps you're right. It's only a word. Maybe Karl likes the book because it expresses his own ideas. Maybe other books favour different methods, like your policeman friend. Anyhow, we have plenty of time, haven't we, Renni?”

At his name the dog, who had been scuffling with Kitty and was now standing directly over her, pricked up his ears. The cat seized the chance, slipped neatly between his legs and in the twinkling of an eye seated herself on Mother Marie's lap, purring loudly.

O
NE DAY GEORGE TOOK RENNI to the man from whom he had got him as a puppy. A friendly old housekeeper showed George in and patted Renni, who wagged his tail gently but acted a bit shy.

“Fine fellow,” she praised. “One of ours?”

George said he was.

“Just come in,” she urged him. “The master will be pleasantly surprised.”

A violent uproar sounded from within. “Mr. Vogg
is just having a little understanding with his boy,” the housekeeper explained.

When they entered his room, Vogg ignored them and went on swearing at the kennel boy who stood crushed before him.

“You lazy rascal!” he cried. “You dyed-in-the-wool loafer! I'll skin you alive!”

While he went on roaring, George looked around the room. The furniture was old-fashioned. On the wall hung many photographs of proud white horses, sharp fox terriers, sturdy police dogs. The room had such an unmistakable air of comfort and content that George, in spite of the man's yelling, felt himself at peace. Finally the kennel boy got away. Vogg turned to George and asked quite calmly, “Something I can do for you?”

George said very politely, “I'd just like to know whether you're pleased with Renni.”

From the yard, evidently from the kennels, there came up a subdued but vigorous barking. Renni, his nose pointed straight down and his ears straight up, listened attentively toward the floor, but he did not
even move when the man's hand seized his coat rather roughly and pressed on his hind quarters trying in vain to push him down.

“It's he all right,” said Vogg. He took the dog by the head, lifted up his lips, opened his mouth and then turned him loose. “In good shape,” he murmured. Now Renni sniffed at the man carefully, wagged his tail first slowly then a bit faster, rubbed his neck against Vogg's trousers, and finally lay down quietly. His head leaned more and more sharply forward at each outburst of barking from below. The two men looked at this byplay in silence.

“Properly handled in every way,” Vogg said. A glance at George went with the sharp question, “Not too much whipping?”

“No whipping at all,” smiled George. “I couldn't strike a dog.” He felt a little uneasy and did not regain his composure until Vogg cried, “Good for you! That's exactly my own idea.

“Of the people who beat dogs, some use a whip,” he went on, “or even a stick, because it's the most convenient
and least troublesome way for them to come to terms. Perhaps they have a scrap of feeling for the animal. Others whip because it's the easiest way to prove they're masters of something. They are almost always browbeaten themselves by their bosses or their wives. When they start beating a dog, they're simply getting even, relieving their humiliated feelings. They don't think of the torture they're giving the poor creature in their care. Worst of all are those who keep a dog only to give free rein to their cruel impulses. When they start beating him they actually enjoy it and that makes them keep on beating him. Curse their hides!”

George was charmed to hear, from this expert, views so much like his own. “Do you think it possible to get results in training without whipping?”

After a short, grim laugh came the answer: “The man would have to be remarkably patient and the dog wonderfully gifted.” Renni's head was lying on George's knee. He stroked it tenderly. Vogg continued as if he were thinking aloud, “Without whipping? . . . Nowadays, trainers who make lions or tigers jump
through burning hoops or do some other stupid thing, why, these fellows actually assert they've accomplished it without punishment. I don't believe it.” He was almost shouting now. “I can't, and don't, and won't believe it!” Again he gave a short, angry laugh. “It's a lie, of course. Why should lions and tigers squat on silly pedestals, or ride on trembling horses, or do all those other fool things out of sheer good nature? You can tell just by looking at them how scared they are, how their spirit has been crushed out of them. Without whipping, without the iron bar, the rhinoceros whip and all the other tortures! Blazes! It's absurd!

“The public swallow such confounded crazy lies because they want to enjoy a thrill without having their consciences hurt them. Writers tell the dear people that a tiger can be happy only in prison. And the dear people believe what they're told. All you need do is say something firmly enough and keep on saying it, and people will believe it no matter how absurd it is, how impossible. The legend that wild beasts from India and Africa long for the cage and
the circus is far from the worst lie that's being swallowed hook, line and sinker. Merciful God! They're crowding far more horrible things than that into the empty heads and the calloused hearts of men. The poison is spreading like a contagion. Like a plague. Just because it's dinned into them, people here in Europe accept the crushing idea that
men themselves
prefer slavery to freedom! . . . Well, let's not talk about it.”

He stopped and sat brooding, staring straight ahead. George was afraid to disturb him. Finally the man lifted his eyes again. “What was it I really wanted to say?”

George said in a low tone, “I don't know.”

Vogg said, “I'm sorry. I get off the track when I'm talking with someone who treats dogs properly . . . . Well, come here to me, Renni.”

The dog walked over to him at once. “You have a good master.” Renni wagged his tail and arched his body in pure friendliness.

F
OR DAYS AT A TIME rain had been pouring from the grey heavens. The water splashed incessantly on the roof, in the garden, in the street. The rain kept on obstinately without a pause, drumming loud at nights on the windowpanes, and the air had turned icy cold.

