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“I won’t have that little beast in the beds. Beds are not for dogs,” declared my mother callously.

“He’s as good as we are,” we cried, injured.

“Whether he is or not, he’s not going in the beds.”

I think now, my mother scorned us for our lack of pride. We were a little infra dig. , we children.

The second night, however, Rex wept the same and in the same way was comforted. The third night we heard our father plod downstairs, heard several slaps administered to the yelping, dismayedpuppy, and heard the amiable, but to us heartless voice saying “Shut it then!Shut thy noise, ‘st hear?Stop in thy basket, stop there!”

“It’s a shame!” we shouted, in muffled rebellion, from the sheets.

“I’llgive you shame, if you don’t hold your noise and go to sleep,” called our mother from her room. Whereupon we shed angry tears and went to sleep. But there was a tension.

“Such a houseful of idiots would make me detest the little beast, even if he was better than he is,” said my mother.

But as a matter of fact, she did not detest Rexie at all. She only had to pretend to do so, to balance our adoration. And in truth, she did not care for close contact with animals. She was too fastidious. My father, however, would take on a real dog’s voice, talking to the puppy: a funny, high, sing-song falsetto which he seemed to produce at the top of his head.”‘S a pretty little dog! ‘s a pretty little doggy!—ay!—yes!—he is, yes!—Wag thy strunt, then!Wag thy strunt [note: Wag your tail (dialect)], Raxie!—Ha-ha!Nay, tha munna—” This last as the puppy, wild with excitement at the strange falsetto voice, licked my father’s nostrils and bit my father’s nose with his sharp little teeth.

“‘E makes blood come,” said my father.

“Serves you right for being so silly with him,” said my mother. It was odd to see her as she watched the man, my father, crouching and talking to the little dog and laughing strangely when the little creature bit his nose and toused [note: Tousled, tangled (dialect)]his beard. What does a woman think of her husband at such a moment?

My mother amused herself over the names we called him.

“He’s an angel—he’s a little butterfly—Rexie, my sweet!”

“Sweet!A dirty little object!” interpolated my mother. She and he had a feud from the first. Of course he chewed boots and worried our stockings and swallowed our garters. The moment we took off our stockings he would dart away with one, we after him. Then as he hung, growling vociferously, at one end of the stocking, we at the other, we would cry:

“Look at him, mother!He’ll make holes in it again.”Whereuponmy mother darted at him and spanked him sharply.

“Let go, Sir, you destructive little fiend.”

But he didn’t let go. He began to growl with real rage, and hung on viciously. Mite as he was, he defied her with a manly fury. He did not hate her, nor she him. But they had one long battle with one another.

“I’ll teach you, my Jockey!Do you think I’m going to spend my life darning after your destructive little teeth!I’ll show you if I will!”

But Rexie only growled more viciously. They both became really angry, whilst we children expostulated earnestly with both. He would not let hertake the stocking from him.

“You should tell him properly, mother. He won’t be driven,” we said.

“I’ll drive him further than he bargains for. I’ll drive him out of mysight for ever, that I will,” declared my mother, truly angry. He would put her into a real temper, with his tiny, growling defiance.