Top
title
div
Tall Tales
 
div
 
A DOG STORY
by
Walter Stanford

One evening, in the card room of the 'Ananias Club'
Four members, having finished up their usual evening of 'Rub'
With fresh cigars and Scotch and Sodas placed in easy range
Began their usual evening truthful anecdote exchange.

And following a story by the oldest member, Scroggs
The conversation ultimately settled down on dogs.
It seemed that Scroggs had owned a hound that fairly 'took the bun'
His knowledge of geography astounded everyone.

Scroggs lost him in America, Siberia, and Spain
But on every occasion he had landed home again
But, sad to say, through tender feet and walking such a lot
He suffered so from bunions, Scroggs had had to have him shot.

Then Johnson told another yarn about a knowing brute
That used to play quite decently the concert flute
And Thompson, not to be outdone, said that reminded him
About his sister's husband's uncle's Irish Setter, Jim.

Jim, being taught to hold a pipe, got such a taste for shag
That after he was never seen without a pipe or fag
And in the end had met his death with awful suddenness
Through cancer of the tongue, brought on by smoking to excess.

Then Lyreson spoke, he said, "I cannot see how men of sense
Can give the name of instinct to such plain intelligence
There's many a human fathead, who would take a second place
If matched for reasoning powers with members of the canine race.

But the smartest dog I ever saw, or ever hope to see
Was a cross-bred Skye Fox Terrier that once belonged to me
The way I came to own him was a strange one, you will say
It happened I was fishing up the Thames one Christmas day.

I had no luck, but persevered till fell the shades of night
And just as I was leaving off, at last I got a bite
I gave a jerk, and up there came a dog, a perfect wreck
The live bait in his mouth and two large brickbats round his neck.

I reckoned, by the look of him, he'd been immersed for weeks
For his stomach was inflated and his hair was off in streaks
But I hauled him in and wrung him out, and, though too weak to stand
He, in a grateful kind of manner, tried to bite my hand.

But after he had gulped a half a pint of whiskey down
He felt his feet and walked behind me, home to Camden Town
And from that time, till he went wrong, his sole aim seemed to be
To show, by every action, his deep gratitude to me.

'Twas plain to see the best and greatest charm he had in life
Was doing things about the house to please me and the wife
He used to turn the mangle, take the children out for walks
Make the beds, fetch up the coals, and clean the knives and forks.

Our vegetables, groceries, and bread he always bought
And once he bit the baker, on receiving twopence short
When baby cried, to please her, he would do all kinds of tricks
Or sit and build her houses with her little box of bricks.

And when the wife was ill one time and couldn't get about
He undertook the cooking, though it nearly wore him out
And as for laundry work the wife, has often said to me
That dog could starch and iron collars quite as well as she.

Well, in the end it happened, '94 to be exact
The Houses in their wisdom, passed the brutal 'Muzzling Act'
And from the day that dog had first to put a muzzle on
It seemed as if his interest in life had wholly gone.

He used to loaf about, and ultimately took to drink
And more than once I found him beastly drunk beneath the sink.
Half dazed and semi-stupid round the neighbourhood he'd roam
And the p'liceman on our beat, who knew him, used to bring him home.

One night, more drunk than usual, he somehow lost his way
And a strange 'slop' trod on him, as he in the gutter lay
And finding him incapable, and smelling strong of gin
The P.C. got an ambulance and promptly ran him in.

They called him up next morning, but his case was never tried
For, in the night, they found he had committed suicide.
Stung by his degradation, broken hearted, sick of breath
He had gone into a corner, where he bit himself to death.

Close by him was a pencil, and upon the whitewashed wall
The touching words 'Forgive - Forget - Good-bye'... and that was all.
 
div
 
Top
 
Return to
' TALL TALES '
Menu
 
div
 
Monologues Home
Music Hall Home
The Forum
Pencil Portraits
Pedro Postcards
Amazon Store
 
div
 
 
 
 
div
 
Bottom