by A. A. Milne
"UNDER ENTIRELY NEW MANAGEMENT"
I know a fool of a dog who pretends that he is a Cocker Spaniel, and isconvinced that the world revolves round him wonderingly. The sun risesso it may shine on his glossy morning coat; it sets so his master mayknow that it is time for the evening biscuit; if the rain falls it isthat a fool of a dog may wipe on his mistress's skirt his muddy boots.His day is always exciting, always full of the same good things; hisnight a repetition of his day, more gloriously developed. If there be asacred moment before the dawn when he lies awake and ponders on life, hetells himself confidently that it will go on for ever like this--a lifeplanned nobly for himself, but one in which the master and mistress whomhe protects must always find a place. And I think perhaps he would wanta place for me, too, in that life, who am not his real master but yetone of the house. I hope he would.
What Chum doesn't know is this: his master and mistress are leaving him.They are going to a part of the world where a fool of a dog with nomanners is a nuisance. If Chum could see all the good little Londondogs, who at home sit languidly on their mistress's lap, and abroad taketheir view of life through a muff much bigger than themselves; if hecould see the big obedient dogs who walk solemnly through the Parkcarrying their master's stick, never pausing in their impressive marchunless it be to plunge into the Serpentine and rescue a drowning child,he would know what I mean. He would admit that a dog who cannot answerto his own name and pays but little more attention to "Down, idiot,"and "Come here, fool," is not every place's dog. He would admit it, ifhe had time. But before I could have called his attention to half thegood dogs I had marked out he would have sat down beaming in front of amotor-car ... and then he would never have known what now he will knowso soon--that his master and mistress are leaving him.
It has been my business to find a new home for him. This is harder thanyou think. I can make him sound lovable, but I cannot make him soundgood. Of course, I might leave out his doubtful qualities, and describehim merely as beautiful and affectionate; I might ... but I couldn't. Ithink Chum's habitual smile would get larger, he would wriggle the endof himself more ecstatically than ever if he heard himself summed up asbeautiful and affectionate. Anyway, I couldn't do it, for I get carriedaway when I speak of him and I reveal all his bad qualities.
"I am afraid he is a snob," I confessed to one woman of whom I hadhopes. "He doesn't much care for what he calls the lower classes."
"Oh?" she said.
"Yes, he hates badly dressed people. Corduroy trousers tied up at theknee always excite him. I don't know if any of your family--no, Isuppose not. But if he ever sees a man with his trousers tied up at theknee he goes for him. And he can't bear tradespeople; at least not themen. Washerwomen he loves. He rather likes the washing-basket too. Once,when he was left alone with it for a moment, he appeared shortlyafterwards on the lawn with a pair of--well, I mean he had no businesswith them at all. We got them away after a bit of a chase, and then theyhad to go to the wash again. It seemed rather a pity when they'd onlyjust come back. Of course, I smacked his head for him; but he looks sosurprised and reproachful when he's done wrong that you never feel it'squite his fault."
"I doubt if I shall be able to take him after all," she said. "I've justremembered----"
I forget what it was she remembered, but it meant that I was stillwithout a new home for Chum.
"What does he eat?" somebody else asked me. It seemed hopeful; I couldsee Chum already installed.
"Officially," I said, "he lives on puppy biscuits; he also has thetoast-crusts after breakfast and an occasional bone. Privately, he isfond of bees. I have seen him eat as many as six bees in an afternoon.Sometimes he wanders down to the kitchen-garden and picks thegooseberries; he likes all fruit, but gooseberries are the things he canreach best. When there aren't any gooseberries about he has to becontent with the hips and haws from the rose-trees. But really youneedn't bother, he can eat anything. The only thing he doesn't like iswhitening. We were just going to mark the lawn one day, and while wewere busy pegging it out he wandered up and drank the whitening out ofthe marker. It is practically the only disappointment he has ever had.He looked at us, and you could see that his opinion of us had gone down.'What did you _put_ it there for, if you didn't mean me to drink it?' hesaid reproachfully. Then he turned and walked slowly and thoughtfullyback to his kennel. He never came out till next morning."
"Really?" said my man. "Well, I shall have to think about it. I'll letyou know."
Of course, I knew what he meant.
With a third dog-lover to whom I spoke the negotiations came to grief,not apparently because of any fault of Chum's, but because, if you willbelieve it, of my shortcomings. At least I can suppose nothing else. Forthis man had been enthusiastic about him. He had revelled in the tale ofChum's wickedness; he had adored him for being so conceited. He hadpractically said that he would take him.
"Do," I begged. "I'm sure he'd be happy with you. You see, he's noteverybody's dog; I mean, I don't want any odd man whom I don't know totake him. It must be a friend of mine, so that I shall often be able tosee Chum afterwards."
"So that--what?" he asked anxiously.
"So that I shall often be able to see Chum afterwards. Week-ends, youknow, and so on. I couldn't bear to lose the silly old ass altogether."
He looked thoughtful; and, when I went on to speak about Chum's fondnessfor chickens, and his other lovable ways, he changed the subjectaltogether. He wrote afterwards that he was sorry he couldn't managewith a third dog. And I like to think he was not afraid of Chum--butonly of me.
But I have found the right man at last. A day will come soon when Ishall take Chum from his present home to his new one. That will be agreat day for him. I can see him in the train, wiping his bootseffusively on every new passenger, wriggling under the seat and outagain from sheer joy of life; I can see him in the taxi, taking his onebrief impression of a world that means nothing to him; I can see him inanother train, joyous, eager, putting his paws on my collar from time totime and saying excitedly, "_What_ a day this is!" And if he survivesthe journey; if I can keep him on the way from all the delightful deathshe longs to try; if I can get him safely to his new house, then I cansee him----
Well, I wonder. What will they do to him? When I see him again, will hebe a sober little dog, answering to his name, careful to keep his muddyfeet off the visitor's trousers, grown up, obedient, following to heelround the garden, the faithful servant of his master? Or will he be thesame old silly ass, no use to anybody, always dirty, always smiling,always in the way, a clumsy, blundering fool of a dog who knows youcan't help loving him? I wonder....
Between ourselves, I don't think they _can_ alter him now.... Oh, I hopethey can't.