FullReads

There was perhaps some excuse for Miss Millikin, for Don was a particularly charming specimen of the Yorkshire terrier, with a silken coat of silver-blue, set off by a head and paws of the ruddiest gold. His manners were most insinuating, and his great eyes glowed at times under his long hair, as if a wistful, loving little soul were trying to speak through them. But, though it seems an unkind thing to say, it must be confessed that this same soul in Don’s eyes was never quite so apparent as when he was begging for some peculiarly appetising morsel. He was really fond of his mistress, but at meal times I am afraid he ‘put it on’ a little bit. Of course this was not quite straightforward; but then I am not holding him up as a model animal.

How far he understood the conversation that has been given above is more than I can pretend to say, but from that afternoon he began to be aware of a very unsatisfactory alteration in his treatment.

Don had sometimes felt a little out of temper with his mistress for being slow to understand exactly what he did want, and he had barked, almost sharply, to intimate to the best of his powers–‘Not bread and butter, stoopid–cake!’ So you may conceive his disgust when she did not even give him bread and butter; nothing but judicious advice–without jam. She was most apologetic, it is true, and explained amply why she could not indulge him as heretofore, but Don wanted sugar, and not sermons. Sometimes she nearly gave way, and then cruel Daisy would intercept the dainty under his very nose, which he thought most unfeeling.

He had a sort of notion that it was all through Daisy that they were just as stingy and selfish in the kitchen, and that his meals were now so absurdly few and plain. It was very ungrateful of her, for he had gone out of his way to be polite and attentive to her. When he thought of her behaviour to him he felt strongly inclined to sulk, but somehow he did not actually go so far as that. He liked Daisy; she was pretty for one thing, and Don always preferred pretty people, and then she stroked him in a very superior and soothing manner. Besides this, he respected her: she had been intrusted with the duty of punishing him on more than one occasion, and her slaps really hurt, while it was hopeless to try to soften her heart by trying to lick the chastising hands–a manoeuvre which was always effective with poor Miss Millikin. So he contented himself with letting her see that though he did not understand her conduct towards him, he was willing to overlook it for the present.

‘What a wonderful improvement in the dear dog!’ Miss Millikin remarked one morning at breakfast, after Don had been on short commons for a week or two. ‘Really, Daisy, I begin to think you were quite right about him.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I was,’ said Daisy, who always had great confidence in her own judgment.

‘Yes,’ continued her aunt, ‘and, now he’s so much better–just this one small bit, Daisy?’ Don’s eyes already had a green glitter in them and his mouth was watering.

‘No, Aunt Sophy,’ said Daisy, ‘I wouldn’t–really. He’s better without anything.’

‘I wish that girl was gone!’ reflected poor Don, as he went sulkily back to his basket. ‘It’s enough to make a dog steal, upon my tail it is! I’m positively starved–no bones, no chicken, only beastly dry dog-biscuits and milk twice a day! I wish I could rummage about in gutters and places as Jock does–but I don’t think the things you find in gutters are ever really nice. Jock does–but he’s just that low sort of dog who would!’

Jock was a humble friend of his down in the village, a sort of distant relation to the Dandie Dinmonts; he was a rough, long-backed creature, as grey as a badger, and with a big solemn head like a hammer. Don was civil to him in a patronising way, but he did not tell him of the indignities he was subject to, perhaps because he had been rather given to boast of his influence over his mistress, and the high consideration he enjoyed at Applethwaite Cottage.