Renni was let out for a run only now and then. He lay in front of the fireplace watching the flames contentedly with Kitty crowding close to his breast. She too watched the play of the flames with a deep show of
interest. Renni, overcome by drowsiness, would blink and try to bed his head on his forepaws, but every time he tried it the cat would slap him warningly in the face. Renni would quiver, wake up obediently, hold up his head for a while until he got too drowsy again; then his head would sink slowly and he would get another warning. Finally he threw himself over on his side, and Kitty cuddled up against his neck. Now he could sleep.

Once his master's voice awakened him. George stood at the window and asked his mother, “Do you see what I see?”

Mother Marie looked fixedly at the garden gate. “It looks like a bundle of rags washed down by the rain.”

“No,” said George. “That rag bag moved just now. There it goes again. It's alive.” He hastened to the entryway and rushed out. Lying close against the garden gate was an old, slick-haired pointer in a terrible state, completely exhausted, covered from head to foot with mud. He was dripping with rain and shivering. He shrank back in terror when the gate opened and drew into himself when George came near him. He tried to
dodge, but he was too weak. He crouched down flat against the soaking wet ground and looked up fearfully and pitifully as only a dying animal can.

“You poor chap,” said George softly. “Come on in.”

But the dog did not dare risk a movement. “Come! Come on!” George begged him in gentlest tones. He was shocked. Still the dog did not move. George stooped down, petted the wet skin, felt the horrible thinness, and went on talking in a kind voice.

“Come on, I want to help you. You're hungry and cold. Trust me. Come on! Come on!”

The dog looked up at George's smiling face, doubting, amazed; he hesitated but finally began to understand that nothing threatened him. Still George had to push him over the threshold into the garden, had to encourage him with words and sometimes help him with his hands until at last he got the pointer to follow him, on crouching legs. In the entryway George rubbed him partially dry. It took a good many old rags and pieces of sacking.

“Wait,” said Mother Marie. “I think there's some
milk and rice left. The poor thing's almost starved to death. Let's see whether he can eat anything at all, and if he eats it whether he can keep it down.” She too was deeply moved.

At first the dog did not even dare to come up to the dish. Mother and son coaxed him. Finally he made up his mind, screwed up his courage and in the twinkling of an eye swallowed the few bites of soft rice that were allowed him.

“That's enough for the moment,” warned Mother Marie. “Give him a swallow of warm milk. Not much. Just a little.”

George held the pointer's muzzle shut, lifted his lips at one side so they made a kind of funnel and poured a teaspoonful of the milk down his throat. Then another and another. The dog accepted them as he had everything else, without will of his own. He seemed empty of life, almost unconscious.

“Now a bed for him and a warm cover,” said George.

Then they carried him to the kitchen stove from which the heat was still pouring, wrapped him up in an
old quilt and laid him down carefully. The trembling had ceased. He went to sleep under their hands, the deep sleep of utter exhaustion.

Meanwhile Renni had been snuffling and blowing with loud puffs outside the kitchen door. “In the morning, old boy, in the morning,” George comforted him. Renni knew there was a strange dog in the house and it was a long time before he quieted down.

Even the next day Renni did not get to see the pointer for some little while. Only the kitten slipped into the room where they were washing the creature. There she sat on the little window sill, daintily washing her face. Once she'd seen the old pointer, her curiosity was satisfied. He stood unresisting, without any will of his own, in the warm water of the wooden tub, while the cleansing waves poured over him. Twice, three times mother and son filled the tub with fresh warm water, and every time the tub had to be washed out. They took great pains. When at length they let the hunter go, they helped him out of the tub and watched him shake himself, not very vigorously, for he did not have
strength enough for that. Still, a fine spray of drops showered around his pitiful figure.

“He must have been handsome once on a time,” George said, while Mother Marie busied herself rubbing the pointer dry. Big, brown spots appeared on his coat. His breast was snow-white, and his head brown with a narrow white stripe running from his nose up to his forehead. His dark brown ears hung low. They were so long they could be pulled together over his nose. There were scattering brown marks on his legs.

“He's going to be handsome again soon,” promised the mother, “if we can feed him up well.”

“What'll we call him?” asked George.

They tried ever so many names but the pointer answered to none of them.

“Let's call him Nemo,” suggested George, who knew a little Latin. “He really isn't anybody. Just a shipwrecked life, a lost soul.”

Nemo had quickly swallowed a second portion of milk and rice. Then they brought him out into the hall. He still crept along with his legs bent and his tail
close between his legs. So he met Renni. And at first he appeared terror-stricken. Renni was interested. Nemo threw himself on his back and stretched his four legs out—a gesture which meant, “Please don't hurt me.” Renni had not the slightest idea of hurting the pitiful guest. He wagged his tail affectionately, sniffing Nemo all over. Kitty came up and thrust an experimental paw at the stranger. He was puzzled by the cat, puzzled by Renni's friendliness. Very, very slowly he gathered himself together and risked a shy kiss in Renni's direction. But he only reached one eye. Renni did not mind. On the contrary, he set in to wash the poor thin face thoroughly with his tongue.