FullReads

I used to like dogs–a puppy love that I got bravely over, since once upon a time, when a Dutch bottier, in the city of Charleston, S. C., put an end to my poor Sue,–the prettiest and most devoted female bull terrier specimen of the canine race you ever did see, I guess. My Sue got into the wrong pew, one morning; the crout-eating cordwainer and she had a dispute–he, the bullet-headed ball of wax, ups with his revolver, and–I was dogless! I don’t think dogs a very profitable investment, and every man weak enough to keep a dog in a city, ought to pay for the luxury handsomely–to the city authorities. Some people have a great weakness for dogs. Some fancy gentlemen seem to think it the very apex of highcockalorumdom to have the skeleton of a greyhound and highly polished collar–following them through crowded thorough-fares. Some young ladies, especially those of doubtful ages, delight in caressing lumps of white, cotton-looking dumpy dogs and toting them around, to the disgust of the lookers-on–with all the fondness and blind infatuation of a mamma with her first born, bran new baby. Wherever you see any quantity of white and black loafers –Philadelphia, for instance, you’ll see rafts of ugly and wretched looking curs. Boz says poverty and oysters have a great affinity; in this country, for oysters read dogs. Who has not, that ever travelled over this remarkable country, had occasion to be down on dogs? Who that has ever lain awake, for hours at a stretch, listening to a blasted cur, not worth to any body the powder that would blow him up–but has felt a desire to advocate the dog-law, so judiciously practised in all well-regulated cities? Who that ever had a sneaking villanous cur slip up behind and nip out a patch of your trowsers, boot top and calf–the size of an oyster, but has felt for the pistol, knife or club, and sworn eternal enmity to the whole canine race? Who that ever had a big dog jump upon your Russia-ducks and patent leathers–just as he had come out of a mud-puddle, but has nearly forfeited his title to Christianity, by cursing aloud in his grief–like a trooper? Well, I have, for one of a thousand.

The fact of the business is, with precious few exceptions, dogs are a nuisance, whatever Col. Bill Porter of the “Spirit,” and his thousand and one dog-fancying and inquiring friends, may think to the contrary; and the man that will invest fifty real dollars in a dog-skin, has got a tender place in his head, not healed up as it ought to be.

While “putting up,” t’other day, at the Irving House, New York, I heard a good dog story that will bear repeating, I think. A sporting gent from the country, stopping at the Irving, wanted a dog, a good dog, not particular whether it was a spaniel, hound, pointer, English terrier or Butcher’s bull. So a friend advised him to put an advertisement in the Sun and Spirit of the Times, which he did, requesting the “fancy” to bring along the right sort of dog to the Irving House, room number –.

The advertisement appeared simultaneously in the two papers on Saturday. There were but few calls that day; but on Monday, the “Spirit” having been freely imbibed by its numerous readers over Sunday, the dog men were awake, and then began the scene. The occupant of room number –had scarcely got up, before a servant appeared with a man and a dog.

“Believe, sir, you advertised for a dog?” quoth he with the animal.

“Yes,” was the response of the country fancy man, who, by the way, it must be premised, was rather green as to the quality and prices of fancy dogs.