by Felix Salten
PART I
Chapter I
WE SHALL CALL HIM RENNI,” said the man who raised shepherd dogs, as he took the puppy out of the basket, away from his mother. The old dog raised her head a little and followed her small son with a look of patient resignation.
This was good-bye, and she knew it. But she lay down quietly again and went to sleep—or seemed to go to sleep.
It was not for a dog to resist. She knew that, too. She was trustful and obedient.
To be sure, she still had three of the six puppies, out of the litter born a few days ago. Two had already been taken from her and now the third was going.
The three who were left pressed close against their mother as though asleep and dreaming, but drank eagerly. It gave the mother a feeling of comfort and well-being, and more and more the twilight of drowsiness stole over her.
The man went on speaking. “The last one I give away I always call Renni. I got rid of two yesterday so I won’t need to drown any of them. That would be a pity, but I never raise more than three. It keeps the mother in good health and the puppies grow up strong and bright.”
Once upon a time in the days of peace this man Vogg had lived near the Adriatic and had raised fox terriers. But after the first World War the confusion of politics and geography had made him very dissatisfied, for he was beginning to grow old, and in the new order of things he found no order at all. Since he could not accustom himself to surroundings which had become uncongenial he had moved northward and settled in a country which had been spared the alarms of war and had remained unchanged. He did not like changes.
He did not take into account that he had changed his own residence. And the fact that he was now raising shepherd dogs instead of terriers hardly seemed a change. He was still raising dogs, as he had always done. He had a kennel, and so life went on much as it had gone on before.
It was time anyhow to stop breeding fox terriers; there were too many of them. They had become commonplace, ladies’ playthings, almost a kind of toilet article; they were inbred and too apt to go mad. So he began to raise shepherds—more commonly known as “police dogs”—a breed he loved and understood. He could not live without dogs.
“Now, of course, you will have to feed him with a bottle for several weeks,” the man said to George, “and then he may have rice cooked in milk. You must raise him to like vegetables and fruit. Mix a little bone meal with his food, and for the first year go easy with meat.”
George smiled and took the tiny Renni in his arms. A sort of warm, milky fragrance rose from the basket where the mother lay with her children. A healthy dog-smell filled the whole kennel.
“I’m not going to give you his pedigree now,” said the man. “I’ll wait and see how Renni turns out.”
“Why should I have a pedigree?”
George pressed the little brown-black bundle of wool against him and Renni gave a soft whimper. It was a thin and tiny sound, almost like the twittering of a bird. He seemed to be feebly seeking something. George stuck his finger into the puppy’s mouth, and felt the hot, thirsty, eager sucking. It made him happy.
“I’ve always wanted a dog,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t forget, his name is Renni,” Vogg called after him.
“Renni, good old Renni,” George kept saying on the way home, and there was a world of love in his tone.
George was a sturdy, good-natured fellow not yet thirty. He lived with his mother in a neat little house in a big garden near the city. The surrounding field was his, too. He raised flowers, cabbages, lettuce, and tomatoes, and sold them on the market.
Now he was going home very, very proud of this helpless creature that belonged to him. He would see to it that this little thing grew up into a noble dog, useful, of service to the world. Yes, indeed, that would be worth while.
His mother laughed when she caught sight of Renni. Mother Marie laughed most of the time. She had a very cheerful disposition and made George’s home life happy.
“Do you want me to raise this youngster?” she asked.
“No!” George had no intention of giving his mother extra work. He would do it all himself and take great pleasure in it, too. He began filling the bottle with warm milk. “Not too hot and not too cool,” warned his mother. “It ought to be just at body heat.”
“Yes,” agreed George, “but at puppy heat.” His face wore a comical expression of superior wisdom as he put the nipple on the bottle.
“Jealous!” said his mother.
“I am that,” admitted George, holding the food out to Renni.
Renni tried to stand, sprawled. His thick clumsy legs refused to hold his weight. Collapsed on his stomach, he drank greedily. Mother Marie brought in an old basket lined with rags and soft old cloths. “I wonder if he will sleep in here with Kitty.”
“Why, of course,” George assured her.
“He’s almost too young to know anything. He’s still almost blind. The question is how Kitty will act toward her new bedfellow.”
Kitty was Mother Marie’s young kitten. She was perhaps four weeks older than Renni. They had started calling to her, Kitty! Kitty! and since she had learned to come to this call it seemed perfectly natural to let that be her name. So they never thought of giving her another.
“How would you expect her to act?” George wanted to know. “Kitty hasn’t had any experience yet. It will be perfectly all right with her.”
Mother Marie was doubtful. “What about her inborn hate of dogs, her natural instinct?”
“I don’t believe in any such thing.” George was very positive. “That hate you speak of is just a result of human cruelty. Nothing but thoughtless human cruelty has made cats and dogs hate each other.”
“Well, we can try it,” conceded Mother Marie. She called, “Kitty! Kitty!”
George put the puppy to bed in the basket. Renni had drunk all he could hold. Now he was whimpering softly, not in pain but with a sort of yearning. He moved his head slowly as if it were too heavy to lift.
