Beautiful Dog had not known a happy day since the departure of Mr.
Johnson. Not all the coddlings of the cook, nor the blandishments of
sympathetic housemaids consoled him for the absence of his god. He
grew thinner, if that could be possible. His tail hung at half-mast,
his ears were a signal of mourning. Queenasheeba said he looked like
"sumpin' 'at happened to a dawg."
One hope sustained Beautiful Dog's drooping spirit--the hope that he
might suddenly turn a corner, or enter a room, and find the adored
Johnson smiling kindly at him. Wherefore he dared the to-be-shunned
presence of other white people. He nerved himself to enter tabooed
domains. Love sustained him. He knew he had no business there, just
as our cats knew it and, whenever they caught him at it, visited
swift and dire punishment upon him. Beautiful Dog dared even the
cats, those black nightmares of his existence.
He met my glance, paused, and cringed. But as I made no hostile
movement, and seemed disposed to be friendly, Beautiful Dog grinned
half-heartedly, wagged his rope of a tail dejectedly, and advanced
farther. Then he paused again, head on one side, ears forlornly
flopping, and made an awkward motion with his fore paws, expressive
of doubtful trust and painful inquiry.
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