“He’s missing his mother’s warm body,” said George. “It’s just too bad. And he misses his brothers and sisters.”
“Kitty, where are you?” called Mother Marie. “Of course Mr. Renni must be kept nice and warm. Here, come on, Kitty.”
The kitten, grey and white, tiger-striped, came up mincing daintily, her eyes wide with curiosity, and quite ready for war.
“No nonsense now, and don’t be coy,” commanded Mother Marie. She picked Kitty up from the floor, pressed the soft body against her chin, blew on the silky fur and put her in the basket.
Kitty, arching her back a little, smelled Renni over carefully and curiously. For a moment things hung in the balance. Then she lay down beside him with a graceful sort of movement as much as to say, “This is all right with me.”
Renni had no more than felt her presence there when he cuddled up quite close. He stopped whimpering. He only sighed once or twice, deeply and comfortably. Kitty put one paw caressingly on his neck. She began purring almost at once. They fell asleep side by side.
“Cat and dog, together,” smiled Mother Marie.
George nodded his satisfaction. “I knew it! What about that natural instinct now?”
Chapter II
IT WAS NOT LONG BEFORE Renni outgrew the bottle, and the basket soon became too small for him, but he shared his new bed with Kitty and ate his milk and rice out of the same dish with her. He liked the world about him, the rooms and the garden, and he would no more have given up the kitten than she him.
For hours at a time the two would roll over each other in good-natured play. Renni’s thick clumsy paw would bowl Kitty over. Then he would stand above her and mouth at her head, nip her with his needle-like teeth, or with his swiftly lapping t
ongue would wash her face, neck and breast.
Kitty would lie on her back and lash out at him, boxing his ears with lightning-swift paws. It did not hurt at all, even when her hind legs played a tattoo on his stomach. When she got tired of the game up she would get, and in a flash leave Renni dumbfounded. Light as a feather she would land on top of a dresser, or, if she were out in the garden, she would shoot up a tree.
Climbing a tree was one thing Renni could not do. He knew he couldn’t and he didn’t even want to try. But every time Kitty did it, the feat left him astounded.
Renni was a funny-looking fellow. His skin hung in loose folds like a coat too big for him and swelled out on his forehead into puffs and wrinkles that gave him an expression positively sorrowful. His ears were large, out of all proportion to his size, and they stuck up stiff and sharp from his head. To even the slightest noise they seemed to answer, “I hear you.” Black hair covered his back like a saddlecloth and made smudges across his face. The edges of his lips glistened deep black. Even his gums were black. But his neck, breast and the underside of his body glowed with tawny yellow like a lion’s skin.
His tail, not yet completely plumed did not roll but hung down in a slight curve. It resembled nothing so much as a black toy broom.
He had not yet gained full use of his thick clumsy legs. Often he would fall all over himself and seem to be trying to show off, like a circus clown. But not for one minute did he really think of showing off or of impressing anyone; everything funny that he did was quite unintentional. He was not the least bit stupid. It was just that the world was so new to him and he was so new to himself.
His whole appearance was as awkward as his actions. There was something absolutely childlike in Renni, but the charm of the future was in him, too, and the promise of a later beauty.
On the other hand, the kitten had all the grace of early perfection. The complete charm of youth was hers, the magic of an abundant energy that spread cheerfulness and joy in play. Though Renni was the stronger, Kitty was the leader, with her supple spirit and her genius for getting into things. Renni followed her lead as a matter of course.
Kitty loved to sharpen her claws. She would attack the cloth of the curtains, the sofa, the armchairs, stretching her body, tearing great holes.
Renni had to try his needle-like teeth on everything hard. He would gnaw slippers, shoes, the edge of benches. He would fall eagerly and blissfully on every object he could possibly reach.
Mother and son had quite a problem with these tendencies, but managed to deal with them without losing their good humour. Mother Marie hung old rags all over the house for Kitty, and George gave Renni dog biscuits made in the shape of bones to gnaw on. It filled him with delight to see the two young animals always so gay and so active.
They never had the remotest idea of resorting to punishment. Mother Marie knew just how useless it is to punish a cat. “Cats are wild animals,” she would always say, “free, untamed and untamable. If you want their friendship you must let them go their own way. The only reason cats live with people is so they can be more comfortable. If they ever become attached to anyone it is by their own free choice. They don’t know the meaning of obedience, and we simply have no right to expect it of them.”
Ordinarily Mother Marie did not have much to say. It was only when she got on this cat theory of hers that she turned loose at a great rate, as if she expected someone to contradict her. But George had no idea of contradicting. He agreed with it all absolutely.
Mother Marie would make another point: “People have been spoiled by the servility of dogs, and they’re so stupid they don’t like cats because cats know how to stick up for themselves. Yes, indeed, if there’s one thing people can’t endure in other people, let alone in animals, it is independence.”
George was willing to admit this too. He would not even take issue over the servility of dogs, but when his mother stopped talking he would begin to lay down some ideas of his own. He thought it horrible and cowardly for a man to punish a dog.
“A dog,” he said, “is smart enough to get upset by a serious scolding and feel remorse.” Now in turn his mother would agree with him. She did not raise the slightest objection, and thus there was always peace in the house. Both of them knew these speeches pretty well by heart. Each heard them often from the other. They were patient, mother and son. They were as united and loyal as parent and child always ought to be but very seldom are.
One day Renni began to bark for the first time. His voice wavered from a high, keen whining to a deep resonant tone and back again. Renni was sounding the alarm. A strange dog, a Doberman pinscher, had caught sight of Kitty and, ready for battle, was coming through the open lattice gate from the street into the garden. Kitty arched her back like a “U” upside down, remained rooted to the spot and looked defiantly into the pinscher’s eyes.
Renni was yapping excitedly, for he had never seen either an arched back or a strange dog. Very likely he had supposed he was the only dog in the world.
The pinscher paid no attention to Renni. Coming close with his feet bent for a leap, he growled threateningly at the cat and waited for the moment to seize her. He waited in vain. Suddenly Kitty flashed her sharp claws into his face. The pinscher drew back, and swift as lightning Kitty was up in the top of an apple tree. The angry pinscher began barking up the tree. Renni was all excitement. Amazed at the pinscher, he barked now in his funny, squeaky, puppy voice, now in the deep bass of a police dog. He felt just as big a dog as the other. It was a regular dog-duet.
Kitty from the safe height of her treetop listened to the hullabaloo with the utmost peace of soul. Then George ran up and chased the pinscher out of the garden to his master who had been calling him in vain. When the gate had clapped to, the pinscher, as if to show contempt for banishment, hoisted his leg. Then he dashed madly after his master.
It took a long time for Renni to quiet down. Kitty came down from her tree as calmly as though nothing had happened, but she did not seem to want to play. Very carefully and deliberately she made her toilet and then she lay down in the sunshine. Renni, perfectly agreeable to this or anything else, stretched out by her side.
Using this incident as a text, Mother Marie and George might well have aired their opinions about cats, dogs and human beings, but they had done so a short time before and they had the sense not to do so again. They knew how to be moderate in all things.
The episode of the pinscher wrought a change in Renni. He had become acquainted with the garden gate; he had found out that beyond it the street stretched out forever. People strode along it. Dogs ran swiftly or prowled slowly past. Sometimes they would stop to investigate the gate, turn around sniffing three or four times in the same place before they finally made up their minds, and then, with a serious or even worried expression, would lift their legs.
For Renni, the street was a place of charm and mystery. All sorts of fascinating, enticing smells made their way inside, through the garden fence; it was enough to put his head in a whirl. As occasion offered he would slip out unknown to everyone and soon be striking up peaceful acquaintance with strange dogs. He was initiated into the mysteries of trailing, of mutual sniffings, into the ceremony of lifting the leg properly—all of which he observed formally and to the letter.
When he found he could not get back into the garden because the gate was closed, he would sit whimpering pitifully. George would let him in. “Renni,” he would say sadly, reproachfully, “Renni, you know you must not go out on the street alone. You’re not allowed to do that. You’ll turn out a good-for-nothing vagabond. You might get stolen. You might get run over. There’s nothing out there that concerns you at all. Do you hear? Nothing at all!”
Crouching down or lying on his back, his paws in the air, Renni would listen piously to this sermon, apparently filled with remorse.
Still Renni had a notion that there was a good deal outside which did concern him, and so he had an adventure that came within a hair’s breadth of costing h
im his life. Once more he ran out on the street, loitered around on the pavement, chased after a dog and found himself across the way where the fields spread out. He was so tantalized by the smells of mice and moles that he went rummaging about here and there.
George, who had been trying to keep an eye on him in vain, at last caught sight of him. “Renni,” he cried, “Renni, come here this minute!”
But Renni did not come. No matter how loud George called, Renni seemed to have forgotten his name completely, forgotten that George had anything to do with him, But at last something of the sort must have entered his head, and he started back.
George was happy when he saw this and cried out, “Good boy! That’s a fine dog!” though the puppy did not deserve such praise at all. But then a strange spell came over Renni. He lay down right in the middle of the highway. He lay there deaf to all shouts.
Nobody could ever determine whether some sudden pain caused him to stretch out that way, or whether he grew tired, or whether he lay down to think over the riddle of the universe.
Whichever it was, he did not get a chance to carry out his purpose. He did not have time to make up his mind about anything. A truck came roaring along straight at Renni. Choking with fear and anguish, all George could do was utter a dull moan. It was too late to get Renni, too late now to call him again.
Renni did not move. He acted as though the thunder of the heavy truck meant no more to him than the buzzing of a fly.
George tried hard to signal the driver of the threatening monster, but the driver seemed as much a monster as the truck. George’s wild and anguished warning had not the slightest effect on him. George grew rigid, felt helpless. It came to him now that the driver could not possibly stop the truck before it reached Renni even if he wanted to.
Renni was gone, gone beyond hope of saving. All that would be left of the young life, all that would be left of George’s hopes would be a bloody little mass, crushed and tattered. That and a great sorrow. Nothing more.
Through George’s mind there whirled in a wild confusion, self-reproach because he had not taken better care of Renni, visions of the next few terrible seconds, foretastes of the sadness which the next few weeks would bring. He came near collapsing.